The Dating Game - Middle

My foray into the world of online dating is all well and good until it is actually time for my first Kiwi date. Why am I doing this? What are we going to talk about? I remember that it’s not 1955 and people don’t go on “dates” anymore.

Up to this point, I’ve had exactly 2 honest-to-goodness legitimate “first dates” in my entire life. Date #1 was bad from the get-go. Date #2 seemed okay, but I never heard from the guy again. I was disappointed, not because I liked him, but because I couldn’t fathom why he wouldn’t like me. My mom suggested: “He’s not interested because you’re so much younger and you’re leaving the country in a few months.” Wait a minute – isn’t that every man’s dream?! Now I feel even worse! I resist the urge to track him down and break the news: “Listen, pal. You’re a 39-year-old bald bartender. I’m as good as it gets for you.”

Onto NZ bachelor #1 - The first young Kiwi male to have the pleasure of my company is Geoff. (But I dislike that spelling, so I’ll call him as Jeff.) Jeff and I meet for coffee after work. He offers to pay, then his first credit card is declined. Grrreat. He begins disrobing as soon as we sit down. Hold your horses, cowboy! My coffee doesn’t even have whiskey! The tie comes off, but the pants stay on.

The bigger problem is that I can’t understand a flipping word this guy says. I haven’t had much trouble with the Kiwi accent so far, but I also haven’t had long conversations in noisy environments. I smile a lot. I concentrate. Sustained eye contact is a good clue that he’s asked a question, not made a statement.

One of the first questions Jeff asks is, “How are you going to vote?” Point blank, out of nowhere! I kind of laugh, “How am I going to vote?! Um, Obama” (and I alert him to the personal nature of the question). Jeff replies, “No, I mean HOW are you going to vote? Like, what do you have to do?” Note to self: register for absentee ballot. He requests a tutorial about the American political process. Riveting. Half of what I say is probably inaccurate.

If he can ask such pragmatic questions about my country, I’ll do the same. “What’s the deal with 21st birthdays around here?” This has been weighing on me. The Kiwi 21st birthday is like the American Sweet 16, but the significance is a mystery because the drinking age is 18. I’ve perused the selection of 21st birthday cards, but they don’t betray any clues. Jeff says 21 is a milestone because you are considered a real “adult.” No new legal privileges. Much ado about nothing, if you ask me.

Jeff tells me he used to play on the national ice hockey team. I don’t know whether or not this is impressive. Probably not because I haven’t heard a word about ice hockey since arriving in New Zealand… and it is winter.

Continuing on the topic of sport (singular - Kiwis don’t say “sports”), Jeff makes some cockamamie claim about NZ having done better than the US in the Olympics. Obviously false (!), but I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he is trying to initiate a flirty fight. However, I don't take the bait. I don't even bother to defend my homeland.

I’m sorry, America. He’s not worth our energy.

The Dating Game - Beginning

Young Kiwi male, you don’t scare me! The warnings to steer clear only pique my interest. I’ve got you in my crosshairs. I will capture and tame you. On second thought, maybe I won’t tame you. Mmm... ladies, you know what I’m talkin ‘bout!

I have joined a New Zealand online dating service. No, I can’t say this with a straight face. I debated whether to divulge this on the blog, but what the hell? Best case scenario - the dating aids in my social development. Worst case scenario - I get abducted.

This is something I wouldn’t do at home, not because I worried about abduction, but because I wouldn’t expect to like a guy who joined an online dating service. That expectation hasn’t changed, but I have loads of free time and I know exactly 3 people in this city. Plus, it is my duty to educate you, my dear readers, about all aspects of Kiwi life. So let’s give it a go! I will approach the young Kiwi male as an American anthropologist, not as a desperate woman hurtling toward 30 at lightening speed.

The ground rules:

• I will not pursue anyone. I will wait for the young Kiwi male to come to me.
• I will not respond to any virtual “smiles.” It takes one click of the mouse to send a smile. You’re gonna have to work harder than that.
• I will respond to messages from men between the ages of 26-38 without children who have a normal screen name. (Sorry, “tallnsexy.” I’d bet the farm that you’re anything but.) The messages must be somewhat personalized, cannot be crude and cannot be marred by grammar/spelling errors. Poor syntax turns me off.
• I will end the communication if the man does not bite the bullet and suggest an in-person date within 4 messages.
• Safety precautions are put in place. Either A) the date will occur at the restaurant where Caroline works so she can supervise; or B) Dawn will send a text message 30 minutes into the date to inquire if I am still alive.

A friend once observed of my taste in men: “I wouldn’t say you have high standards, but I’d say you have very specific standards.” These standards will be used to assess the manliness and suitability of the young Kiwi male.

• Is he bigger than me?
• Can he drink more than me?
• Is he presentable but not pretty?
• Could he hold his own in a bar brawl?
• Is he both smart and funny?
• Has he mastered the art of the flirty fight?

To summarize – I will put forth as little effort as possible. I will act standoffish so as to avoid rejection. I will judge the man according to a set of impossibly rigid criteria.

I know, I know… you’re wondering how it’s possible that a catch like me is still single. I don’t know either.

Newsflash, Part VI

Let me assure you that it is still winter here in the southern hemisphere. You can tell because there is snow on the mountains and people continue to destroy themselves and their property in ill-advised attempts to beat the cold.

I hope article #1 convinces you to keep your grill outside. The follow-up provided in article #2 suggests these people didn't heed their sparky's warning "don't drink and fry."

Article #3 describes another deadly weekend accident. I consulted Google to find out more about "sleepouts." It seems these flammable shacks are constructed to house society's rejects - the young, the old, the single, and the unwanted houseguest.

• "A sleepout is a particularly New Zealand term for a building that is either attached to an existing structure on the property which is not the main building (such as a garage or a barn), or a small stand alone structure that is used for accommodation away from the main home. There are a variety of uses for NZ sleepouts; really, the use is only limited by the owner's imagination, but here are several typical uses: accommodation, office space, children's playroom, storage, workshop. The most widespread use of a sleepout in NZ is accommodation. Here are some of the usual occupants of a sleepout in New Zealand: 1) Many NZ sleepouts house a teenager, keen on a wee bit of independence, but too young and too poor to leave home and still very dependant on the home cooking and laundry service! The sleepout, adorned with posters, television set, DVD player, stereo and perhaps even computer, gives the adolescent the illusion of independence. And it does have the advantage of moving the music away from long suffering parents! 2) The newly single, in the aftermath of divorce or relationship break up, seeking board with an element of privacy. 3) Some people keep a sleepout in NZ for guests, permanently made up and ready for use. 4) More elaborate and better serviced buildings are used for older family members in NZ, although the term 'granny flat' better describes this situation."
  

Aftermath

Did you ever wake up after a night out and groggily roll over to find something unexpected and unwelcome staring you in the face? You wonder - Did I really do that? How did this thing get in my bedroom? What was I thinking? On Sunday morning, I stumble upon this evidence of Saturday night's sins. TimTams, you never stood a chance.

Play that Funky Music

They're hiding from the DJ! On Saturday I went to the San Francisco Bathhouse, which fancies itself as "Wellington’s premiere live music venue featuring an eclectic mix of local, national and international acts cutting across many genres, subgenres, scenes and micro-scenes."

Hmm... the playlist doesn't exactly support this claim. It is a normal Saturday night, not 90s hip-hop night. These are the first 4 songs I hear.

• Kris Kross - "Jump" Remember these backwards dressing pre-pubescents? Wiggity wiggity wiggity wack!


• Naughty by Nature - "Hip Hop Hooray"


• Montel Jordan - "This is How We Do It"


• Salt n Pepa - "Push It" "This dance aint for everybody, only the sexy people."

Don't get me wrong - I love this cheesy music, but it's not exactly cutting edge. The rest of the playlist was just as entertaining, but the memory gets hazy after 4 songs. I believe Annie Lennox had us "Walkin' on Broken Glass."

The musical laughs continued into Sunday. "Can't Touch This" was playing in the grocery store (I told you it was on the TV weather report too! Hammer is huge!) and then I heard some Arrested Development in a coffee shop. I had forgotten that AD was a band before it was an awesome TV show. I'm so glad to have Mr. Wendal back in my life after all these years. The social justice message is just as relevant today as it was in 1993.

City of Brotherly Love Love

I interrupt my regularly scheduled New Zealand blogging to send a special shout-out to my sister and her new fiancee. Congratulations Megan and Alex! Holla!

Don't you crazy kids dare get married without me. I'd hate to miss the ridonkulousness that is Meg at a wedding. The family doesn't call her #1 for nothin'!

As you can see, Meg and Alex are dress-alike Philly Phanatics who took their love of Pennsylvania culture to new level by joining the Amish this summer. However, their stint in Dutch Country was short lived because they were unable to shun their true loves of beer and dizzy bat-spin races. For real, they rock! Watch here.

Don't panic, fellas. One MC gal is off the market, but I'm still accepting proposals.

You Clean Up Good

I’m relieved the Kiwis practice good hygiene despite the outrageous price of toiletries. A bottle of shampoo or conditioner costs up to $20 (the regular stuff, not Frederick Fekkai). Dawn has cut her hair to save money. Plain old Cetaphil face wash is $20, same for lotion. Nail polish is at least $10. Everyday drugstore make-up is very expensive. Cover Girl is New Zealand’s Bobbi Brown! I’ll have to suck it up and shell it out; I can’t be expected to attract the young Kiwi male au natural. I’m working on a tight deadline because things are about to turn ugly. I’m almost out of my beloved curl-sculpting cream gel, and there is a shocking lack of variety in Kiwi hair products.

Deodorant is about $9. It seems to be available only in old-fashioned aerosol form or the kind with the roll-on ball. Eww. I haven’t seen this since my Teen Spirit days. The scent selection is poor. Who wants to smell just like their neighbor? Who still uses roll-on deodorant? Don’t they know that the gel glides on just as smoothly? And hasn’t the world come to appreciate the benefits of an invisible solid? Did this blog just get too personal?

Newsflash, Part V

There are no fewer than 6 skateboard parks in Wellington. According to the city website, "Skateboarding is a popular urban sport with many young people in Wellington." Young people = emo teens with black jeans, canvas sneakers, and flat-ironed hair. (Embrace your curls, Kiwi kids! You're fighting a losing battle. I wish someone had imparted this wisdom to me when I was 14.)

The Waitangi Skatepark by the waterfront has a rock-climbing wall and designated graffiti walls, an open canvas for anyone with a can of spray paint. This gives kids a creative outlet, keeps them occupied and deters crime... except when it doesn't. Kiwi teens, like adolescents the world over, are hoodlums.

Note: I have no evidence that the perpetrators of this crime were skateboarders. I'm sure the emos are a gentle bunch.

Blame it on the Rain

New Zealand has giant worms!!

Anyone else have a hankering for some tequila?

Newsflash, Part IV

How low can it go? This news is cause for celebration! My dollar beats your dollar, Kiwis!

The cost of living is manageable so far. I still pause in stores to mentally calculate the "real" price in US dollars. Prices of restaurant meals, clothing, and rent are comparable to the US. Grocery shopping is an interesting experience. We're in the middle of nowhere so a lot is imported. Kilo for kilo, zucchini is more expensive than lamb. Avocados and kiwifruit are homegrown, cheap, and delicious. By the way, do not confuse the kiwifruit (one word) with the Kiwi (people of New Zealand). Avocado, my new favorite food, is used in everything. The BLT sandwhich becomes a BLAT, which tastes much better than it sounds.

This newsflash is accompanied by a photo of Freyberg Beach, taken today on my walk to the grocery store to stock up on avacados.

Tea for Two

The Alice in Wonderland club that so rudely denied us entrance on a Tuesday afternoon is more welcoming at 3am on a Saturday. Cocktails are served in teapots, which makes me feel very ladylike. Seating is in the form of bean bag chairs, which guarantees a decidedly un-ladylike disembarkment after a few pots of "tea."

Many clubs are open until 5 or 6am. I find that the social acceptability of morning partying is largely dependent on the beverage container. The teacup transitions from night to day more smoothly than a beer bottle. For another example, consider the mimosa. A champagne glass adds a touch of class to any breakfast. Or at least that's what I tell myself. Denial is a beautiful thing!

Caroline suggests it is advantageous to stay out all night because it is cheaper to take the morning bus home instead of a cab. I point out that any transportation savings are offset by the amount of "tea" we continue to buy. She devises a solution: "Let's flirt with boys."