I'm blaming Kitt for this blog. It's all her fault.
I have dreadful taste in men.
There, I've said it.
Seriously, when we were waiting to come back to earth and lining up for something that resembles a clue about the opposite sex I think I was caught up in the breasts and glibness lines and missed out on going to the "Taste in Men" line all together.
I've been sent down to this earth without much of a clue.
Actually, I've been sent down here with no clue at all.
My friends seems to have scored well. I look at Blarney's Barney. Okay, he has the worst pair of moccasins in the world - which if I were Blarney, I'd burn - but he's a funny, clever, caring man. Glen Waverley is a catch in his own engineery way - he's actually rather wise. Reindert is a delight. But these guys aren't my type. They're my friends. I love them dearly, but I don't find them attractive.
My first boyfriend at high school was known for two things. His greasy hair and his spots. Looking forward, he probably runs a software company making squillions now - and he;s probably bald. As it goes, he was probably the best of a bad lot at high school.
There is nobody of consequence to talk about from university. Those moments of madness have been buried in the vaults of time under "Don't go there - you'll make yourself queasy." (Also, there are a few people from uni who occasionally read this - I'm not going to divulge)
The guy I was with in London for a few years which was doomed. Very good looking, but very hard - and particularly hard on me - well I thought he was. When we parted company he was trading options for a major broking house. He's probably retired and living in a gated community in Cape Town now. Like the first boyfriend, I lost all contact - and that is a very good thing.
The gaggle of inappropriate men continues. The Turkish bodybuilder (a bit like bad quality ganache, not particularly rich and very thick), the removalist from the New Zealand West Coast who was covered in prison tatts (Okay, soft spot for this one - a nice guy for a change - just nothing to talk about), the engineer who played concert piano, the dodgy car salesman from Galway... oh there are some wonderful creatures in the list.
The only thing that the guys who've been in my life for the last for the last few years is that they've had prematurely grey hair and haven't stuck around for long.
As a young girl Mark Holden really floated my boat. This is an admission. At seven, receiving a pink carnation was all I ever wanted, along with a Barbie Campervan and rollerskates, neither of which I was never allowed to have. When he turned up on Australian Idol thirty years later I was left sitting there thinking oh, Yuk!
Dicko on the other hand. Like wow. Truthful, funny, smart and with a wry smile (and what is it with the grey hair?). Like yum. Please can I have one of those for Christmas. I don't mind that he has a pot and a Brummie accent. He's just crumpet.
Over the years my "Celebrity Boyfriends", you know, the celeb with whom you'd most like to get stuck on a desert island, complete with a gross of condoms and a stash of whipped cream - they've often left friends saying , "Who the hell?". While friends have staunchly drooled over Woody from the Bay City Rollers, to Adam Ant, the lead singer of Pseudo Echo and Warwick Capper and Brad Pitt, I've been lusting over such honey's as Kenneth Branagh, James Spader and Chandler from Friends.
(Yes, I can name friends who though Warwick Capper "spunky". The blackmail fees are putting my nieces through private school)
As I'm a bit older now, having slightly eccentric taste in men is a little more welcomed. Kenneth Branagh is still allowed to leave his boots under my bed as long as he talks Shakespeare to me. Colin Firth is just lovely - I'm sure you could take him anywhere and he'd just play along. Don't get me started on Clive Owen. He just looks filthy and throwing him in the bath is one of those small private fantasies that keeps me going when things are sinking. His only imperfection is that he's a Libran - but I'm willing to look over that.
Anyways, the reason I'm blaming Kitt for this blog is that she helped me see that there are more men out there than just the craggy, grey haired ones.
Out on our Thursday ten kilometre constitutional we walked through Gosch's Paddock. There were footy teams training. As it was pushing 30 degrees centigrade, about 80 percent humidity most of them were shirtless.
"Look at the pretty boys, Pand." cooed Kitt.
"Jailbait." I retorted.
"Pand, you are allowed to look."
"Kitt, they're twenty years my junior."
"You're allowed to look. Pretty boys."
See, to me, ice cream and chocolate is pretty. Shoes are pretty. Clothes are pretty - but boys?!
Something ticked over.
"Objectify them, Pand."
"Like Pinochet, he's pretty."
"He's a good trainer, but he's a bit of a grunty boy lunk head."
"You're useless. I want you to practice looking at men."
"Do I have to?"
"Yes. It's part of your education."
I don't need to tell you that Kitt is fifteen years my junior.
I took another look. Ah. I think I'm getting it.
And so we ran/walked around the tan. Kitt a bit more vocal, murmering the odd, "Ah......" By the time we did a lap, the pretty boys had gone.
Unfortunately the rush of whatever it is, what ever it may be called, is still there.
And unfortuately, old habits and tastes die hard. I'm volunteering at the Writers Festival at the Abbotsford Convent this weekend, doing my sound tech gig once again. I was there tonight listening to a session about a cook book derived from the archives of the Heide Artists Colony, adjsuting the sound levels and trying to hide that the middle panel member was spitting into the mike. Reading the programme whilst listening to the panel waffle on about boiled rabbit, I saw that there was a session Sunday Afternoon with the delightful Shaun Micallef.
On leaving the cook book session I went and found the Volunteer Coordinator and begged to be able to take the session. "Pretty please, pretty please." She said she would see what she could do.
Talk about Thinking Woman's Crumpet!
If I do get to run the session, I'm going to have to be careful about not drooling on the sound deck...
I think my taste in men, though flawed, will just have to stay the way it is.
Even if I stray to the shirtless footy players at Gosch's Paddock every now and then.