Category Archives: dating

All Signs Point to …

I have been talking about relocating to a new city for a while.

Over pints, with a red, flushed face, did I all too often, dramatically announce, “I’m leaving! Remember this face! I am gone! I am sick of Dublin. Sick of it. There are too many ghosts in this city.”

Eyes were often thrown to heaven. “Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard this before”. Sometimes I even received, “what do you expect to get from London that you can’t get in Dublin?”

A month ago, Best Friend proposed he and I spend some time looking for jobs in London using the internet. We did an in-depth, intricate search on Google, using scant terms such as “London VAT jobs”. We received a few matches.

Best Friend  perused one particular job spec. “I think this job would suit you.”

I read the detail on the screen. I shook my head. “Oh, no, this sounds very technical. No, no, this is not for me at all.”

We came across similar jobs. I shooed the notion of them away.

A day or so later, I pondered the job spec. The more I thought on it, the more I realised this job was for me. I could do this. I could be good at this. This is my job! I called the recruitment agent. We chatted about my experience and interest in the role. He forwarded my CV to the recruiters, who instantly expressed interest in my profile.

Faraway, in another land, removed from flights of fancy of living the London Life, Best Friend and I addressed our living situation. The duration of the lease on the apartment, slowly wasted away; to extend the lease or not.

“I could just quit my job – for the first time in my life, throw caution to the wind and leave! Oh wait, no, I have no savings. This won’t work.”

Best Friend disagreed. “You need a job before you move. We’ll look at the matter of the lease, when the need arises.”

Meanwhile, elsewhere, away from employment opportunities and living arrangements, did I happen to meet a handsome, English man – London Bloke – in Dublin for a business trip. We arranged a date. The date went well. In fact, it went very well. I like him very much. I am lazy in romance and for what is a rare occasion, I made the first move on our date.

Roughly one week later, events progressed nicely. Before I knew it, I was required to go to London for a second interview.  London Bloke and I had been in contact prior to the interview. We arranged a second date, deciding to meet in Soho.

I arrived late, having spent fifteen minutes wandering around Soho in search of Compton Street. I walked into the darkness of the bar and looked around for London Bloke. I spotted him within seconds. He looked good. I awkwardly greeted him. I was nervous. Do I shake his hand or kiss him on the mouth?  What is the etiquette for a second date? I opted for a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s really nice to see you again,” he said.

My head spun. Wow, Irish men never say stuff like that. Well, the Irish men I’ve known never would. “It’s nice to see you too,” I replied somewhat coyly, looking to the floor.

“You’re in my city this time. Let me buy you a pint.”

We moved to a nook of the bar. Conversation and laughter radiated from that corner.

London Bloke supped his pint of ale. “So, how did the interview go?”

“It went OK. My head was completely fried afterwards. It was two hours long. I spoke for two hours! I am naturally talkative, but even I found that challenging.”

“When will you know the results?”

I hesitated. “Thing is … I already know the results …”

He raised his eyebrows in expectation. “Oh?”

“I got the job.”

A sexy smile crept across his face. “I am so happy for you. And, I am happy for me too.”

I was stunned. I’m sure my smile beamed. “Thanks.” I felt very strange right then, unaccustomed to the sensation of shyness.

I returned to Dublin the next day, slowly and gradually communicating my news to friends. Events were slowly settling in my own head. Since then, I have handed in my notice at work. I am due to finish my job 15th July; the same day the lease ends on the apartment.

I fancy the arse off London Bloke. As sad – or hopeful – as it sounds, I have not felt like this about anyone in years. I no longer feel dead from the waist down.

I never subscribed to the “whatever is meant for you won’t pass you by” train of thought. In my opinion, our lives are what we make them. Recent events have caused me to wonder if sometimes, now and again, things just go right and fall tidily into place.

It’s really quite nice when this happens.

Sweet Nothings

Things I’ve said on dates –

“If you throw that snowball at me, I will will force feed you it!”

“With political views like that, you’d never make it in politics. No one would vote for you. In fact, you’d have to be a dictator to enact ridiculous policies like forcing unemployed people to do public service.”

“I showed your picture to my friend. She thought you were very handsome but had big ears.”

“You have a twin sister? Do you look alike?”

“The sauce in this banoffee is delicious. What is it?”

“Zsa Zsa Gabor had her leg amputated. I heard it on some celebrity gossip show … Wait, maybe I made that up.”

“Yeah, there’s nothing worse than coming across desperate. I’m not desperate. Well, eh … No, no, I am not desperate.”

Awkwardness Is …

About a month ago I was on a first date with a guy I quite liked (at the time). We did drinks in the Secret Bar, during which the laughs and conversation flowed. He then suggested we grab some food. Over noodles in Wagamama, he declined my invite to another pub.

“Let’s go back to your place,” he casually suggested.

By this time I’d had four glasses of wine. Despite my drunken haze, my date’s forwardness caused me to choke on my fifth glass of wine. I thought for a moment, weighing up the situation. “OK then!”

He had consumed only Sprite that evening and so drove us home in his small, pratical car. I’m sure my merry chirp irked him slightly. He parked the car and we made for my apartment block. He walked on ahead of me. Compacted snow was thick on the ground. My impractical brown shoes made the short journey treacherous. I slipped two or three times.

About twenty metres or so from the apartment block door I heard a loud squelch.

“Did you just fart?” I asked.

My companion cautiously turned on the ice and looked at me. “Eh, no.” His surprise was evident. He turned and recommenced his slow trek along the icy pathway.

I should have stopped there. “Are you sure you didn’t fart?”

“Eh, yes,” he replied in a bewildered tone.

It then dawned on me the squelch could only have been caused by his step on the snow. The five glasses of wine had caused me to bypass my already flimsy think before you speak policy. I said no more to him until we were in the lift, hoping the elapsed twenty seconds may have induced some sort of amnesia.

Hey Mumble, Mumble Italiano

Two Fridays ago, I felt the need for a good night out; a few drinks, laughs and a dance. A few texts later, it transpired my friends, Shane and Brian, intended doing the same. I agreed to join them later that night. To offset the calorie value of a night on the beer, I decided to hit the gym before joining my friends. One must watch those sneaky beer-calories, y’know.

Following a brisk workout, I marched home to shower and change. Brian and Shane, already in town, instructed me to join them at my leisure. I showered, shaved and rifled through my wardrobe. I had few clean clothes. I threw on a shirt – too tight for my liking – that I had acquired in a sale for €7. I pulled on my jeans, tucking in the shirt, and fastened my ensemble with a brown studded belt. I ran for the door in untied brown shoes, intending to tie my laces in the lift.

Hogan’s was busy, filled with its usual mish mash of well dressed and funky characters. Shane and Brian were, as usual, in good form. We chatted, howling with laughter regularly. Two “swiftys” later, I crossed the road to the Dragon, to boogie until the wee hours.

Shane and I performed our usual ritual of flamboyant dance moves on a sparsely occupied dance floor. Brian watched and giggled. Now and again, I left the company of Shane and Brian to scope out the talent on offer. While standing on my own near the dance floor, a guy approached from my right and tapped my shoulder. He was average looking. His wrinkled shirt, which he had nicely paired with bad shoes, hung loose over his jeans.

“Hi,” I said in expectation.

“Hi,” he replied loudly, to compensate for the loud music. He moved in front of me, obviously determined to have a deep and meaningful. Despite his close proximity, he continued to shout. He bellowed “where are you from?”

“Ireland,” I replied shyly.

“Ireland?” he responded with obvious surprise. “You look Italian. Your clothes and dark hair make you look Italian.”

“Oh right.”

He attempted to quash my obvious confusion with a compliment. “It’s a good thing.”

I side stepped to the left. Fighting the urge to sprint, I maintained eye contact and smiled. “Grazie mille,” I called as I moved away from him.

I shared the details of this interaction with Shane and Brian. “Why would he think I’m Italian?” I asked.

“It’s the hair,” answered Shane.

Within an hour of my awkward deflection, another man approached me. This fellow was much younger than the last guy. He was tall and gangly, demonstrating a slight stoop as he leaned in to talk. He seemed inebriated. He blasted words into my ear as we made tedious conversation.

“Your English is really good.” He leaned back, smiling, in expectation of some appreciation for his kind words.

“I told you I’m Irish,” I said in an unfriendly tone. “I’m from Dublin.”

“I know, but I don’t believe you.”

We continued to talk for a minute more, before I used a well-practised dismissal. I touched his forearm and smiled warmly. “It was nice talking to you. Have a good evening.”

“Same to you.” He turned and rejoined his friends in the corner.

I remained near the dance floor. What the fuck? I asked myself. Am I giving off some Italiano vibe or wha? I ventured to the bathroom to make sure I hadn’t subconsciously painted the Italian flag to my face. I checked myself in the mirror. My hair, which I had earlier spent seconds spiking, sagged and appeared slicked back. This particular hair product has a habit of making my hair look darker. The ill-fitting, tight shirt, tucked into my jeans compounded my Italian appearance. I shrugged. Meh, what of it? I thought. I returned to my standing place near the dance floor.

Within minutes, another potential suitor, a man in his early thirties, greeted me. I checked him out. His cheeks were flushed and rosy. His hair had no particular style. I knew he was in the club alone. He resembled someone separated from his friends, during a night out in the “Big Shhmoke”, who happened to stumble upon a gay bar. I looked down at his feet, expecting to find wellies.

“Hello,” I said in return of  his greeting.

He leaned in. He shaped his mouth into an “O”, as he over-pronounced his words, loudly, and slowly, in that unmistakeable manner only used by English speakers when addressing foreigners. “Where are you from?” I sighed and thought for a second.

“I am-a frrrrom Rrrroma” I cried enthusiastically in my best Italian accent, ensuring I used stereotyped hand gestures.

“Really?” he asked with raised eye brows.

I rounded my answer with a higher pitch. “Yesss-a.”

“Why are you in Dublin?”

“I am-a ‘ere for learrrrning my English-a.”

“Your English is very good.”

If I genuinely were foreign, I would definitely be insulted by this condescending fucker. I smiled proudly. “Grazie,” I said. “I learn-a my English-a in schooool-a forrrr five-a yearrrs-a”. I held five fingers in front of his face.

“It’s really very good. How long have you been in Dublin for? Are you in college?”

“I ‘ave-a been in Dublino forrrr two months-a. I am-a working ‘ere.”

“Do you work in a restaurant?”

“Yesss-a!” I exclaimed loudly, to stifle a laugh. “I work-a in-a restaurrrrant-a.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

I nodded. “Yesss-a, I ‘ave-a an Boyfrrrriend at home-a in Rrrroma.”

“Do you? And do you like Irish men?”

I held myself for a moment to give the impression of a pensive stance. I flicked my hand in front of me with an extended finger. “I like-a Irish men not-a-so-much-a.”

My new friend looked curious. He came closer. “Why is that?”

With my arms stretched both sides of me, as if delivering an operatic finalé,  I proclaimed “they drrrink-a toooo-much-a”.

My companion, with no good bye or parting words, turned and left my side.

Rating Speed Dating

Speed dating was created in Beverly Hills in 1998. Since then it has soared in popularity. The official match-making service was popularised in its portrayal in Sex and the City. I heard about speed dating years ago and always wanted to try it. The opportunity came when Romeo, Romeo – Juliette, Juliette targeted a speed dating service at the gay community. Six weeks ago, I bit the bullet and signed up. My attempt to bring mates failed; I ventured alone. To describe myself as nervous on the night is a massive understatement. Outside the venue, BrasserieSixty6, I centred myself with deep breaths. I eventually mustered some courage and entered the restaurant. The atmosphere, enhanced by the hosts, was welcoming and friendly. Tables with large, flickering candles lined one side of the room. Nibbly bits were on offer. Before the kick off, I chatted with many guys, assisted by a generous glass of white wine. It wasn’t long before I was at ease.

The (good looking) host, Anthony Nolan gave me my name badge and number before explaining the mechanics. “When you take your seat, write down the name and number of your date. Following your date, mark the box next to their name that indicates whether you are or are not interested in seeing them again. If you’re interested, you can opt to meet them either as a friend or date.”

Speed dating is an overwhelming experience that evicts anyone from their comfort zone. Chatting to fourteen men I never met before did my confidence much good. While I might not have met the love of my life, I did meet numerous guys with whom I would like to pursue friendship; Anthony Nolan explained how difficult it is for gay men to meet people Dublin when they might prefer not to socialise in bars and clubs.

My first date sat at table fourteen. I introduced myself and asked questions, lots of questions. On reflection, I pretty much put the same questions to every guy. Now and again, good conversation struck up, allowing me to deviate from my scripted interrogation. During one date, I asked a guy where he was from since he looked like a girl I knew. He laughed. I guess he declined to meet me again.

Looking back on the evening, I am unsure why I was nervous. Everyone was there for the same reason – to meet new people. Speed dating is without a doubt a good way to make new friends, which in today’s age is challenging. I give it my recommendation. Why would a singleton avoid it, when all it does is provide mates and dates?

Dating News ….

I’ve booked myself in for speed dating on 8th September.

Anthony Nolan offers speed dating for the gay community once every six weeks or so. His service goes under the alias of Romeo, Romeo – Juliet, Juliet. The evening promises around twenty dates, each lasting two minutes or so, held in the lovely Brasserie Sixty6.

I’ve heard much about speed dating. I jumped at the chance to book myself a place. Yes, it will be a nerve racking at first, but who knows who I might meet. Knowing me, I’ll get one of those infamous rushes of extrovertism and scare all my potential suitors away.

Awkwardness is …

getting chatted up by a guy who thinks it clever to engage conversation by observing that your plaid shirt is almost identical to a shirt he wore for his confirmation. The situation is made even more awkward by the fact he hurt his foot that morning playing pretentious tennis; you might feel guilty leaving him stranded. The pinnacle of awkwardness occurs when he opens his mouth, you think he is trying to tell you something, lean in towards him and he “lobs the gob”.

In this situation I recommend informing him you feel “uncomfortable”. Do a runner!

I’m Back!

After a time out, involving a secondment in John of Gods, I’ve returned to my little corner of the internet. I closed my blog for some time to spare you angsty posts on the turbulent – and very emotional – time following my breakup. A break from writing probably did you and I the world of good. I created no cringe worthy posts. You avoided the awkwardness of reading them.

Single life has taken much getting used to. For a while after the split, I felt the need to rediscover myself. Yes, that sounds very Doctor Phil, but I felt unfamiliar to myself. I did not know how to be alone.  I sought the counsel of friends. Some mates advised me to take time to lick my wounds. Other friends advised me to go out and lick other things … ehem. “Get back up on that horse!”, they cried.

I did various things to get me through the breakup. My first was a rebellious action. Two days after the breakup I splurged on a leather jacket. The original jacket ex-Boyfriend objected to cost €250. “I’ll show him”, I thought. Ex-Boyfriend must have felt a stabbing pain on his person when my debit card was stung for €350. In hindsight, the financial strain caused me an incredible amount of pain.

I did as some friends recommended and went on a few dates. Overall, they were pleasant experiences, resulting in nothing. However, my attempts to “re-saddle” ended, following a disastrous date. During one date, who was physically three and mentally twenty years my junior, I returned from the toilet to find the bastard had done a runner. This was a negative experience. I pray for his welfare that our paths do not cross in the next few months.

In an effort to rid myself of the negative-thought demons, I have taken to exercising regularly, disposing of excess flab in the process. I’m told weight-loss is a natural reaction to a breakup. I love the fact clothes now fit. My once fitted jeans are now baggy. While shopping in Zara one evening, a size 34 waist rose past my knees. Tears of happiness were shed there in that little dressing-room cubicle.

The biggest change I’ve enacted is my decision to get my teeth done. A month ago, I got braces. My teeth were not horrific, but they’ve always been something I was conscious of.  It’s not fun to have braces at the age of twenty-seven. My speech is affected, I dribble in my sleep and food gets stuck. I might be limited in my activities in the boudoir (not that I have yet tested this). Despite the hindrances this might cause,  I did it for me.

During the time of temporary closure of MyopicPsychotic, I ran the emotional gauntlet of dealing with a breakup by generally going mad and drinking aplenty. One night I was to be found at home, crying into a glass of red, wailing to Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares to You”. Another  evening, in Keogh’s, inebriated to the hilt, I kissed my friend’s straight, former boss. Luckily, this has not damaged her career prospects.

Naturally, the last few months were an emotional rollercoaster. It was definitely for the best MyopicPsychotic was taken off the air for that time. I was unsure whether I wanted to continue blogging. I toyed with the idea of creating a new blog, deleting the many entries mentioning ex-Boyfriend. I now realise this was stupid. MyopicPsychotic will continue as it intends to go on.

It’s good to be back, people!

RED

I’m not a sentimental person. I’ve thrown school yearbooks out without the bat of an eye lid.  I once laughed at Boyfriend, when he told me he had the ticket stubs to our first trip to the cinema. I can be a harsh fucker sometimes. Lately, I’ve noticed, I’ve softened with age. I’m even getting  a little sentimental.

Two Christmases ago, Boyfriend bought me the RED IPod. It has to be one of the best presents I’ve ever received.  I absolutely love Felicity the RED IPod. I use it every day of the week. On the back of the IPod there is an inscription. It reads, “M-People, the definitive band of the 90s”. A far from credible claim, you might think.

This quote originates from one of our first few dates. Boyfriend and I were in a dodgy pub in town far too early in the morning. I was a little drunk. We discussed our musical preferences. I proceeded to tell him I loved “M-People”. When he laughed, I took the hump. I argued that M-People were the definitive band of the 90s. This claim made him laugh harder.

The next morning, while I had a sore head, he quoted my opinion of M-People. It was a hilarious claim. We still laugh about it to this very day. One morning this week, when I saw the inscription, I smiled to myself.

RED Ipod Nano - perfect for listening to M-People