One thing I've noticed as a new mom is that other new moms seem to be on a bit of a friend recruitment drive. It's almost like speed dating - we meet at baby massage, moms and tots or whatever other baby-centred activity is taking place that day, and then invite each other for coffee. Ostensibly, this is so that we can build up a circle of friends for our offspring. However, I have not noticed Leya partaking in any serious conversations with her peers at these get togethers, so I infer that what's really going on here is that my fellow moms have, like me, realised that our old friends are losing patience with our habit of consistently arriving half an hour later than arranged and staring at them with the zombie eyes of the exhausted, while making incorrect responses because our brains simply don't keep up any more.
Sadly for me, my mommy dating has not, so far, been an overwhelming success. I don't think I was ever much good at normal dating. I had some awful habits that, aware of them though I was, I simply couldn't kick. My hair, for example: I'd constantly whip it around to create the same effect as that caused by those industrial fans used during photo shoots. It didn't help that at key points during my dating career I was actually experiencing some unfortunate hair loss, so far from tossing about a mane, the one or two resilient little sprouts that were still, magically, clinging to my scalp, would bob a little unsteadily before I would remember that this was probably not the way to impress.
My second strategy focused around my mouth: I was a compulsive pouter. I'm actually pulling this face while I write this blog, and even now, I can feel how, as my lips assume their fish-like position, my shoulder juts forward and my head cocks just a little to the right. How any of my dates managed to keep a straight face is beyond me.
Nor can I pretend that my date behaviour was sufficiently charming to make up for these foibles. The worst date I ever had saw me inviting my hapless male friend in for a coffee. As we crossed the threshold into my kitchen, we both noticed that my dog had left a present on the floor. I'm sure you'll agree that pooh is pure kryptonite for romance but I, filled with the confidence of several glasses of wine, believed I was sufficiently winsome to make him disregard any lamentable additions to the decor. "Oh, a pooh," I chuckled coquettishly (and rather redundantly), breezily stepping over it to put the kettle on; not noticing until later that my date had appeared rather reluctant to drink from my mugs. Who can blame him, given the apparent hygiene challenges.
I like to think that I am no longer quite such a dating disaster, but my ventures into mommy dating have proved that I am. My porridge brain has left my rapier wit somewhat dulled, and my banter is decidedly more bland than brilliant. In fact, I have degenerated into outright Spanglish, frequently using whatever word first pops into my head to fill in my blanks. Thus, my bemused husband may be informed that we are having dinner with Chris and hairy, or that I am going to Panado to pick up some yoga quickly.
Having known me for 20 years, he finds it all sweetly comical, but my new acquintances are less beguiled by my verbal trip ups. Take my latest mommy date, for example: from the outset, I had been on the back foot, as she was wearing makeup and I was wearing a vomit stain on my shoulder. It wasn't long before I realised that there was no way I could hold up my end of the dialogue; a conclusion which was confirmed when she wittily informed me that her friend has coined a term for that moment when you're so happily immersed in singing in your car that you lose track of everything else: "Oblivioke". I became momentraily excited, remembering how, years ago, I had killed myself laughing as my sister recounted an embarrasing 'Oblivioke' moment: she had been pouring all the passion of an unrequited crush into a duet with Celine Dion, a performance complete with the anguished flinging of her hands from the steering wheel to her hair, only to look up and find some rather dishy guys laughing at her in the car parked alongside her at the robot. Thrilled that I might, at last, have something vaguely amusing to contribute to the conversation, I tried to translate what was happening in my head. It came out as: "that happened to my sister, once." My mommy date looked at me encouragingly, willing me to complete the story and come up with a punchline, then tactfully turned her attention to her cappucino when it became clear this wasn't going to happen.
I haven't heard from her since, just like I never heard from Kitchen-Pooh Boy. But I am not alarmed. Just as I found my husband, a man who would happily drink coffee from a none too clean kitchen just so he could spend more time with me, so I am confident I will find a friend who agrees that going to mosquito to have some matte black is a sterling idea.
Sadly for me, my mommy dating has not, so far, been an overwhelming success. I don't think I was ever much good at normal dating. I had some awful habits that, aware of them though I was, I simply couldn't kick. My hair, for example: I'd constantly whip it around to create the same effect as that caused by those industrial fans used during photo shoots. It didn't help that at key points during my dating career I was actually experiencing some unfortunate hair loss, so far from tossing about a mane, the one or two resilient little sprouts that were still, magically, clinging to my scalp, would bob a little unsteadily before I would remember that this was probably not the way to impress.
My second strategy focused around my mouth: I was a compulsive pouter. I'm actually pulling this face while I write this blog, and even now, I can feel how, as my lips assume their fish-like position, my shoulder juts forward and my head cocks just a little to the right. How any of my dates managed to keep a straight face is beyond me.
Nor can I pretend that my date behaviour was sufficiently charming to make up for these foibles. The worst date I ever had saw me inviting my hapless male friend in for a coffee. As we crossed the threshold into my kitchen, we both noticed that my dog had left a present on the floor. I'm sure you'll agree that pooh is pure kryptonite for romance but I, filled with the confidence of several glasses of wine, believed I was sufficiently winsome to make him disregard any lamentable additions to the decor. "Oh, a pooh," I chuckled coquettishly (and rather redundantly), breezily stepping over it to put the kettle on; not noticing until later that my date had appeared rather reluctant to drink from my mugs. Who can blame him, given the apparent hygiene challenges.
I like to think that I am no longer quite such a dating disaster, but my ventures into mommy dating have proved that I am. My porridge brain has left my rapier wit somewhat dulled, and my banter is decidedly more bland than brilliant. In fact, I have degenerated into outright Spanglish, frequently using whatever word first pops into my head to fill in my blanks. Thus, my bemused husband may be informed that we are having dinner with Chris and hairy, or that I am going to Panado to pick up some yoga quickly.
Having known me for 20 years, he finds it all sweetly comical, but my new acquintances are less beguiled by my verbal trip ups. Take my latest mommy date, for example: from the outset, I had been on the back foot, as she was wearing makeup and I was wearing a vomit stain on my shoulder. It wasn't long before I realised that there was no way I could hold up my end of the dialogue; a conclusion which was confirmed when she wittily informed me that her friend has coined a term for that moment when you're so happily immersed in singing in your car that you lose track of everything else: "Oblivioke". I became momentraily excited, remembering how, years ago, I had killed myself laughing as my sister recounted an embarrasing 'Oblivioke' moment: she had been pouring all the passion of an unrequited crush into a duet with Celine Dion, a performance complete with the anguished flinging of her hands from the steering wheel to her hair, only to look up and find some rather dishy guys laughing at her in the car parked alongside her at the robot. Thrilled that I might, at last, have something vaguely amusing to contribute to the conversation, I tried to translate what was happening in my head. It came out as: "that happened to my sister, once." My mommy date looked at me encouragingly, willing me to complete the story and come up with a punchline, then tactfully turned her attention to her cappucino when it became clear this wasn't going to happen.
I haven't heard from her since, just like I never heard from Kitchen-Pooh Boy. But I am not alarmed. Just as I found my husband, a man who would happily drink coffee from a none too clean kitchen just so he could spend more time with me, so I am confident I will find a friend who agrees that going to mosquito to have some matte black is a sterling idea.
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