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The mishaps and mayhem of a terminal romantic. |
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Sometimes being in love just isn't enough, not when you get it wrong this often! |
| I had a fantasy once. There was this beautiful woman with long auburn hair as smooth as silk. It swung and wafted in the air as she ran towards me on a deserted tropical island beach. I was just on the beach chilling, and listening the Hanson on my walkman when I caught sight of her in my zoom lens camera (which was for bird watching purposes only). She ran right up to me, a little out of focus but I could fix that later with clever editing. Nothing happened. I dumped her before she found out I was a loser. It’s the best way I think. It saves hurting them later on. Dreams v Fantasies I like fantasies best because they involve celebrities like Kylie Minogue, Nicole Sherzinger and Oprah, and mostly they end up with a lavish celebrity wedding, red carpets, and me looking totally handsome and being completely charming. Dreams, on the other hand, usually have me in a compromising position with the woman from the gas station, her mother, my auntie Karen and her dog, Ralph. You can’t help what you dream about, so dream on. If you have a fantasy, include me!! |
| Three month’s has definitely become a particular goal of mine, in my attempts at a lasting relationship. The trouble is I’ve kind of forgotten why. I mean, I know why now, now I’m telling you about my three month goal. It means you’ve overcome so many silly little foibles, nasty little habits, annoying little bodily functions and the look of one another naked to settle into casual acceptance of each other’s shortcomings. It’s sort of like, “I know I could better but hell, I’ve invested three whole month’s of my life in you already so who cares if you laugh like a horse, sniff your finger when you’ve poked it in your ear, fart in the bath and look like I think Oprah would look like when she’s naked. I love you for goodness sake!” I think? Three month’s for a lasting relationship is a bit like three dates for a.... for a.... you know? For a sex encounter thingy. The only difference is, you give a lot more slack to the silly little foibles, nasty little habits etc. Come on, who ever turned down sex because someone farted in the bath, clearly doing so in the course of observing strict hygiene standards? Or looked bad naked? Who has the lights on for the first one anyway? Should I leave the lights on? Three dates for sex is a bit like the three years for marriage target, and just as messy but more expensive. Unless you’re dating Oprah! Basically, the three years for marriage scenario allows you two years and nine months to change everything about someone that would have prevented you from marrying them in the first place (or third place). It’s impossible to be in a relationship with someone for three years without marriage being talked about at least three times a week. Unless you’re married! “Three, is a magic number,” is a song lyric. Three is a bed? What does that mean? A threesome is a bit like marriage in so much as, it seems like a good idea at the time but one day you’re going to pay for it. My world is full of three’s, but none of them are magic. |
| This describes me perfectly. I am, ‘Present tense.’ There’s only got to be a hint of a birthday on the horizon and I’m a quivering, nervous wreck; and Christmas? Don’t talk to me about Christmas. Easter, anniversaries, achievements and god forbid, Valentine’s Day, are all ‘present tense’ nightmares for me. You see, I always get it wrong. Okay, true story. I was dating this lady for about three months. You know, the magic three months that’s supposed to be some kind of romantic milestone and means you can start thinking in the medium term, and leaving a few overnight items at one another’s place and being a little more adventurous in the bedroom, when what should just happen along but friggin Christmas. There it was, large as life and straight out the blue with no warning. I mean it’s not like you can ignore it, is it? Not when the great big elephant in the room is, Jesus! I knew it was going to be a problem, especially as we were doing Christmas at her place (I didn’t even have home field advantage), so I decided to plan ahead. To tell you the truth I wasn’t all that happy with the arrangement because her place is a bit scruffy. You know, she’s not really the tidy type. Anyway, on the 22nd December I put my thinking cap on. Everything turned out very well actually. I surprised myself and thought of a brilliant present to get her so when the big day arrived I was feeling quite confident. We got up late, having tried some seriously adventurous three month stuff, and made our way to the tree where we had deposited our presents the night before. It was a great Christmas for me, one of my best ever. I totally think coinciding a three month relationship anniversary with Santa coming (that really was some serious three month stuff) is a master stroke. She got me a new electric bass guitar, a 20MP HD camera, a 32GB iPod Touch and some chocolate Brazil nuts. Then it was her turn. This was my moment to shine, quite literally as it happens. I had thought long and hard about what she really needed, what would really make a difference to her life, something special. “It’s beautifully wrapped,” she said, which was all the encouragement I needed. I couldn’t contain myself any longer and I blurted out, “It’s a cleaning voucher,” I shouted triumphantly. “Whenever you want it, four hours of cleaning. You know, to clean this shit tip up.” She didn’t open it. |
| It’s been two weeks now since she left me, so I thought I’d look back and see if I could have done things differently? The start of the end of Valentine’s Day began shortly after 8.15 on a cold and dark Friday evening. She was arriving back on a flight from Europe, popping into the office to drop off some files and was due home at about 9, or thereabouts. I was preparing a surprise supper of roast pork tenderloin stuffed with cherries and onion on a bed of wilted green and red Swiss chard with a splash of white balsamic vinegar and a sprinkle of crushed red pepper flakes. Impressive, eh? I’m a fairly good cook so I was confident I could pull it off without too much going wrong, and this is a super fast recipe taking no more than forty minutes in the oven. Anyway, I’d pan fried the tenderloin for a few seconds to seal it, stuffed it and put it in to roast. Then I ran upstairs and started running her bath. I put in a measure of her favorite aromatic soothing bath balm, sprinkled a handful of delicate red rose petals on the water and lit twelve tea lights around the tub. There, everything was set, and nothing had gone wrong. When I got back downstairs I allowed myself one brief moment of self satisfaction. I sat in the big old red recliner her friend Donna had loaned us when we first moved in, put my feet on the rest and smiled to myself. Well done, me! I’m not sure how long I slept for. My head had fallen forward and my chin was touching my chest. There was a little dribble running from the corner of my mouth which had attached its other end to the third button down on my shirt. Perhaps it was this saliva restraint that prevented me from lifting my head up immediately, or perhaps it was the hypnotic flickering of a naked flame as it floated by my feet? “WHAT THE....!?” I sprang forward as the elasticity of my saliva was finally tested to breaking point. There was a splash as my feet plunged into the two inches of water covering the lounge carpet. The resulting mini-tsunami that swept outwards from my point of entry managed only to draw my attention to the other four tea lights that danced their way towards the TV. I knew straight away what had happened. As I turned towards the door leading from the lounge to the staircase, I saw the smoke making its own floating progress across the ceiling. “Oh, shit. NO!” I managed only a glimpse of the water cascading down the stairs as I turned and hastened my pace towards the kitchen. There were more tea lights, and rose petals, but I do recall the scented bath water did a good job of disguising the smell of burnt tenderloin. When I reached the kitchen, I screamed. The smoke was coming from the oven, and through the glass fronted door I could see a small flame inside the roasting dish where supper used to be. But this was the least of my worries. You see, I hadn’t turned the gas off under the frying pan. Still, ‘every cloud,’ and all that; the fume extraction unit was working perfectly, and was singlehandedly responsible for preventing the house from burning down. It was sucking the flames from the cooking fat straight out through the vent, and from my position I could see through the kitchen window that it was ejecting ‘said flames’ like some sort of home appliance flame thrower, and to aid my view on this cold and dark Friday, the shrubs along the edge of the deck had been completely engulfed and the bushes burned in biblical fashion. “Jesus Christ!” I turned the gas off, then I turned the oven off. I threw the frying pan out the kitchen door and was encouraged to see the escaping flood water extinguish the burning bushes. A tea light floated between my legs and out into the night. The phone rang. I let it. I could hear the answer machine come on as I ran upstairs. “Hey sweetie, it’s just me. My flight was late so I’ll see you around elevenish. Love you.” At the top of the stairs the wall clock read, eleven! I was in the bathroom now and reached towards the taps, just as the bath fell through the ceiling into the study below. In the second of silence as the bath travelled between floors, I heard the front door open. I ran down stairs and across the hall, but I lost my footing. My feet overtook me and I landed on my ass, sliding towards the front door. I didn’t hit the door because it opened with perfect timing. I came to a soggy stop with my legs either side of my lovely Veronica, looked up at her and said, “Surprise!” She didn’t leave immediately. She did a quick walk through the house first, but she was pretty much out of there in about 45 seconds and I haven’t seen her since. I suppose I could have done things differently, on reflection, but what’s done is done. I’m hoping to be dating by Easter. |
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