I’m starting to realise that I’m not yet ready for you. I’m trying to organise my life so that I’ll be the best Tarah. I want to love myself wildly, madly, ridiculously but I’m not there yet. I used to be all about the drama and I’m still a bit ‘about the drama’. That has to stop.
I’m getting closer and closer to loving myself. It took 27.5 years to get to this stage.
So you say that you’re intelligent, eh? Good for you. No, really, good for you. But that don’t impress me much. It used to, though. That and being emotionally unavailable — married, ‘busy’, or just interested in a good old time. But really, I’m glad that you are intelligent even though it’s no longer my defining criterium. Relationships aren’t about intelligence; relationships are about two people who love each other.
So please hang in there. Go out and have fun, work on yourself, learn as much as you can, and have more fun.
I’m relieved that I won’t have to play mind games with you. Things will be easier with you, that I can tell. You may not ‘get’ me at once but you’ll still love me. I’ll feel comfortable enough to be who I am with you and I’ll feel no insecurity. I used to say that I hate the beginning phase of dating because it’s just so damn confusing. Well guess what — I will try to see that phase for what it is: a chance to get to know each other.
So yeah. I’m looking forward to meeting you eventually.
It’s starting. LOL. Me dating blues and shoes. Schmoozing, dressing up, getting tipsy at fancy joints. I can feel it happening. And it’s exciting. I’m so excited.
Problem is that the first hopeful (he’s got half a brain, and isn’t too old) knows one of Victor’s friends. And technically, Victor and I are still in a relationship. Well, last time I checked, we were. Last time I checked, things were ok between us, even if I find it increasingly difficult dealing with his inattentive ways.
Well, Mr Hopeful is a History professor at a university. He doesn’t stay in town, and he works close to where my parents stay. He’s been published, and referenced trés times. I Googled him. Of course.
He might be a bore, or he might be a very interesting person. And he didn’t suggest we should “hook up”, or have a coffee date. Instead he mentioned something about a fine bottle of wine that has been lurking in his cupboard. Now, I love wine. Vino is my best friend. So this oke gets full browny points. For now.
I don’t think I can do “dating” again. I’ve been on so many dates, most of which were awful. A big number of them turned out to be non-dates.
Take Young Jewish Guy for example. We met on JDate. Yeah, I’m a wanna be Jew. He made it quite clear that he’s a student. I was fine with that. I made it quite clear that I’m not exactly white, and that I’m not exactly Kosher. He was fine with that.
I didn’t, however, realise that Cape Town is a fucking fishing village, and that he’d probably know Toby. Fuck number one. Half an hour before our coffee date, I spoke to Toby (this was in 2006, btw) and told him I’m going to meet Young Jewish Guy. Toby snickered and told me Young Jewish Guy is a prick.
I didn’t believe him. Young Jewish Guy phoned me ten minutes before we were supposed to meet, telling me some of his friends had decided to see a movie, and would I like to join them? I was really keen to meet him, so said “Yeah, sure” and skipped to the movie house. It was around the corner from where I was waiting. Working, sorry.
I got there and saw that Young Jewish Guy is balding, short and fat. I can do two of the three; I can’t do a menage a trois. In fact, I have done two of the three before, and it didn’t bother me too much. But all three? Eeeew.
Determined to be pleasant, I sauntered up to the little group, noticed that he’s drinking white wine out of a plastic (or foam, I can’t really remember which) cup, and introduced myself to him. Oh, I forget, Glen was with me. He spotted Young Jewish Guy in the crowd. Glen decided he’s not going to waste a lovely Friday night protecting me from whatever imaginary evils are lurking there, so he left. I stood next to Young Jewish Guy and his friends, we chatted for a bit until Young Jewish Guy casually asked me if I would mind paying my own ticket.
I gritted my teeth, gave him my best voice-dripping-with-sarcasm, opened my wallet, and darted to the booth to pay for my ticket when I realised I shouldn’t have to pay for anything on the first date.
He shouldn’t fucking expect me to 1) pay anything, 2) have to mingle with his dorky friends, 3) watch him drink wine out of a plastic (or foam, I can’t remember which) cup and 4) date a short, fat, bald guy.
So I told him that actually, I have a slight headache and could I take a rain cheque, please? He looked absolutely dejected. I nearly felt bad, but another look at the plastic (or foam) cup, and I steeled myself. I bid them a pleasant evening, and ran to catch up with Glen, who was already way ahead of me.
I’m sure there are great men out there. But they’re married. Or gay. Or emotionally unavailable. Or all three. So for now, I’ll just remain as comfortably numb as I am and worry about where I’ll sleep tonight.
I want this to work. Really. I wouldn’t spend so much time and fucking energy fretting about it if I didn’t. He’s busy, I need to deal with it. C’est tout. Finish en klaar. But I also don’t want to feel neglected. Tricky. But I do not have energy for too much D.R.A.M.A
I thought of taking up a part time job. I actually applied somewhere. A bookstore, obviously. I could really do with some extra money; my rent is astronomical. I’m also working on some shitty articles for a popular Afrikaans daily. It’ll do me good. Remember I spoke to the Editor about writing something for his newspaper? I need to use Malcolm‘s Press Card for free movies on a Thursday – I’ve only been twice. Hell, I could even ask him if I could write a review on the movies and then he can publish it… I’m even thinking of doing volunteer work. But all these are not to become busier, so as to keep up with Victor. No, I have been contemplating doing all of these for months. I’ve been meaning to join Toastmasters for years. Well, for one and a half years only.
Although it is very satisfying to come home and not to have anything to do: no art exhibition opening to attend, no book launch to mingle at and no Christian birthday partay to suffer through.
In other news
It’s V’s day. Argh. At least he sent me an email. He promised last night that he’ll try to be more communicative. I guess it’s a step in the right direction.
Tonight was supposed to be a girlie evening with my spessal fwend – Susan. But I don’t really feel like trekking all the way to her anymore. Instead, I’ll spend tonight at home. Lalita might pop in for an hour or so. If not, then it’s still cool. I’ll have myself some Pongraz then.
And then I’ll spend a couple of hours with Victor this weekend. But first I need to spend some quality time with my pwetty lady!
I have a cute little feng-shui frog that I feed money to. I’ve had him/her for a while now. I never really used to feed him/her much money; it’d always just be a 20c or a 50c coin.
Some months back, Toby started feeding it R2 coins. At some stage we even had a R5 coin in it. We believed it brings luck.
Who knows, perhaps it does? I thought my luck started to turn in August. But then it took a dip and then, some months later, it peaked. It peaked again in September, when I started this job, and then it peaked yet again in November, when I realised I like Victor.
I always kept a steady supply of coins ready for the little froggie. I couldn’t have him/her go hungry and I needed to feel that my good luck is assured.
So of course I am beginning to wonder if I did the right thing last night. I took the money out of his mouth. I needed taxi fare. Eeeek.
Now, Victor has been busy the whole week. I didn’t really hear much from him. He’s been rather … distant. So I’m starting to freak out. I am starting to suspect that he found my blog (this one) and that he has been reading it on the sly.
I tried to phone him today. Twice. Three times. The fourth time I put my number on “private number” and he picked up. That says something. I’m very, very, very, very sad. Being too busy to pick up my call, but not too busy to pick up a “private number” call? Ag nee, man.
Him reading the blog wouldn’t upset me; him not telling me he found it would. So, Xxxxxxx, if you’re reading this, I’d just like to ask you the following: “Why didn’t you tell me?” Why did you act as though you’ve never laid eyes on my darling little blog?
I deleted your telephone number. I’m considering taking you off my facebook. I deleted the things I posted on your wall. I can contact you only through email. And I won’t do so. Or perhaps I will. See, I know what I get like when I’m upset. Ask Toby. That’ll be Xxxxx, if you haven’t figured it out by now. Not even Xxxxx would do something like this.
I hope you’re happy now. I’m not. Or. I guess I am. Cause now I know what you’re really like. I guess you just wanted me for sex, hey? I should not have slept with you. I knew it was a mistake. I knew that you’re too clever to want a girlfriend who doesn’t even have a degree or a diploma. I knew that you’d be too embarrassed to introduce me to your *real* friends. Fuck. I’m stupid. *Bangs head against wall*
I blame that picture that Gareth took in 2006. It’s just so damn sexy. You weren’t the only guy who fell in love with those pictures. In one day, I would get 25 Datingbuzz messages. You weren’t special; I was just bored. *Stops banging head against wall*
Recovers, and catches Warren’s eye. Shit, he’s mighty fine. I think I’ll quit my job and shag him. He can be my rebound guy. Him, and not you, Xxxxxxx.
And then, just to get my revenge on you (I’m freakishly evil, if you have not noticed it yet) I will include your full name and profession and everything in this blog. And I’ll email your mom. Or your little brother. Or should I email your sister instead? Who shall it be??? I wonder. Your dad? Perhaps I won’t even email, perhaps I’ll send them a handwritten note to their postal address. I’m not quite sure what I’ll say. But I’ll figure it out.
I paid a visit to my parents recently. They were pleased to see me, I think. I don’t see them very often; only ever couple of months or so. Now, the previous time I paid them a visit (dodgy grammar, I’m so sorry), I had Victor with me. We were in the area; why not go visit them?
He spoke Afrikaans to them, even though he is very much English. I thought it was sweet of him; never mind that he speaks Afrikaans very often, almost on a daily basis. I don’t have any difficulty understanding him – bar his dodgy grammar and his reluctance to use the Afrikaans double negative! – so I didn’t think they would have.
Even more surprising was when I noticed him quietly chatting to my mother just before we left an hour later. We didn’t stay long; it was almost dark and we still wanted some hanky panky during the daylight hours…
So, yesterday, I had a chance to speak to my ma-goed. I asked her what’s her – admittedly very brief – opinion on Victor. She couldn’t really say anything and declined to comment. (Ha! I make her sound like a celebrity!)
My sister finally said what was on my mom’s mind: he mumbles when he speaks. Now, this isn’t such a big deal to me; I also mumble. Ek praat binnensmonds. And I’m far worse than him, actually. They’re used to me; they’re not used to him yet, which is why they find it difficult to understand him, methinks.
But I’m sure that’s not the only reason they’re not too keen on poor Victor. I’m just too scared to ask.
But. And this is a rather big but. My paternal grandparents weren’t too keen on my stepdad when he was courting my mom and even when they were already married for a couple of years.
They kept gossiping about how very stupid and very Bushman-like he is! Well, dear reader, my parents have been married for over 20 years. So parents are not always right. Or are they? As long as I’m happy with him …
- He reads
- He thinks I’m amazing
- He can cook – even if it’s only bean curries and bunny chows thus far…
- He can talk about just any subject with authority
- I think he is gorgeous
- We’re sexually compatible … mostly
- He makes me feel valued and feminine and clever and treasured
- He isn’t a pauper
There is something that has been bothering me for a while now. It’s this whole Valentine’s day thingy. It irks me because I would like to give Victor something nice but I’m not entirely sure if I should.
I’ve known the guy for a very short while only so it might not be appropriate. I wasn’t going to blog about this because I figured it’s not really worth my fretting over it. And then I read Life of a Valley Girl’s post this morning and I started to freak out!
I don’t think Victor is very into Valentine’s day, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not. Perhaps I should just tantalise him with some goodies I bought over the weekend. I’ll post the pictures tomorrow. It’s a skanky nurse outfit that I bought! And I’ll wear my skanky high heels, just because he told me on Sunday that he dislikes high heels.
Methinks I’ll strut before my big mirror and touch myself, not allowing him to touch me at all.
I even went as far as buying a doctor’s kit on Saturday. It was close to 5pm and we just returned from having lunch in town. So I told him I need to buy my niece a doctor’s kit and we need to go to Toys R Us before they close at 6pm.
We had a nice stroll to the store and when we got there, he told me it’s the first time he had ever gone … and then he broke off, blushing. I can just guess it was the first time he had ever gone inside a toy store with a girlfriend, or someone who could be described as a girlfriend. I’m not his girlfriend yet, though. Why are men so reluctant to make up their minds?
So anyway. We had a lovely time at Toys R Us and I got the doctor’s kit. I’ll only use the stethoscope in conjunction with the rest of the goodies I got. At some stage – we were sitting in Sea Point – I offered opening up the package so that we can play doctor-doctor with it. Hmmm. He didn’t seem very keen. I wonder if he’s a bit conservative?
He hasn’t done any kinky stuff. Compared to him, I sound like a Playboy bunny! Well, I hope I can bring him around still. He’s young so I have lots of time!
And what better way to spend Valentine’s day?
The guy who responded to my ad to have a drink at a well-known bar turned out to be more in love with himself than with me or my friend. We met up and he was trying to impress (or bore) us with his inane conversation about his ex-girlfriend, his myriad businesses and kept playing with his phone throughout the two hours we spent together.
He phoned me a couple of times thereafter, hoping to see me again. Alas, I wasn’t sure if I should: he didn’t even offer to pay for our drinks that evening! That’s just not on.
So when he phoned me yesterday I didn’t expect he would pull through with the date (non-date, actually), and agreed to meet him at restaurant at the Waterfront.
I had such fun with him and his cousin(s)! I was surprised at just how likable this guy had become all of a sudden… He even paid for my drink. He even listened to me speak about myself!
I don’t think anything much will happen (I played the lesbian card a couple of times throughout the evening …), but have added him to my MyFace list and thanked him for a great evening out. I shall keep you updated!
A girl can never have too many suitors, so this one decided to put a post on a well-known site to find someone to have a drink with a couple of nights ago. Well, it was supposed to be me and a friend who were going to have a drink at a fancy bar. But it’s boring going there by ourselves, especially as I’ve become slightly bored of this friend’s conversation… So I decided to call in a helper or two.
The ad may have been very ambiguous in meaning, for most of the men replied with “Oh, so what type of professionals are you?” That was not really my intention, but we are indeed professional ladies, just not the exact type these guys were envisioning.
After 4876 responses, I decided on two guys who sounded slightly more mature and one of these two could possibly be best described as a playa, which is fine by me. We’ll meet in a public place, right? We’re big girls (not just age-wise) and can certainly fend for ourselves. What’s more, this oke could give us unrestricted access to all the best clubs in town…
So. Where was I? Oh right. The one who got away. Or rather, the one who was so very vague about his plans for tomorrow? He sent me an sms (instant no-no – you should call, not send sms’s!) and described his plans to consume a bottle of Diemersdal Pinotage chocolate/vanilla/coffee and wanted me to help him with it. Well, me and my friend, that is. While it’s one of the better replies I had received this entire evening (compare it to “where is da place wr u wana meet, im ****** 42 6v4 tall and a businessman”), I just couldn’t stand up the two guys I had already said yes to. That would have been decidedly rude of me!
So I let him know that I would be free tomorrow, and could he please call me instead of sending sms’s? What’s the point in playing games? He responded by saying how busy he is… Oy vey. And five minutes later, he admits that actually, he’ll only be busy tomorrow night, not tomorrow afternoon.
I’m so over playing games, especially with people I might never meet. If I’m not busy, why let someone think I am? So that I can feel better about myself or so that he/she/they/it will think “Oh, wow, this lady is such a busy bee!” Nah. That’s not my style. Though, perhaps I should adopt it more often. It seems men like women who are constantly unavailable.