The Dating Horizon - Wombatgram #24

The triumph of imagination over reality leads to all sorts of dissatisfaction and grumpiness. Best to figure out what's likely, what's possible, and what that one-night stand will actually lead to.

For greater clarity, click on Wombatgram. 


Previous efforts. 



Bottoms Up, Simplificators.

First Date Filtering - Wombatgram #12

For a better Wombatgram view, click to enlarge.




Bottoms Up, Filterers!

Showering With Friends

I like the colour pink, and was told once that it suits me by a 'colour consultant.'

She was one of those women who flourish in fat good times, when people have money to waste on the kind of women who convince us they can change our lives by removing taupe from our 'wardrobe palette'. For a stupid big fee.

As a result, I used to wear pink business shirts - with blue and dark pink ties in case the message that pink is good for me wasn't completely obvious. Pink supposedly says 'gay' but I'm sufficiently at ease with my sexuality to be unconcerned. Perhaps that's the thing about pink on heterosexual men; it's ironic.

Times are far from fat, and I haven't tripped over a colour consultant in days. I could have used one in SuperTarget this morning, as I searched for a shower-curtain. Naturally, I was drawn to the pink one. It spoke to me in a way that none of the others could, hinting at loofahs and sharing hot water and scented body-wash with a lady friend. Grrrr. Give me a slippery, soapy wench, someone.

But an evil voice spoke up: What does a pink shower curtain say about you, Mister? Will that lady friend be so keen to lather up if she thinks you're a pink shower-curtain kinda lad?

So it came to pass that, right there in the bathroom section of SuperTarget, I gave in to the evil voice. I chose the shower-curtain with the aqua, teal and navy-blue dots. The days of pink are over.

Oh, and China? If you insist on sending me your cheap-jack shoddy plastic shower-curtains, you could have the respect to actually punch out the holes for the rings. Fucking jokers. And Target? Ten bucks for that? You're even worse. Screw you, too.



Bottoms Up, Shoppers!

Friday Fluffer - Kiss the Wombat

Today's Fluffer is for you nature lovers.






Bottoms Up, Marsupials!





Sweet kiss from here. [link]

I am not associated with Kiss the Wombat in any way. Who owns that site is a mystery to me, buy it's incumbent upon me to promote something so worthy.

Sweetie Pie

Finding the one is like finding the perfect pie.




Bottoms Up, Bakers!



Click on image for larger version.

Fishing

What a beautiful creature, the common snook. They're feisty and fun to catch, not to mention tasty. Look at those markings and tell me that's not one hot fish.





Bottoms Up!

Ferrets

Individualism's great, but what you call individualism I reserve the right to call strangeness. Strangeness can be fun and interesting too, but I probably don't want to date you if you're strange tipping to weird. That's the way I roll.

Pets are one area in which I have little tolerance for the non-mainstream. A certain one-upmanship taints pet ownership, especially amongst those whose non-human companions extend beyond cats and dogs.

Take ferrets, for example. A mate of mine from years ago dated (for a short time) a very attractive chick who came equipped with a ferret. Mostly the rat wrapped itself around the back of her neck, with its hideous face poking out from under her hair above her left shoulder. She went everywhere with that beast, talking to it like it understood. It reminded me of a ventriloquist and her dummy, constantly blathering back and forth.

Snakes and other reptiles skip the strange category and move straight to weird. Dating a woman with a diamond python or two in her living room is beyond me. Ditto lizards, spiders, grasshoppers and Madagascar hissing cockroaches. [link]

Even mainstream pets tell us a lot about the owner. Single women with miniature dogs have them as baby replacements; men with miniature dogs are homosexual; anyone with a pit-bull is a retard. Which leaves only cat-owners as sane people. So that's who I'll date.

Have pussy? Call me.


Bottoms up!





Photo of Woman with Ferret from here [link]

Hot Clusters

Friends and acquaintances know that I had a stock reply to the the question:

Wombat, why did you leave Australia and emigrate to America?

I used to answer:

To find an American wife.

Perhaps it's my sense of humour, but my flip approach didn't ever work on the audience. Occasionally married guys would mutter:

Please. You can have mine.

I dropped that bit from the routine.

For some reason this thing about finding 'someone' features in conversations lately. Do I look like a need a woman to prop me up? Am I leaning? Do I look incomplete on my own? Is it last call for girlfriends?

Florida's the problem. Two kinds of single women inhabit my town.

1. The rich singles, who don't want to be 'A nurse or a purse.'

2. The not rich singles, who are looking for the (man)purse.

As a healthy, independent bloke neither of these archetypes holds any kind of appeal.

It's understood this is that kind of place. Men, therefore, and some women tell me of other cities they think would serve my purposes better. Lots mention Atlanta. Some (including ladies here at KnB) tell me the DC area is chock-full of lovelies. Honourable mentions include certain suburbs of Denver, New York City and coastal Southern California. (Hello Newport Beach!)

Single guys mention one place time and again. It pops up on internet searches and peripheral stuff like this [link]. Scottsdale, Arizona is the underground hottie capital of the United States. To think; a dry climate. What a wonderful change from Florida that would be.







Arizona Wildcats picture from here [link]

First Date Failure

A friend ragged me today via txt about my recent first date failure. She's the one who thinks I'm a narcissist. Stuff like this:

I can't believe she didn't fall for your charms.

Dripping sarcasm like a cheap hooker's pussy.

It made my day until I realized that only a narcissist would look favourably upon such a thinly veiled insult.

Here's another question I would like to ask a woman: [previously in the series]

Choose your favourite from among the following evenings out;

1. An orchestral performance.

2. A broadway-style musical production.

3. A modern music concert eg: The Beatles.

4. A night at an Irish pub listening to Gaelic music.




Flautist from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - The Mangagement Ring

A step forward in human affairs, this. We're late to the party, but another wall to male equality fell with the coming of age of the mangagement ring. [link][link][link]

The mangagement ring is exactly what you think; it's a ring worn by men showing their status as pre-married. The days of the man alone spending six months of his salary on an engagment ring are over. Now the woman should reciprocate, and the bigger the bling the better thanks ladies.



Pic from here [link]

Edited because I couldn't spell 'mangagement.' Duh.

Easy, Like Sunday Morning.

Finding new ways to weed out possible Mrs Wombats has become a sort of hobby of mine. Dating websites all do this more-or-less the same way, with written profiles and canned questions. I dislike dating websites.

To my mind shoe-horning the individual into these boxes cannot meaningfully tell us that much about them. Most people find writing about themselves difficult. That part of their profile then becomes an exercise in satisfying the minimum word-count, with commensurate usefulness. Asking me whether I'm black or white or hispanic is meaningless, in my opinion. My star-sign? Yeah, whatever.

So I have tried to create a series of questions that ask about stuff that I think will tell me something about the other person, in relation to me. Make sense? Maybe not. Here's an example, which you might care to answer.

What does your ideal Sunday morning look like? And if it's different, what do you actually do?






Pic from here [link]

Dater, Know Thyself

Expectation is destructive in dating for two reasons:

1. It tends to crowd us into a corner, looking for certain outcomes.

2. It focuses attention in the wrong place viz: on the other person.

Knowing yourself isn't easy. We are bombarded by fear-mongers (aka advertisers, tv, magazines etc) whose job it is to make us feel inadequate. Buy their product though, and your life will blossom.

Written like that, the idea is preposterous, and yet it must work, otherwise you wouldn't covet that Beemer. Or that Burberry coat. Or that girl who drinks DiSaronno.

Knowing yourself isn't about acquiescing to your ego either. I might harbour desires towards Giada De Laurentiis, but that's pure ego. A of all, she's a superstar and I'm a peon; B of all, the chances of us actually being compatible in real life are vanishingly small. It's my ego talking, telling me that I have a shot at the impossible.

Trouble is that our egos like long-shots. Disregarding odds, statistics, probabilities, facts and truths is what our egos do, with self-evident results. We focus on the lottery winner, rather than the hundreds of millions of losers. We say to ourselves "What if it works?" when starting a high-risk business. Or we ogle impossible partners (like Giada) and wonder why no-one else measures up. That's why I say unrealistic expectation is destructive, and its main driving force is ego.

Dragging ourselves back to ourselves is an exercise in killing our ego for a while, and getting real, man, as hippies used to say.






Photo from here [link]

Mr Clean

With a couple of hours to spare around noon today, here's what I did.

1. Grabbed my caddy of environmentally friendly cleaning products (which, by the way, I keep close to me at all times.)

2. Collected, from my 'cleaning' drawer, micro-fibre squares, sponges and polishing cloths.

3. Entered the bathroom.

Working from the top down, I cleaned the tiles first, shower and tub. Then on to the vanity, which is probably the easiest part, although faucets can be tricky. Toilet next, making sure to get to all those idiotic curves at the base that those dumb toilet designers create specifically to confound us. Then on to the floor, where you would have found me on hands and knees with an old toothbrush cleaning the grout. Lastly, the mirror, door handles, towel rails and the shelves of the medicine cabinet.

I stood up after about thirty minutes and looked upon my work with pride.

A (woman) friend opined recently that, had it been her bathroom, I could have expected a blowjob at that point. Is this a common reaction, and should I start a high-end cleaning business?





No, that's not my bathroom pictured. [link]

Friday Fluffer - The Chickipedia

The Chickipedia is another fine internet app. [link]

In true wiki style, it caters for every taste. [link]

Even women with blue hair. [link]





Previously on K&B. [link]
Liz Taylor's photo from here. [link]

Women in bars.

Somehow the liquor industry convinced us that bars are the primo places to find a mate. It makes sense I guess, given the ready access to mind-altering substances and resulting convivial atmosphere. Reducing inhibition is probably the best justification for drinking - in moderation please people. Sure, sure, we like the taste, but if the alcohol wasn't present, I doubt booze would be as popular. There's a reason non-alcoholic wine and beer sales are like a flea on the butt of Mr Ethanol Elephant.

Concerned mothers the world over tell their daughters they'll never find a good man at the bar. They're referring to the legal bar I imagine, since any sensible mother would break down in floods of tears knowing her Princess was dating the likes of a John Edwards. Contrastingly, drinking-type bars are the habitue of sexy and upright paragons of the community. Like me.

But not me lately. After years of unsatisfactory searching for the future Mrs Wombat in drinking establishments all over, the obvious has arrived and whacked me over the head. We don't need bars to find women; women are everywhere. I'm fully aware of how dopey this sounds. Really, truly stupid. There's no defence I can provide (where's a lawyer when I need one?) other than to say that some behaviours from one's early years can stick beyond their usefulness.

For a young man in Australia the progression is: out with mates -> drinking -> horny -> nothing to lose -> fear of failure overcome -> approach women -> hope for successful outcome.

Experience eliminates the need for the first two parts, meaning the whole world is my oyster. Why did it take so long?

Being Single Part 1, Being Single Part 2, Being Single Part 3.