Wednesday, 19 February 2014
Since I basically deleted 99% of my blog posts from prior 2012 (in preparation for the Mayan Apocalypse), I suppose I should reiterate once more again for the sake of cliché blog categories:
I am not just a ‘single white female’.
I am a ‘single white female who happens to be deaf’.
While that cripples my dating pool, downsizing it from an Olympic pool to a leaking kiddy tub (at no choice of mine*) it doesn’t bother me too much. I have somewhat eclectic tastes, and my tactics have evolved from ‘subtle seduction’ to ‘steel sledgehammer’.
What does tickle my Victorian nostrils, is competition. Somehow, I am unused to vying against other girls for the attentions of a male. My friends and I have never shared a common crush, since hitting puberty and I was yelling at my school bestie, who had a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger in her locker. I mean, REALLY? Han Solo was WAY MORE FRICKING HOT.
And there I am, at a soiree, my stoic eye on a guy… when sidles up a girl. She displays all the signals like a peacock on acid**. Just like that, she has laid a claim upon the guy in public. But wait, what’s this? She traipses off, wagging her ass, to get a round of drink. And another girl materialises by the guy, and the spectacle begins again.
At this point, my brain is two hemispheres furiously sissy-slapping each other. One hemisphere is saying, “Like, OMG! Wotta sluts! Let’s just jump in there and snog him! Piss on his leg and claim him!” and the other hemisphere is snorting, ‘Jeez OMG! Look at the damn guy, he’s wallowing like a smug pig! Like, he totally doesn’t deserve us!”
Sadly, I simply do what any sane person in complete awareness of impulses and surroundings would do. Go get another drink and chat with friends.
I know! If I had it my way, absolutely my way, then the lights would flicker and change colour, the floor would shudder, and out of nowhere, people in black would trample in and erect a wrestling ring out of no where. A mariachi band would strum their way in, and surround the girls that were buzzing around the nominated guy. With crooning notes, they’d usher them into the ring. A spiffy-looking man with a bow tie that looks like it weights more than him (though, he is pretty skinny), clears his throat into the microphone, and announces the prize: spotlights flash on the guy who splutters into his beer.
The two girls blink, and look at each other cannily. They’re about the same size, with the same ‘straightened’ hair, clown-cake make up and dress hems that just about censors their naughty bits. They waddle a bit in their high heels, finding their balance with their nails armed and ready.
The MC clears his throat once more again. “And now… THE CHALLENGER!!!”
Spotlights spazs over the shellshocked audience, to land on a figure standing on one of the ring’s poles, the body hidden by a shimmering cape.
The mariachi band’s gentle, jolly tune climbs and warps, transforming into something of death metal mated with Flight of the Valkyries. An arm flings out, throwing the cape away, to flutter past the lights into the audience.
The passionate announcement is punctuated by two heavy feet hitting the padded floor, heavy enough to echo in the dark corners.
Sequins, foil fabric, metallic embroidery, lycra lamé, all glitter under the spotlights that have converged upon the figure. Towering at least a head above one of the girls, and though the next girl might reach her height with her heels, her wide shoulders boast a impressive pair that might remind one of bull bars on monster trucks. Her hips match, with such thunderous thighs which even Zeus would swoon over.
Before the girls can recollect themselves and formulate some kind of a “girl power” plan, the MC shrieks in the microphone.
And so begins his commentary:
“Oooh! Very bold! Right out of the gate… ouch! Ladies and Gentlemen, you don’t need me to tell you that must have hurt! Ahhh… Yes! That’s the classic Cross! Watch out, that one’s got a bit of spitfire… Well, that was doused quickly. What’s this? Yes! A perfect Russian Suplex! I can’t be biased, so 9.5 points… Ah, the little one’s trying to make a getaway! Too bad, once El Godzilla claims her prey, they’re hers to play with! Ah, another classic move! Our Lady’s on fire tonight, I wonder why? Oh, what’s this? The two guppies are regrouping! But wait! El Godzilla’s on the lines! This is it! Guppies, RUN, RUN! AHHHHH, too late! It’s the clothes lin – no, wait! WAIT! OH MY HOLY JESUS! YES! IT’S THE LEGENDARY MOVE – THE AUSTRALIAN CLOTHES HILLS HOIST! Audience, with me now, ADVANCE AUSTRALIA FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRR!”
And as the anthem dies off, with the black-clad staff clambering across the room like ants, carrying away the wreckage and prone girls, the spotlight splits to shine on the afmentioned guy, who has not moved, his beer nearly dripping all over his jeans. The music switches right back to cheesy cupid tunes.
El Godzilla coughs in an embarrassed, femininish way. Throws a smile at the guy. And in true lizard fashion, slinks out of the dome of light to return to her friends’ circle, to finish off her cider and conversation.
And that would explain why flimsy-looking ladies cake on the makeup, to cover up all the bruises that they suffered as the losing end.
*Envision this: At a bustling pub, a guy sidles up to me, clearly having assessed my assets as a satisfactory goal, whispering something pun-cringey in my ear. I turn around, and smile at him. I tell him to pardon me, I’m deaf, could you please repeat that? You then can practically see the “ABORT MISSION” flashing through his wide eyes from inside his skull.
** ONLY ONCE, ONLY ONCE, have I ever acted like this, and I was blind drunk at the time with no memory of it, and my so-called best friend just sat there and enjoyed the show. THANKS A LOT!