You can't get a new man with an old photo

Well ain't that the truth.

This week I had an epiphany.  I have finally come to the realisation that men really are simple creatures.  All these books that have been written (and read by me - I swear I am keeping a whole industry of dating/relationship/love advice for chicks in business) and we seriously don't need it.  We can totally beat these guys at this game.  Here's how I know.

Okay, so, under the guidance, no, I mean, under strict instruction from one of my insistent work colleagues (yes the one who is living vicariously through me and my pathetic (lack-of-love) life,  gorgeous Columbian Wife of Son's Daddy (sounds complicated, but isn't) and her sister I was told I had to do something with the god awful photos I had on my online profile.  Okay, I admit, I was never going to give Elle McPherson a run for her money, but most (read ALL) photos of me show my worst side (is there any other I hear you ask) i.e. me looking extremely haggard and without make up.  I wasn't left with much choice.  And I was relying on the premise that it was better just to be 'out there' rather than not at all (remember my other work colleague who reminded me of the few options I had?).  But my coaching team assured me the existing photos were complete crap.  In fact, I would go so far as to say that Columbian Wife of Son's Daddy and her sister were nothing less than alarmed when they saw what I had deemed appropriate for my online dating profile.

'No, no, NO!  Theez are terrible', they screamed.  'You cannot get menz with theez photos.  The menz, they are veezual.  They just look at the peectures, not the words!  And you need to show a leetle bit of teets, but not too much, you know.  And you must turn your head theess way and that way and show your best angel (I think they meant angle)'. 

Right....so that's where I've been going wrong.  So much for being interested in my intellect and witty turn of phrase.  I could write that I am a total whore bag with an unusual love of cheap wine and gossip magazines (all true except the whore bit), and as long as I look a bit of alright, I'm in with a chance that I might be able to generate some interest from somebody other than Dr Dolittle (who now seems like so long ago).

So, we devised a plan.  Work friend, Columbian Wife of Son's Daddy and her sister were to come over to my house to play.  We would drink lots of wine, they would show me how to wear make up and then heavily under the influence, photos would be taken.  And can I just say, the thought of actually posing for photos left me cringeing, but again, I was reminded: it's all in scope.  I've just got to accept that like every other project I work on, there are going to be bits that I just don't like doing.  Call it project administration.

Well, using my whole new 'veezual' approach the results have been nothing less than amazing.  Using my sample population of one (me), I have found this newly devised tactic really works.  I am almost sure this is a patentable, repeatable process that I'll build my fortune on.  It works so well that even I have been inundated with contacts from up and down the east coast.  I have even managed to organise myself a couple of dates.

Let's just hope they're not mates with Dr D.

IT mummy

If I've deleted your number from my phone, I've realised you're not that into me....

Like, oh, duh, how many women does it take to work out that a guy is just not that into me?

Ahh, let me think!  That would be three close girlfriends over a Friday lunch, five work colleagues over 8 and a half champagne cocktails (that would be each), one neighbour, one girlfriend from a previous job, one mother, one former partner's new wife.....okay, okay, you get the picture.  I am seriously slow on the uptake and have needed the careful tutelage and support from the females around me because dear reader, it appears - no, let me restate that - it is evident that Dr Mike has taken a hike.  After such a promising start, he has all but disappeared into the vast, open and apparently distant space of dating land without so much as a pathetic attempt at feigning that we would again 'talk soon'.  Whatever!

Look, I'd love to believe it was something I said (maybe my ass did look big in that dress I bought especially for date #3; sadly, I'll never know), but I'm inclined to believe that it wasn't me.  How could it be, when it was all him.  He didn't need to tell me because all my friends did.  They assured me that yes, I am special and he hasn't a clue.  Isn't it wonderful?  In the midst of complete and public humiliation in one area of your life, you are supported, cajoled and counselled by those who are nearest and dearest.  You've got to love the equilibrating forces of nature.

And you'll be pleased to know that after several moments of feeling like I'd completely screwed up because I'd demonstrated my financial nouse to Dr Dolittle (because let's face it, he did very fuc king little) by listing the 'investment' pieces I have made in my much loved wardrobe (e.g. $425 Italian peep toe platforms), I got well and truly over that momentary loss of confidence.  We all want to be accepted for who we are and if Dr D couldn't see us sharing domestic bliss somewhere in the future (me scantily clad in recently purchased Sex in the City underwear and above-mentioned Italian peep toes), then it's not my place to foist myself upon his very neat and tidy life. 

I have taken the last few support and champagne fuelled days taking heart and strategising my next steps in the search for Mr Good Enough (you know I would settle for him if only I could find him).  It seems the only thing to do is get back in the saddle - by that I mean get online (as my BFF said, if you're not back online, why not?!!!), ask for referrals, continue feeling completely uncomfortable (oh, god life was so much easier before I headed down this path), and wear that new underwear.  Afterall, practice makes perfect. 

Giddy up!