Beaver v. Sylvia the Florist

Here’s some writing from the Beaver vaults….

Ok, confession time, hands up if you are or once were a single girl who played innocent games when out at night  scouting for single men. Hands up high, you know you did! (just blame tequilas) I myself am guilty. Of course this was years ago as an inexperienced single-ite…

One of my favourite tricks, and a favourite of many of my single friends, was to invent a fake name and occupation to tell any interested suitors (usually the ones in which we aren’t so interested). Now I am sure there are single men out there who use this trick too, maybe to appear more attractive to women. Does the line ‘Hello, I’m a marine biologist who rescues dolphins’ sound familiar ladies?

Well my alias, my alter ego, my evil twin, my complete sham was none other than Sylvia the florist. She often lived in a suburb miles and miles away from whichever bar I was in, and very often on a Friday night she had to leave a soiree early to be at the flower market the next morning. ‘So, Sylvia, do you want to come back to my place?’  ‘Gee I’d love to (insert name here) but I have to be up at 4 am to go the flower markets, so I am about to head home!’

Ahhh, the good times Sylvia and I have had. It helped to have a name ready, as you didn’t want to be caught in a situation where your mind goes blank- ‘My name? Umm, my name is, umm…Sylvia!’ There have been the times where groups of girls have invented names for everyone, usually followed by a few hours of trying to remember what names we are using with which men, and what names my friends are using. Add alcohol to that mix and meeting fellas becomes very confusing.

Sometimes I was not Sylvia, I am any other name that pops into my head. But Sylvia was a favourite, and it became easier to remember her quirks  each night she came out. Only one time, did Sylvia left me down.  I was out on a Friday night (that soon became Saturday morning) with two single friends. Lucky for them, they had met single men and were holding deep alcohol-induced conversations. Unlucky for me, I was standing on my own, the designated driver. A man approached, and honed in on me as a last minute attempt, as the bar was closing in 20 minutes. I played my usual Slyvia card, and then realised I was losing the hand as the man declared he was from Holland and his family grew flowers. He asked me all sorts of intricate questions about poppy varieties, which I answered woefully. Even my ‘early morning – have to leave’ excuse backfired; it was already 4am.

So I learned a lesson, and will issue a warning to other single girls who use personas when meeting prospective partners. My two friends who accompanied me on the night of Sylvia’s shame, both went on to meet their future partners in the next month, minus their stage names.  Sometimes, it would seem, it is better to just be yourself!

A Beaver out of the River

Overjoyed to have a social event etched on the calendar, I was like a child counting down to Christmas, eagerly anticipating a big night out. It seemed like a fantastic idea, round up all the single people you know, instruct them to bring all the single friends that they know, and all meet at a trendy downtown bar on the same night! Email your names, the butterfly instructed, I will guarantee you’re on the guest list! Ooh, a guest list. Most of my social occasions do not involve a perky person parading a clipboard of society’s chosen ones. This was to be quite an event!

My anticipation was on overload at the prospect of all those single people mingling and tingling in the same place. Lead up hours were spent creating the perfect ‘downtown with a guest list’ outfit, with me desperately wanting to show that sipping elegant lime and lycee cocktails came naturally (unlucky for this little beaver, it doesn’t; I much prefer wolfing down pub grub, and when it comes to cocktails, the creamier and tackier the better).

Five single girls set off a few hours later, with all traces of ‘If you like pina coladas’ pushed to the back of my mind. After a swift drive downtown, some shifty parking and a sexy strut down the pavement, we arrived at single central! We maneuvered past the three clipboarded staff, into an uber-trendy bar. With eager faces we scanned the drinks and food options.

My eagerness wore off quickly. It was one of those moments when you realise you don’t actually belong amongst the lycee lime drinking, polenta crisp nibbling, designer thread wearing crowd. That you actually are a bit lower on the food chain, enjoying the potato wedges and strawberry daiquiris in your ‘this top was 10 bucks!’ outfit. But since I was already in guest list land I perched myself on a rotating pouffe and turned my attention to the hordes of singles.

And there they were! Loads of single people! Stylish, trendy, available and… female. All with expectant faces, surreptitiously staring at the door to appraise any male who entered. I felt a little hesitant to mingle with all these females, since I’d already come equipped with four of my own gal pals. Looking around I was confused. This was supposed to be a singles event, so where were all the males? Fashionably late? Turned away by the clipboarders? Possibly already whisked away from girls who were there early?

Or possibly, there are no males coming. It dawned on me that asking single girls to bring single friends doesn’t include bringing single men. Why? Because most of us single girls only know other single girls and if we knew single men we’d probably already be out dating them, or trying to date them, or have already dated them, thanks very much. So there was the sea of problems I was looking out on under the subdued mood lighting. More like a sea of single women. Or a subdued single women’s’ meeting. It was less like attending a singles meet and greet and more like attending a birthday party where you don’t really know the host.

So after one expensive exquisite cocktail, and a few glasses of water (and some disdainful looks from the waitress) my single friends and I made a hasty exit out to the hustle and bustle of an inner city street. Elegantly, we proceeded to move directly into the thrones of ragamuffins, and stand on the sidewalk guzzling cans of cola and munching on giant greasy pizza slices.

Full and content, I felt very much at home. Ooh who just saw those cute boys go into the pub?

Liking, Loathing, Noticing

Loathing 1: Put on weight this week, at weekly weigh in. Crap. Need to be more strict! 19 to go.

Liking 1: Woo hoo, end of financial year sales! Engagement present for less than $30 (should be $50) and awesomeness knitted tunic, will look fab with leggings (but not so fab with weight gain)

Noticing 1: Is there any reason why a fancy Italian restaurant needs a TV with the sport showing… IN THE LADIES TOILET???!!

Loathing 2: The neighbours upstairs letting their prepubescent teenage boy repeatedly drop marbles on the timber floor. For 2 hours. Well that’s what it sounded like anyway.

Liking 2: Smashing meal tonight, thanks to Good taste magazine. Lamb cutlets mmmm.

Noticing 2: Chatted to a nice (single!) male at the engagement party last night, I thought it was quite a quirky, funny, flirty conversation. Alas he cinderella-ed on me and left before midnight without saying goodbye, or more importantly asking for my number. Ok, this has changed from a Pro to a Peeve.

Liking 3: This rosehip oil really dose seem to be having a nice effect on my skin. And I’m still loving Pantene’s 3 minute miracle. Ahhh soft hair.

Loathing  3: Need a haircut and cannot see a foreseeable free day for a fortnight. Bummer.

Noticing  3: At same engagement party another (single?) lad came up, fondled my hair and said ‘you must wash your hair a lot’. I (laughing uncomfortably) said ‘not really!’ whilst walking on by…. he tugged again and said ‘Yeah I think so!’    Interesting pick up technique. Pantene, I owe it all to you. Interestingly this is not the first time I had a boy use a hair related pick up line, once I got told that my ‘hair smells so good, it smells like a shampoo ad!’   I awkwardly told the drunken male that ads don’t actually smell. Pashed him anyway though.

Noticing  4: Interesting that I have 3 hair related posts there.

Licence to date?

Today I saw a number plate with the word SEX (insert childish giggle here). In my state 999 people have SEX on their number plate, and possibly another 99, not to mention the heroes who pay a lot of money for plates like 22SEXY,  IAMSEX etc.

Casting the word plays aside, I wondered how many of the other 1098 SEX plate owners asked for it, and how many were lucky (or unlucky) enough to just obtain it when they bought a car?

Reminds me of finding someone to date. I have friends who are seeking out a partner, deliberately looking, asking around, using a plethora of dating services. Then there are the others who without any conscious effort have a good man literally land in their lap (NB: If you are a man and a good women lands in your lap, she’s a lap dancer. Time to leave the strip club.)

So do my friends who are repeatedly finding nothing of any value, being told that ‘that licence plate is taken’, have to just wait it out and hope that one of those desired manplates turns up in their life by fate? Maybe. It doesn’t look good then. Most people love to hang onto such a good find.

Could be worse I guess. You could end up driving STI 4U2…

Social Experiment 019: The Singles Mixer

I was overjoyed to have a social event etched on the calendar. It seemed like a fantastic idea, round up all the single people you know, instruct them to bring all the single friends that they know, and all meet at a trendy downtown bar on the same night! Email your names, the butterfly instructed, I will guarantee you’re on the guest list! Ooh, a guest list. Most of my social occasions do not involve a perky person parading a clipboard of society’s chosen ones. This was to be quite an event!

My anticipation was on overload at the prospect of all those single people mingling and tingling in the same place. Lead up hours were spent creating the perfect ‘downtown with a guest list’ outfit, with me desperately wanting to show that sipping elegant lime and lycee cocktails came naturally (unlucky for this little beaver, it doesn’t; I much prefer wolfing down pub grub, and when it comes to cocktails, the creamier and tackier the better).

Five single girls set off a few hours later, with all traces of ‘If you like pina coladas’ pushed to the back of my mind. After a swift drive downtown, some shifty parking and a sexy strut down the pavement, we arrived at single central! We maneuvered past the three clipboarded staff, into an uber-trendy bar. With eager faces we scanned the drinks and food options.

My eagerness wore off quickly. It was one of those moments when you realise you don’t actually belong amongst the lycee lime drinking, polenta crisp nibbling, designer thread wearing crowd. That you actually are a bit lower on the food chain, enjoying the potato wedges and strawberry daiquiris in your ‘this top was 10 bucks!’ outfit. But since I was already in guest list land I perched myself on a rotating pouffe and turned my attention to the hordes of singles.

And there they were! Loads of single people! Stylish, trendy, available and… female. All with expectant faces, surreptitiously staring at the door to appraise any male who entered.  I felt a little hesitant to mingle with all these females, since I’d already come equipped with four of my own gal pals. Looking around I was confused. This was supposed to be a singles event, so where were all the males? Fashionably late? Turned away by the clipboarders? Possibly already whisked away from girls who were there early?

Or possibly, there are no males coming. It dawned on me that asking single girls to bring single friends doesn’t include bringing single men. Why? Because most of us single girls only know other single girls and if we knew single men we’d probably already be out dating them, or trying to date them, or have already dated them, thanks very much. So there was the sea of problems I was looking out on under the subdued mood lighting. More like a sea of single women. Or a subdued single women’s’ meeting. It was less like attending a singles meet and greet and more like attending a birthday party where you don’t really know the host.

So after one expensive exquisite cocktail, and a few glasses of water (and some disdainful looks from the waitress) my single friends and I made a hasty exit out to the hustle and bustle of an inner city street. Elegantly, we proceeded to move directly into the thrones of ragamuffins, and stand on the sidewalk guzzling cans of cola and munching on giant greasy pizza slices.

Full and content, I felt very much at home. Ooh who just saw those cute boys go into the pub?