Take my broken heart

When it comes to making and ending love, I like it the old-fashioned way. Today’s technology however is changing the way we connect

Or disconnect.

Within seconds, a heart is broken with a click of a mouse, a text message or a Facebook status change.

Despite the many gadgets that allow us to communicate whenever wherever, we’ve forgotten how to connect. We cut ties just as quickly as we make them, albeit superficially, in this highly connected world.

Because we don’t have to look a person in the eye and see their hurt and pain. We prefer to look away as our once beloved chokes on their sadness. It’s easier, you see.

No conversation. No dialogue.

No face-to-face drama that would otherwise leave a modern woman’s mascara in a mess.

Perhaps, it’s best.

A few years of what seemed like a happy relationship is virtually wiped away.

First with silence. Then death by email.

—–Original Message—–
From: Melissa
Sent: Monday, 11 August 2008 1:33 PM
To: John Smith
Subject: Dear John…

It’s been awhile now and I haven’t heard from you since we last spoke so I guess this is your way of saying goodbye.

I am disappointed. It would be nice if we spoke at least. But there’s never really a good way of leaving someone, so your silence will have to do.

I just wanted to let you know the last few years have been one of the best and happiest so far. As a person, I have grown and learnt so much – and you were a very important part of that. You taught me to see life through a different filter. I only have good memories to keep.

I would have liked a different ending but if our future was a product of both our choices…

But life goes on. It doesn’t wait. If I see you around the corner, I’ll blow you a kiss and a smile – know that I am happy.

P.S.
I wrote you a letter in April last year. It reflects where my head and heart is. I never sent it. I was waiting for the right time. And while time may have either passed or was simply never going to come, I’m sending it to you now. May be it will help you open up a bit more the next time you meet someone fabulous like me

Nice girls don't get the corner office

I worked my butt off these last few years climbing the corporate ladder and found that one doesn’t get anywhere by being “nice”.   Especially if you work alongside the male counterpart.

I did. For a very long time.

The only chick in a sizable team, I was initially taken aback by the boisterous, aggressive and seemingly belligerent behaviours displayed by my male colleagues in the boardroom. In my first of many boardroom meetings, I would sit there without a word or movement in my new pink suit that nicely framed my perky bosom, as if someone’s cut off my tongue and immobilised my petite frame. Whenever I tried to say anything remotely intelligent, they’d throw me a stare of dismissal like I had no business being there.

“Hey, I’ve got a masters degree and a list of contacts you can only dream of”. I’d cry inside my head.

Confused and intimidated by it all, I resolved to be “one of the boys” – a beer-drinking, straight-talking, emotionally-repressed workaholic in high heels. Add power-dressing to my daily repertoire and there I was in no time at all, basking in the glory of my boardroom triumph. I finally looked, walked and talked like the boys, therefore “I must be one of them.”

Men relate to logic.  That much I’ve learnt.

No doubt, life at work was a breeze soon after. My colleagues called me ‘mate’ and my boss referred to me as “Robbo”. Not exactly an endearing salutation for a sweet little thing but rumours say, in men-speak, it means he regards me as an equal.

And, yes. I got my corner office with a view and a big fat pay-rise that matched the boys.

I was happy with that.  For a little while anyway.

How to get over him quickly

Let me make one thing clear: this has nothing to do with love (or Jimmy  Choo shoes).

I’m no expert. The very word makes me nauseous and sets my body to a defensive mode. But I have had my heart broken once or

twice. Badly. By some pathetic loser who, in my blissful juvenile ignorance, contained my whole world: my oxygen, my insides, my reason for being without whom I’d wither and die to nothingness bla bla.

Somebody should have whacked me across the head with a Dr. Phil self-help bestseller in hard cover – it may have been enough to cause selective amnesia. But no, I have had to endure many, many self-inflicted humiliations the magnitude of which almost surpasses George W. Bush’s abundant stream of faux pas, which I suspect include nuking someone’s ticker.

With no access to a warhead, however, to deploy my heart’s retribution, I resorted to good old fashioned emotional meltdown that rivalled Chernobyl. Not only have I said and done it all in the name of witless love – things I loathe to enumerate lest the wrath of Virginia Woolf strikes me dead -  I have listened excruciatingly to my girlfriends and their hearts’ lament on losing Mr. Loser, er… Mr. Right. And the twisted plot to get him back.

What I bemoan most of all is that not one good sister gave it to me straight. That I will change.

So, if a looming break-up is coming your way (trust me, we can all see it coming!), read, learn and gain wisdom from the mistakes of others because you don’t want to make them all!

For the ladies who have been-there-done-that and, hopefully, out of the singles jungle, enjoying the safety and comfort of Tarzan’s little love-nest high up on the treetops, be a real friend and show the girls how it’s done.
Delete, delete, delete… all traces of your ex.
If your memory is better than mine, there are two phone numbers you know by heart: your mum’s and your ex’s. In your quest to “get over him”, first, delete him from your digital memory store starting with your mobile phone.

Erase his mobile number, work phone, home phone, his best friend’s number, his mother’s number – especially! Block him on Skype and Facebook, disconnect him on Linkedin, and unfollow on Twitter. There is no need to be reminded of his  now happier existence post break up every time you’re working, shopping or playing on the Internet. Lastly blacklist his email address from your mailbox. After all, you’ve always quietly thought those send-to-all email forwards from him just weren’t funny at all.

Then remove every piece of clothing, toiletry and dirty underwear he left behind in your bathroom. And no, don’t even think of washing and neatly packaging these into a bundle for him. The concierge has closed and will not be re-opening. Ever.

Whatever you do, DO NOT call him.
It’s pathetic, really. What are you hoping to accomplish?

No, you won’t get him back because he’s not coming back. The bottom line is if he dumped you, he’s not into you. Sound familiar? The word on the street is true and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.

OK, so there are those lucky people that get back together and live happily ever after.

In the movies!

If you’re living in the same world as I, you know it’s the exception, not the rule. Sadly, most women seem to think their situation is somehow always an exception. As if they live in a parallel reality where the rules of engagement do not apply. Because for some unknown and far-imagined reason, many are under the illusion they’re immune to life’s cruel veracity. Well, you’re not. The rule of life rules, unless the odd exception, freak-of-nature type event occurs. And it rarely happens. The sooner you realise that, the better.

So, in your moment of pathetic weakness, it’s completely understandable and even acceptable to max out your credit card for much needed retail therapy, as long as you have the means to pay for it. Even indulge in uncharacteristically obscene behaviour including binge-drinking, a drunken pash or two with complete strangers, or hysterical emotional outbursts in embarrassingly crowded places. Just make sure you’re in the company of people who give a damn about you – your friends.

Scream. Cry. Laugh. Do whatever it takes to flush him out of your system. But for goodness’ sake, do not call your ex.

Should I return the gold watch he gave me?
Are you kidding me? It’s yours. Keep it. Or better yet, take all the valuable items he’s ever given you to Cash Converters – the gold necklace for your birthday, the beautiful pair of earrings last Christmas and that gorgeous bracelet for Valentine’s Day. Then buy yourself a new pair of Jimmy Choos.

It will elevate your height as well as your mood.

Turning his precious little gifts, which are rightfully yours, into cold hard cash will satisfy a scorned woman’s desire for sweet revenge. Albeit briefly. But who cares? Right now, little victories are what you need to get you over the line. And over him.

Let’s be friends? Yeah, right!

Oh, please! If you are insisting on remaining friends with an ex who dumped you like vomit, you’re up to something and it won’t do you any good.

Problem is, you can’t see it. So let me make it clearer for you: He’s not coming back!

Wake up and smell the stench. You’re standing on a gigantic pile of horseshit collected over the years starting from the time you believed in the myth of Cinderella. Didn’t you know? She divorced her prince two months later. They weren’t compatible after all.

So, think long and hard about your real motivations. Life is good but it ain’t a fairytale.

If he’s the one wanting to remain friends, well, beware. Remember, he dumped you. So it’s neither an invitation for renewed romance nor for any kind of “real” friendship you want or need right now.

Let me tell you a little secret. Most guys, unfortunately, are cowards. They are scared to death of hurting our feelings (because we all go “emotional” on them!). They will do almost anything to weasel their way out of dramatic confrontations. The fact is, if he wants you, and I mean want-you-so-badly-it-hurts, there are no mixed messages. He will move heaven and earth to be with you. If he’s not in to you, the only thing he’ll move is his thumb: “want 2 cum over 2nite?”

Need I say more?

And by the way, iBlacklist is a great mobile application that blocks unwanted calls and text messages from people who give you grief. For iPhone users, the app can only be downloaded on a jailbroken phone.  But it’s a great little app if you need it.

Get a life…a darn good one!
The sweetest revenge is to live a happy life. And it’s the only way to live.

But first, change your sheets.

Call your friends. Dance around the house in your underwear or naked if you prefer.

Attend a party. Drink good champagne.

Wear amazingly red lipstick. Strut around in ridiculously high stilettos.

Visit your hairdresser.

Smile.

Chat up a good looking guy at a funky bar. Wear perfume. Flirt. Play games and play it cool. This time, you’re the predator, not the prey. Take a risk.

You’re so sexy. Who wouldn’t want you?

And if you’re still wary of rejoining the singles jungle, here’s a tip: run an ad for a male flatmate. You’ll be surprised at what you’ll find. Tarzan might just come knocking at your door.

Live life. It’s the only one you’ve got.

The Great Aussie Man Drought

Bernard Salt has a lot to answer for.  He has been spreading rumours that have scared the wits out of 30-something single gals.  In 2005, Salt proclaimed a Great Aussie Man Drought. This man famine would have smart, successful, single women in the prime of their lives fight for whatever scraps of single men remain. According to Salt’s distressing stats, by the time a woman has the means to strut a pair of Jimmy Choos without maxing out her credit, all hopes of finding the elusive Mr. Right are blown away like long, messy hair on a windy day. Only this time, recovery takes more than a visit to the salon.

By Salt’s calculations (he’s a KPMG bean counter), if you take all the 30-something women in Australia and subtract the men of the same age, you’re left with a disastrous oversupply of 20,000 partnerless femmes condemned for singledom. And ladies, Salt would have us know the 40s and 50s don’t get any better. 

Apparently, back in 1976, it was land aplenty with 98,000 32 year-old women taking their pick of 102,000 male booty. These days, Salt reckons a woman of 32 has about as much chance of finding a partner her age as a woman of 82. Ouch!

It seems the tables have turned. Men in their 30′s are enjoying a glut of available chicks. This explains my 30 year old housemate’s man-about-town posture, his nonchalance to female rejection and previously unexplained Hollywood-star-like popularity with hot sheilas. Yes, it’s party time for a man of 30.

Scouring through archives of material on the man drought topic, I find Wall Street predicting a man famine in early 2005. Even Newsweek claiming a rather “facetious hyperbole” that women over 40 had a better chance of “being shot by a terrorist than finding a husband”. Cruel!

Now it’s Salt alarming designer-shoe wearing single women of the so-called man drought. Dare I say, expecting them to quiver and fall in their sky-high stilettos.

Another Aussie bloke, Mark McCrindle, sings from the same stinking songbook. He has the tenacity to advise 30-something femme singletons pack their bags and head for mining towns, areas with military bases or prisons.

No man drought there!

He must be kidding. I don’t believe designer gear is made for off-road. I’m pretty sure the local waterhole in Kalgoorlie does not stock them either. And I’ve a gut feeling bright prison overalls simply clash with a chocolate brown Chloe bag.

Salt cheerfully offers his version of “menopolis” hoping to gladden the hearts of 20,000 desperate and dateless chicks. Pssst… East Killara in NSW tops the list.

Five years on, it appears Salt is now declaring the man drought over. And that’s thanks to the GFC. According to recent research, single Aussie men in their 30′s working in male-dominated industries, such as financial services, as expats were coming home after hard economic times had left them without a job.

Now, that’s just great. Are we now to settle for single, broke men who’s come home to lick their wounds?

Not in my Jimmy Choos.

Man-drought or not, the prospects aren’t looking good. And I’m speaking from my long history of dating mishaps, love won and lost, a man trail of bad choices that led me down the yellow brick road too many times I’d be appointed mayor by Fourquare. And an even longer trail of excuses that kept the wrong men in my life for too long faking it is now on autopilot. To my detriment.

The traditionalists argue the dry spell of good men has been around since women broke out of the mould and demanded more than the quiet, suburban life of 2.5 kids and a white picket fence, asserting their power in society, at work and in the bedroom. But in my humble opinion, if a man cowers away because a woman happens to be sexy, smart, successful and stands tall on her sky-high stilettos, then he can merrily sprint away because he ain’t the man.

Others argue women, in their eagerness to bag Mr Almost Right, have simply lowered the bar, abandoned their table etiquettes and offered dessert before the entrees were even served. After all, you can’t blame a person for skipping the salad in favour of a freshly baked warm chocolate fondant.

Or maybe, we have all become accustomed to instant gratification. Everything seems to be happening at lightning speed in this day of communication superhighway. Need last minute company? Call the mobile. Afraid to call? Text. Not getting a response? Facebook. Didn’t get the answer you wanted? Call someone else. And the cycle continues.

Then imagine this sequence of events happening in less than half an hour.

So perhaps, the issue is less about the man drought. It’s more about our changing habits, lifestyles and expectations that are influencing the way we attract, keep and lose relationships with the people in our lightning speed, high-tech lives.

But you have to give it to Salt and McCrindle. They have balls alright.

With all these man drought racket, are we really to believe single, successful women in their 30′s are doomed for singletown if wedding plans aren’t on their list of must-do-before-the-big-3-0?

Has the time finally come for an én masse man-panic?

Should 30-something femme singletons do whatever it takes to whip a man into matrimonial submission for fear of a manless life?

Ladies (and gentlemen), I want to know what you think. Is there really a man drought?

I’ve always enjoyed watching magic tricks. And vanishing acts are my personal favourite.  Making something disappear into thin air in front of watchful eyes is quite an incredible feat. It defies all scientific laws we know of. And what thrilling entertainment it makes.

Everybody loves a bit of magic. But when a lover turns magician and suddenly goes ‘POOF’ before one can say abracadabra,  it doesn’t feel magical at all.

I was seeing Mr Diavolo (aka Mr Tradie)  just over two months when he suddenly vanished into thin air.

Now, he’s there. Now he’s not. POOF!

It was early Saturday morning when I was woken by an unexpected text greeting. Mr Diavolo sent me a good-morning text and called me his ‘baby’. It instantly put a smile on my face. What a way to start the weekend! I was a happy girl. I casually replied three hours later (I have a life of my own), which is not at all unusual in our case. I didn’t hear back from him that day but I wasn’t concerned. And so off I went with my chores for the day, dance practice and meeting up with friends.

Sunday evening came and no text. Now that’s unusual.  Then finding myself locked out of my house that night, I decided to contact him. And as I waited for a response (a call-back, a text message… something!), the phantom rings from my iPhone was like the moaning sound of a woman faking an orgasm. You hear it but it ain’t real.  (You can read about it in Tradies, iPhones and Sex.)

It was then I realised Mr Diavolo had gone POOF!

No phone call, no voicemail, no text, no email. Nothing. Not even a post-it note. And it left me feeling terribly confused, frustrated and annoyed. What a hurtful thing to do.

‘Poofing’ is a common dating phenomenon where a man or a woman simply disappears – no explanation, no goodbye, not even good luck. It’s bad dating behaviour but it’s all too common because it’s all too easy. And we have all done it at least once in our dating lives. I know I have. And there are many reasons why we suddenly go ‘poof’.

I recently ‘poofed’ on a guy after going on date number one because I simply didn’t like him. There was no spark so I just left it at that – no explanation. I quietly disappeared into the night and didn’t return his calls.

In Mr Diavolo’s case, it was over two months of texting, calling, coffees, dinner, Skyping and swapping … er … flirtatious mobile pictures, albeit no talks of exclusivity. We’re both mature adults so things needn’t be complicated. Mr Diavolo tickled my giblets and things appeared as though the feeling was mutual. So the vanishing act was an unwelcome surprise.

Perhaps he met a raven-haired exotic sex bomb, looked into her eyes on Skype and saw the woman who will one day bear the heirs to the business empire he works so hard for to create.

Good for him.

Or perhaps he is married or in a relationship and he simply got caught – I don’t believe his iPhone is password-protected.

Shame on him.

Or perhaps, he fell 500 metres from a crane on one of his construction projects and he is now lying somewhere on a hospital bed fighting for his life while I curse him on my blog.

Shame on me.

Nonetheless, he went ‘poof’ and I have no idea why.

So I am left with no alternative but to fill in the blanks and speculate. And I can only come to one highly considered, undeniable, irrevocable truth: Mr Diavolo is a little slimy dickhead with peanuts for balls.

I feel better now.

It looked right. It smelt fine. It felt good. It tasted sweet. It sounded promising. Even the snoring didn’t bother me. But once again, I spoke too soon.

The day I accidentally locked myself out of my house (I left my keys inside), a small but significant event, brought harsh realities to the fore: I am alone.

My tradie in shining armour – the one who looked right, smelt fine, felt good, tasted sweet and sounded promising, wasn’t coming to rescue this locked-out damsel in distress.

I texted him an SOS.

The response? Silence. Dead silence.

I remember it clearly.  As I stand outside my front door that Sunday night at exactly 10.15 exhausted, hungry, freezing cold, sore from a long day training at the dance studio and with my iPhone battery flashing red – those darn things don’t last long – I fight back tears and thoughts of self-pity and redirect my feelings of loathe.

I hate Apple for giving the world the iPhone with a battery life that lasts as long as bad sex with an attractive man who ejaculates prematurely.

I really need it to get me out of trouble.  Like now, for example.

I hate the cold Melbourne weather. It’s late, I’m freezing and I need a roof over my head.

But most of all, I hate myself. How did I get Mr Tradie all wrong? What did I miss?

I could break down every little detail of our “relationship” to explain my little predicament even just to myself without feeling and sounding like a fool. But I know I’ll only come to one conclusion: there was no relationship.

If there had been one, I needn’t have texted him for help.

I could have just shown up at his place unannounced and it would have been OK. The day I got locked out would have been a non-event. A simple inconvenience and a $49 cab fare I would have happily blamed on absent-mindedness and charged as a business expense.

He and I would have laughed about it, cooked dinner together, drank a bottle of pinot noir, and kept his neighbours awake while we made loud, crazy, stupid love all night long .

And so, as I start to analyse the situation, I recall a tiny little detail I conveniently overlooked. I implicitly accepted his offer of a casual, non-committal, see-you-when-I’m-free relationship of convenience. A one-sided affair, mostly his way, because I wasn’t strong enough to ask for what I wanted and to walk away when the hand I was dealt wasn’t a winner.

Instead, I kept going back. And taking him back. Either way, my actions (or inaction) implied an acquiescence to this casual arrangement of sorts.

Now, I’m fairly sure the next time Mr Tradie or a similar version of him ever ventures back into my life, it will be to fix the plumbing in my toilet.

“Friends are friends, pals are pals and buddies sleep together.”

An unknown person, perhaps of questionable moral standards to the hypocrites and closet-kittens within and among us, proliferated this old adage. And we’re not talking about an alcohol-induced momentary lapse of concentration.

Oh no! We’re talking about a booty call – a friends-with-benefits arrangement.  An agreement between friends to have sex when nature calls without the drama of a high maintenance love relationship.

Perhaps it is to fill a dateless Friday night, halt the onset of insomnia at midnight or console oneself from a break-up, unrequited love, or a fruitless serial dating stint.

Or maybe it is simply to scratch an itch. Whatever the reason, a booty call promises wild, uninhibited, great sex minus the trappings and emotional rollercoaster ride of romantic love. It is the ultimate modern-day carnal agreement of convenience.

Obviously, a guy invented it!

And in the noughties where a slow but steady resurgence of the swinging 60’s is bringing free love back to the fore, I find myself coming across the subject in personal blogs, late night television commercials, and not surprisingly, dinner table conversations among Gen-Yers, Gen-Xers and baby-boomer friends alike.

In fact, I need only observe a male friend’s recent juggling act and clandestine dalliances with, let’s just say, several “girlfriends”, to know it inevitably comes to an all-too-predictable end: he enjoys it for what it is and she secretly plans the wedding.

And while I remain amused and entertained by this live comedy of sorts unfold before my eyes (after all, social voyeurism is now an acceptable pastime), I secretly wish of throttling the girls just enough to send them gasping for air and sucking up the stench of their matrimonial dreams in decay.

My friend’s questionable forays, however, do not constitute a friends-with-benefits arrangement – each girl thinks they’re in a meaningful relationship!

And that’s where the problem lies.

Women are genetically pre-disposed to attaching emotionally after a good tango. Ladies, let’s face it, more often than not, we set our hearts in motion when we’re on fire. Add regularity to the mix and we have an explosive recipe of love and sex intermingle where they should not. Blame it on years of evolution but even in this day of Twitter, Facebook, Foursquare, serial dating, sextexting and cybersex, we are still hardwired to nest and nurture when we mate with an alpha male, or a version of Mr Almost Right from RSVP.

And what about the lies people tell? Especially the ones we tell ourselves.

We lie about our age, weight, height, hair colour, pay and many other things just as often as we lie about our real intentions. So watch out for those motives hidden even to ourselves. Giving your buddy – yes, the one whom you secretly fancy to one day ring your wedding bells - a “free” ride to cloud nine is probably not the best way to make him fall head over heels.

Then there’s the friendship issue. Are you really prepared to ruin a perfectly good bottle of Bordeaux by mixing it up into a relationship cocktail in the boudoir?

So it begs the question: just who exactly benefits in a friends-with-benefits relationship.

Ladies, the only appealing thing about it: we don’t have to fake it!

If you ask me, I’d rather go shopping.

(Article as featured in MX)

“How do you like your eggs? Fried? Poached? Scrambled?”

“Sorry. Fertile is not on the breakfast menu.”

(This article was written by Robelen Bajar in October 2006 for MX and featured in a number of women’s magazines.)