I've had a perfect lovely evening, but this wasn't one of them.

Braveheart never won fair lady.

vanessaonamission — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 20:28:03 +0000

Dating nightmare. I thought I best tell you upfront. Hamish – a friend of a friend and a blind date set up was personable on the phone. Had charisma on email and seemed really normal. But alas, he was a complete and an utter eejit in real life. Having learned my lesson with regards to blind dates, I had decided never to travel to meet a blind date. Selfish, maybe. But if you have ever done the blind date thing, you will know what I am saying. So he came to meet me. And when I turned up, I was overcome with sheer horror and could not believe I was going to have to sit through an entire evening with him. He was dressed head to toe in velvet. Red velvet. Um, is your name Austin Powers?? No? Then why are you wearing red velvet pants, jacket and ruffled shirt? To cut a very long story short, the drinks were painful. He drove up from Brighton. And for some reason had no problems drinking 2 bottles of red to himself. He also ordered the chateaubriand steak at £47. And amazingly managed to bore the tits off me for 2 hours. He suggested desert back I mine, I politely declined. I asked for the bill, and as I did, he stood up and went to use the gents. 20 minutes later, I wondered if he had possibly passed out, or if he had an upset stomach, or if he had climbed out of the bathroom window. The latter was doubtful considering his suggestion of coming back to mine for desert. So where the fuck was he? Just when I was ready to pay and leave, I saw him pop his head around the corner of the loo’s. And then he ducked back into the safety of the lavatory rooms. I asked the waiter if he knew why my date might be hiding from he. He answered in a heavy french accent, “Madam, we believe zat your date eez waiting for you to pay zee bill. Infact, if I can be so bold, we hev a small bet on how long eet will tek before h comes out of zee bars-room.”. Well, I shook my head and decided to order another glass of wine. Fuck him! I don’t mind going Dutch, but when I have only had 2 glasses of wine and a bowl of £13 pasta in comparison to his order, I am not about to foot the bill. 15 minutes later, he still had yet to resurface. I boldly stood up and walked over to the bathrooms and shouted through the door “Hamish – all OK? It’s just that we need to pay”. He came out sheepishly and swaggered back to the table. We split the bill, but I figured that was better than nothing. He insisted on walking me to my car, despite my objections. Again, he asked to come home to mine. Again I declined. “Bit beeeb, yer definitely gonna luv meh Khommin home wit yer. Arm a greeet sharg. Honestly. I’ve gorra marssive cohuck.”. I told him to fuck off. He wobbled back to his car. Um, should he not be getting a cab or a train? No matter. It’s none of my business. He is 34 ferfuxakes. 1 hour later, when warm and toasty in my bed he called. I ignored it. He called again. And again. Eventually, I answered. “Beeb, arv crashed ma car – ya know – en ev no ideee where I’m at – you know.” Fuck. Seriously? I recommended he call the AA. And the police. He refused considering he was pissed. 5 minutes later, I heard another car rev and a screech – someone crashed into him! I couldn’t believe it. He begged me to come and get him. I refused. I turned my phone off and in the morning, I had 7 drunken voice messages from him. One of them being his ‘one phone call’ from the local police station begging me to bail him out of jail. Readers, I didn’t phone him back. And I don’t feel guilty about it. I’m sorry, but we are all intelligent adults. Grow up and get it together. I have never heard of anyone going to such extremes to get into my knickers. I should be flattered. Instead, I feel like a damp fish. Are there any normal men out there?

I think my sex life has spiced up enough, thanks.

vanessaonamission — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 09:26:40 +0000

We all love getting down and dirty – right? Nothing lovelier than a new guy in your life, and that heady honeymoon period of fumbling under the covers incessantly. Unless of course, your date has decided to cook for you – and was chopping chillis ever so expertly. The chilli made for a divine seafood paella dish, it really did. However, some hours and a few glasses of wine later, it also made for a potent foreplay session. At first, it was easy to think there was some sort of insane chemistry – a tingling delight. Um, then, it was just… TERRIFYING! 45 mins in the shower. A cold shower. And lets just say that there was a also a suggestion of trying creme fresh to soothe the burn, and finally, I was considering A&E. But I couldn’t actually bare the thought of leaving the coolness of the shower. So we had to phone NHS direct – have you ever told an NHS nurse that you have chilli on your clitoris? No? Well, it’s not as funny as you might think. You can’t laugh at these sort of situations, no matter how hard you try. This was one situation I couldn’t laugh at. Just when I thought I might actually have to ask my new date to take me to hospital, things started to calm down. It was exhausting. I tried to remain calm and cool and have a laissez-faire whilst my froo-froo slowly melted off! Needless to say, I shall recommend to you all to be most cautious when cooking with chilli and fumbling. The two don’t go very well together at all – despite what all these fusion cook books are saying.

Mr. Africa calls

vanessaonamission — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 09:25:58 +0000

Sweet Jesus. Sometimes I don’t understand men at all. They say women are supposed to be complicated. They (whoever ‘they’ are) lie. Men are strange. This one in particular. So, if you read my earlier blog post on Mr. Africa. The last few days have been nothing short of ridiculous in terms of his communication. He has been hounding me for weeks by email, txt, phone, facebook, twitter – the lot. I have been avoiding him. He is keen to go for a drink and get ‘closure’. WHAT? We went on one date aaaaaages ago. Are you serious? I very clearly said I wasn’t interested, and now he wants closure. Unbelievable! So, after 7 phonecalls this weekend, I called him back. Only to be told that I am a heartbreaker and that he loves me, and he can’t bear to see my pictures, so has removed me from facebook and twitter and will no longer be communicating with me, for the sake of his heart. Um, are we still in primary school, or did I miss something? Then, he had the audacity to tell me that he thought he knew me better than I knew myself, and the only way I could not be in love with him, would be because I was still in love with an ex. OK, there is no rational way for me to handle this. So I asked him not to call me anymore, and to leave me alone. Could I make a quick request? If you have emotional issues, please leave dating until you have enough self worth and intelligence to hold your own. Thanks.

Bolt of reality?

vanessaonamission — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 23:37:28 +0000

So. A few nights ago, I went on a date with Mr. Athletics. He is gorgeous. He has eyes like the azure coast, eyelashes like a wistful heifer and a body adonis would envy. He used to be a professional athlete, and after a serious injury, he now works for a leading sports brand. He is polite, respectful and just adorable. We had a few dates a while ago, but he came across as too safe for me. So I let it go. He moved to Brighton, and what can I say – the moment he ignored me, I was interested. Isn’t that just so typical of women? So, he came to London for a meeting and we met in High Street Ken for a bite to eat. But within 3 minutes of meeting up, his phone rang, and he promptly told his friend he was NOT on a date. Not on a date. I repeat, not on a date. Heartbroken. In that moment, I wondered a) why the fuck he had bothered to meet me for dinner and b) why he would say ‘No I am not on a date’, instead of just ‘No, you’ve got it wrong!’ to spare my feelings. Was this his way of proving he was not bothered that I hadn’t taken up on early advances, or was this his way of saying he was glad we met up, but having seen me again had changed his mind? They say women are the complicated ones. They lie. Men are so goddamned elusive! Does anyone out there agree? Or I am being delusional? Still. We had an amazing dinner in a little Italian place and sat outside on the cobbled streets pretending we were in Sicily. We talked, we laughed, we couldn’t keep our eyes off each other. He was brilliant. Within an hour, I admitted to myself that I had let one get away. How does this happen? On leaving, he kissed me on the cheek and said a simple goodbye. Search Google for ‘I should have kissed him’ and you get over 20 million results. Search ‘I shouldn’t have kissed him and you get 4 million. 5 times as many women regret not making that move. And I now make it 20,476,579. I should have kissed him. Who cares if he rejects me? Why are we always so scared of making the first move? Why is fear such a dominating factor in decision making when it comes to relationships? No one races for silver at the end of the day. And if you don’t jump right at the sound of the starting shot, you have no chance of winning – no matter how fast you run.

The Great Agency Lunch

vanessaonamission — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 14:30:22 +0000

I continue to be fascinated with people in advertising. Despite being one of them, I am still suprised at how archetypal this industry can be. Taking a moment outside with a cigarette and a shot from the Nespresso machine, I notice my colleague Lucy hastily parking a pool car. She poured out of the drivers seat, straightened her pencil skirt and ran her hands through her bed hair. Hello, hello, hello. What have we here. She pirouettes round on her patent red shoes and seeing I’ve caught her exclaims, “Jesus, don’t tell anyone I’m back from lunch this late!”. I agree, but only if she tells me where she’s been. Turns out she met a guy walking from the tube station this morning. Sparky chap, she says, and they agreed to meet at his round the corner at 1.00pm. So she took the pool car, went to his, and enjoyed 1.5hrs of unadulterated foreplay and downright filthy shagging. How very 2009 darling. She is now late for her conference call, and left in such a rush, she forgot her underwear at his. But as she points out, this gives her good reason to pop back there tomorrow lunch time. Dirty slut or divine opportunist? I have never even shared a glance with a man whilst walking from the tube station to work, let alone promised an imminent exchange of bodily fluids. Agency lunches used to be about boozing, comparing who had the most annoying junior ‘so-up-him/herself’ client and moaning about creatives who refuse to sacrifice their ‘creative integrity’ for the brand. My how things have changed. Maybe I need to start paying more attention to my fellow male commuters on my walks to and from work?

Mr. Africa

vanessaonamission — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 17:37:49 +0000

Sometimes you go on a date and you can’t work out whether your date is is edgy and eccentric, or downright weird. Mr. Africa was a case in point. A blind date set up through a girl from work. “He owns a chain of Lodges in Africa – seeing as you grew up in Africa, you will have loads in common! Plus, he’s rather dishy. Bit of a Hugh Grant”, she said. Well, who am I to argue? I’m single and bored of media types. OK. Lets do this.

With some previous experience of blind dates, I suggest a coffee. Dinner on a blind date is for amateurs. If your date is nothing like the guy you had dreamed up in your head, you can get out of there pretty sharpish. So we meet in a coffee shop on Upper Street. He is not dishy. He has thinning hair, is lanky and pale. He is wearing jeans that were circa 1985 (and not in a good way). He was frightfully posh and couldn’t go for more than a sip of coffee without running his right hand through his hair, which explained the thinning, greasy whisps of root-tastic hair curtains. I’m not one to judge on looks alone, but first impressions didn’t spark much of a fancy factor. Never mind. I have exes who were less than easy on the eye at first meet, but brilliant personalities that had me weak at the knees within minutes. One must persist in the search for love.

Needless to say, we had a most delightful chat about Africa, jobs, family, the usual. But then he said something rather odd. “I know of a middle African tribe, called the {insert tribe name here – I’ll be damned if I can remember it}. They believe that a man’s ‘yatutu’ can sense when a womans ‘moni’ is anticipating it’s presence inside her. I’m a straight down the line kind of man, Vanessa, and I’m getting a sense that your moni is reaching out to my yatutu. How would you feel about us following our natural, basic, human urges and going back to yours to allow our essences to mingle?”.

WHAAAAAAAT? You have got to be fucking kidding me. Quite frankly, I was stumped. Silenced. And that, I can assure you, does not happen often. He went on to say that he saw I was shocked by this suggestion, but that it was truly the most honest of human instincts and that we must all learn to embrace these urges. My response? “Um. Gosh. Flattered as I am that your yatutu is picking up on some vibes – and am so respectful of your beliefs – but I think your yatutu might be communicating with someone elses moni”. Ferfuxakes. How do I always end up with these sorts? Jess had said nothing of this! How do you fail to tell someone their blind date is a complete FUCKING FRUIT LOOP?! He continues. “And, I have to tell you that penetration is merely the respectful closing of a synergy. There is a lot more work that can be done by the yatutu and a man’s ‘homali’, or hands, that can bring great pleasure to the moni.”. OH SWEET JESUS. I chewed my lip frantically, desperate for something to say that could be polite, respectful and at the same time make it perfectly clear that I had no intention of letting his homali or his yatutu anywhere near my moni. I wanted to say “Ah. That’s kind Marc, but I really must be getting on. I have a million things to do tonight. But it was lovely to meet you.” Instead, my honesty tourettes kicked in and I blurted, “You cannot be serious? Holy crap. I can’t do this. Listen, my moni has basically just recoiled into the deepest part of my soul in fear and I’m going to have to get on home and calm it down, if you don’t mind.” And with that, I put £5 on the table – ample to cover the cost of my triple espresso and milk – and turned on my navy blue patent heels and left. I was clean Out of Africa.

An Officer and A Gentleman

vanessaonamission — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 17:36:12 +0000

I know. This one is off to a good start. I thought so too.

Thursday. Dinner. Good looking. And I mean reeeeeeally good looking. A chiseled face of the Daniel Craig variety. A sculpted body Michelangelo would have itched to replicate in marble. The cheekiest smile I have ever seen. 6ftphwoooar. I literally could not believe my luck. Mr. Muscles in all his glorious good-looking-ness. There’s got to be a catch.

He’s an idiot? Oh no he’s not… he’s telling me he has just finished reading ‘Shantaram’ and put forward a very valid argument for re-reading ‘In Search of Schrödinger’s Cat’ that has just eliminated stupidity from my list of ‘he must be’s’. Damn. Maybe he’s a lorry driver. Oh no, he is in the army. And not just an officer, but he heads up the team of men who train our lads. Yes, that’s right. He devises their fitness programs. Could he be any sexier? He’s got guns, and he knows how to fire guns. Woof.

He’s not going to want to date me. Surely. He is going to realise I’m the kind of person who can sometimes eat an entire jar of whole-grain mustard with a teaspoon whilst watching Grey’s Anatomy and he is never going to call me again. His glorious arms will never be happy to wrap themselves around my ‘far less than 200 sit-ups a day’ waist. He keeps talking. He also loves his mum. He believes that children are growing up too fast. He misses the art of conversation. He likes red wine, dark chocolate and beach holidays.

This is the one. I swear to God, I have found him. He prefers dogs to cats. He is, well, pretty damn perfect. He pays for dinner – which in this day and age really is a rarity. He walks me to my car and tells me he thought I was the kind of girl who drove a Beetle and is pleasantly delighted to see that I am, and I do. He wishes me a very good evening and thanks me for my company. I melt into my car with a peck on the cheek. I can’t wait to see him again.

Friday. Two hour phone call. 7 texts. Have put world to right, laughed, smiled, giggled, guffawed unattractively (and quickly turned it into a sneeze), shared a few anecdotes from my day as an executive women of the naught-ies. He asks questions. And I love that. Am smitten.

Sunday. A walk with the dog and an organic picnic. I spend about 3 hours trying on outfits that make me look both feminine, and like I’m a fairly seriously active type. Have settled on an outfit, barely there make-up and a fresh summer perfume. He tells me he loves perfume. He helps me up the side of a bank of mud as if I weigh nothing. He points out some things about nature. I pretend to love the smell of horseshit. I could learn to love it for this guy. We talk as if we have known each other forever. I’m picking out stationery for wedding invites and cooking our first Christmas dinner together already in my head.

4 similar dates later. He now knows more about me than any other man I have ever dated. He has complimented me over and over again. We are up to about 5 texts per day. Banter light. Joviality high. But he doesn’t seem to want anything more. I’ve invested about £500 in new outfits, dinners, kissable lip-glosses and sumptuous cocktails and after work drinks with him. But we still haven’t kissed. We haven’t even hugged! Or touched! Other than the hello/ goodbye peck on the cheek… my investments have not been fruitful. Bad times, I tell myself. This is a lovenomic downturn, honey. My love life is in a recession.

Turns out, after 2 more dates, he confesses that he likes me. Great! But he wants to take things slow and he wants to get to know me a little better. WHAT? I’ve told him things my own mother doesn’t know about me! How can he possibly need to know more about me, before deciding whether I am suitable or not? Seriously? Seriously. I am stumped. He’s in the army! Aren’t they supposed to be all ‘it could be my last night on earth’ and whatnot? Clearly, he is an officer, and too much of a gentleman. Or maybe it has been so long since I was faced with it, that I have forgotten what romance is?

How sad. Am I really going to end things with Mr. Muscles because of his politeness and his want to go slow? Yup, seems so. My new saying is ‘8 dates is too late’. And I horrify myself with the speed, gusto and professionalism of my last phone call breaking it off with him. ‘I’m sorry Mr Muscles. You’re fabulous. You’re a great guy. You really are. I’ve loved spending time with you. You’re intelligent, gorgeous, witty, polite, you’ve got it all. But I want more. Basically.’ Wow. Impressive. Cold. And maybe a little greedy? Muscles, looks, manners, intellegence… AND I want passion? Greedy, perhaps, or I’m simply choosing not to settle for the one before the one.

Either way, there is much to be said for passion and urgency. In the battle of love, feint heart never won fair lady. Nor did feint heart get any nooky. I’m sure the saying goes something like that anyways.

Great. Now that’s done, I’m one more date closer to the one. Supposedly.