Bad MuthaBlogger

I just got off the phone with Date #3. I wasn’t going to pick the phone up, but then I remembered I paid a lot of money to go on these dates. Ought to make an effort, get my money’s worth an’ all that. I’m supposed to get at least 12 dates out of the agency, and I’ve only had 2, so there’s a-ways to go yet before I can throw the towel in.

After the last date (if you can call it that) I don’t feel like meeting any more men. I want to slop around the house in my tracksuit and sheepskin slippers, looking daggy. I can’t be bothered to shave legs, pluck nipple hairs, dye roots, buff nails or brush my tongue. It all seems like too much effort for nowt. 

So I picked up the phone. Reluctantly.

The agency only told me about this guy yesterday, so I hadn’t had time to google him. They actually phoned with 2 dates at once, just to confuse me. I’m already getting them mixed up. I haven’t got a brain for multi-dating. I can only handle one date at a time. I need at least a couple of days in between to recover.

The date that phoned tonight was T. The agency said T. was in his 50s, passionate, attentive, fit and healthy, boyish in appearance, smart, successful, laid back and cerebral. He has a great sense of humour, and is a glass-is-half-full kind of guy (that’s me out the window then). He doesn’t like to compromise (hmmm… no wonder he’s single) and he likes a woman who appreciates surprises but doesn’t expect gifts (I’m not sure what that’s all about, he must have had a few “bad” experiences with demanding princesses). Oh, and he loves kids. But doesn’t have any of his own. Yet. (For godsake where are the single dads in this dating pool?)

Once I got him talking on the phone, it wasn’t so bad. I can get along with pretty much anybody if I put my mind to it. I’m great at making other people feel comfortable. Usually at my own expense, and frequently to my detriment. But he seemed nice enough. Not a psychopath. Probably a good guy.

The agency told me he was a homeopath, but it turns out he’s a family doctor, heading up his own very successful integrative medical practice. He genuinely wants to help people realise health and happiness. This is what it says on his website (I googled him while we were talking on the phone):

By asking the questions—and listening—a dialogue begins that allows for peaceful transformation. It is in this dialogue, in which patients actively participate in the decision-making process, that healing begins that creates integrated protocols which surpass all expectations. This is a journey, each step a bit closer to your optimal self. The courage is to begin.

Sounds good, right? Although I can’t quite make head or tail of the words. I had to read it through 3 or 4 times. I must be tired. Actually, I’m knackered. I had to stifle several yawns on the phone, and I kept thinking “hurry up, mate, I’ve still got to have my dinner and write my blog, for fuck’s sake!” Luckily Bunny woke up crying, so I had an excuse to say my goodbyes.  

Yes, I did notice that he’s a bit of a talker. It was hard to get a word in edgewise. Lots of talk about him, not much about me. I was starting to feel like the invisible woman.

Red flags or not, we’re going to go out next weekend, after the dust has settled from Bunny’s big birthday bash. T.s letting me choose between a Saturday night dinner, or a Sunday afternoon hike. I told him I’d think about it. It’s swings and roundabouts, really. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. I’ll probably opt for the dinner date. That feels more contained and I can focus on him, rather than being distracted by the surroundings. Plus I get to wear my date dress. And my boots. If he makes it to the second round, then I might go hiking.

In the meantime, I’m sorely tempted to give up on this dating malarkey and settle down to being a single, celibate mama. Get on with the business of being a good mother, and stop wasting what little precious energy I have on trying to find Mr. Right. Maybe it’s lack of sleep, but I feel about as sexy as a sack of spuds.  I can’t imagine beyond a dinner date to actually going to bedwith someone, never-mind letting someone into my life to the point where we live together and have a family. Right now that seems way out of whack with reality.

Sigh. On the other hand, maybe I’m just tired, and in the morning it will all make sense again. Single motherhood. It’s a roller-coaster.

It’s almost the anniversary of this blog. A year ago tomorrow badmuthablogger was born. Last year seems like a lifetime ago. Someone else’s life. Who was I back then? What was I thinking? What was I doing? What was on my mind?

Bunny was in my belly, but I had no idea who he was, nor that I was  about to give birth 4 days later. I had no idea what a horrendous journey his birth story would be. I was full of hope for a nice fluffy home birth.  What a joke that turned out to be. I put so much energy into visualising the perfect natural birth, practising my breathing and birthing positions, attending birth classes, and building a birth altar in my bedroom. And in the end it all went totally tits up. There’s a lesson to be learned in there. Something about expectations, and remembering that life is what happens when you’re making other plans.

This is my bedroom birth altar, with all it’s hopes, dreams and intentions for a happy home birth. All that hippy shit has gone in the bin now.  

Back then I was a mass of swirling hormones, back aches and fatigue. I had to pee every few seconds, and I ate like a horse. Pickles mostly. And burritos. Lots of cheese. No wonder I gained 55lbs. This is what I looked like a year ago today:

A fat, pregnant cow, waddling along Stinson beach, swinging my legs out to the side in order to move forwards. I didn’t make it very far. It was exhausting just getting out of the car. Will you look at the effing size of that stomach! Talk about spine curvature. I don’t think my spine ever recovered from the trauma. And neither did my tummy muscles. They still bag into a saggy, wrinkly wad when I bend over.

Good grief, that baby is BIG. It looks like you could stick a pin in my belly and pop me. I can’t believe I was walking around with that enormous lump in front of me. But hey, the weather was fabulous and the ocean was calling.

I’ve got this annoying backache today, and a feeling that my old sciatica is about to rear it’s ugly head, in time for its anniversary. I can’t feel my toes, and there’s a numbness and tingling down the outside of my butt and thigh. It’s like my body remembers the trauma. It’s a biorhythm that’s gonna come back year after year.

The strange thing is, I’d suffer through it all again in a heartbeat – the birth trauma, the sciatica, being fat and hormonal – so long as I could hold my little bun-buns in my arms.

I’m ready to do it all again so that bun-buns can have a little brother or sister in his life. If the Gods are kind and the sperm donors willing, maybe next anniversary I’ll have another bun cooking in the oven.

Bunny’s birthday is coming up this weekend. The First One. It’s a big deal for both of us, and I want it to be extra special. A big celebration of the first year of Bunny’s life. I’ve been doing my best to put time and thought into it. You know, planning. Not something I’m particularly good at these days.

Life continues to whoosh past at a ferocious speed, and all this important stuff that I really, really need to do keeps slipping to the wayside and settling in the murky mud, never to be seen again. My To Do list is as long as my arm, and I keep having to make new ones to remind me to do the old ones.

But as of today, bunny’s birthday is right at the top of the priority list. I have 5 more days to get my act together, which isn’t long when you factor in naps, mealtimes, cooking, laundry, grocery shopping and playdates. Sleep deprivation makes the whole thing much more complicated, but nevertheless I am determined to pull this party thing off, with style and panache.

I’ve already ordered the party supplies. I tried to buy eco-friendly stuff. Honestly, I tried. But I wanted bunnies not boring old brown bambooware. In the end (after hours of searching for fun-themed green party supplies) I went with the not-so-eco-friendly “Bunnies by the Bay” party pack.

Matching plates, napkins, cups, hats, banner, ribbons and purple and green balloons, with cute bunnies and butterflies on everything, saying “Hoppy Birthday Bunny!” I couldn’t resist.

I’ve also got the cake ordered, from one of my least favourite places, Cafe Gratitude. But hey, they make AMAZING wheat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free cakes. Tasty cakes, but expensive cakes. Bunny’s was $100. That’s the price you pay when you’re allergic to everything.

The woman who took my cake order was called Treasure, and I asked her if she could do icing.

“Sure, we can do anything” she purred, “what colour icing do you want?”

“Blue.” I said. “I want blue.”

“Oh, no! We don’t do blue. We don’t use any artificial food colourings in our food, only natural, organic products.”

“OK. Fine. Use whatever colour you want. But I want it to say Happy Birthday, Bunnywith a little bunny in the middle,” I snapped. For godsake, surely they could crush up some blueberries with coconut cream or something. Blue dye doesn’t have to be toxic.

“Oh, no! We don’t do bunnies. You’ll have to get a bunny from somewhere else.”

I hate Cafe Gratitude.  For $100 you’d think they’d be able to ice on a bunny. I only wanted the semblance of a bunny, not a work of art. Luckily the stores are full of Easter stuff, so I picked up a couple of choccie bunnies to stick on top. Anyway, now I’m thinking of getting another cake with blue icing for everyone else who isn’t allergic to everything.

I bought the champagne, and the gubbins to make sushi rolls. I sent the invitations out 2 weeks ago through email, and about 30 people with crawling babies and toddlers are coming. I have to babyproof the house big-time, and get a bunch of kiddy snacks in. Cheese goldfish and cocktail sausages, that sort of thing.

I sound like I’ve got it all sorted, don’t I?  I’ve even gone out and bought a special birthday outfit for my boy.

It should all roll smoothly. But I have a few more things planned for the day. Finishing touches. I want to make sure it’s extra special. I want to have an altar with photos of Bunny from the past year, and place a blank picture board beside them with some coloured pens so that guests can sign their birthday wishes and blessings for Bunny. Later on I can have it framed, and put in Bunny’s room. I’d also like to print the “Letters to Bunny” from this blog and put them in his baby book for when he grows up.

Bunny may not remember his 1st birthday on one level, but on another level, on a deeper soul level, I believe that he’ll know it’s his special day, a celebration of his birth. He’ll know how much I love him, and how grateful I am to have him in my life. And that he makes it all worthwhile.

Remember King Midas who had the curse where everything he touched turned to gold? Well, I’ve got the opposite of that, where everything I touch turns to shit.  The Merde Touch.

This morning I dropped the monster jar of super, expensive honey on the kitchen floor. Some idiot (that would be me) didn’t screw the lid on properly and then I stupidly picked it up one-handed by the lid, whilst balancing baby bun-buns under the other arm, and surprise, surprise! It slipped and broke into a million pieces of glass that scattered in great globs of golden honey all over my bare feet.

My first thought was “FUCK! That honey was the good stuff. Local, organic, fucking pricey stuff”.  And then I immediately bent down (with the baby) and tried to spoon the good honey up and away from the shards of glass. After a few moments I realised how futile (not to mention dangerous) this was, considering there were zillions of little tiny glass shards sparkling in every spoon, and that I was trying to balance the baby while standing in a gloopy mess of sticky syrup and broken glass.

Then there’s my computer. It’s fucked. Every 5 seconds it drops the internet connection and some annoying message pops up and says “Webpage unavailable while offline” and then I have to click “Connect” to get back online.

And the keyboard is driving me CRAZY because the spacebar keeps sticking for no good reason, and it is taking me absolutely ages to type a single sentence because I have to keep going back and inserting spaces. AARGH!!!!

I unpacked the grocery shopping and put the bananas in the freezer and the frozen pies in the fridge.

But the real clincher, that proves without a doubt I’ve got a problem with my marbles, came tonight when I went to put the baby to bed. Bunny was thrashing around like he usually does, only tonight he kept pulling at the front of his pyjamas and moaning. At first I thought he might have a stomach ache. Finally, after an hour of trying to nurse him to sleep, I went to feel his tummy and lo and behold, there inside the front of his PJs was a good-size, empty glass bottle of baby massage oil. Further down the leg I found the lid.

I thought I could smell apricots.

WTF?! How could I have missed that when I was doing up his poppers? Am I a bad mother, or what?! Maybe next time I’ll find something even more interesting and bizarre up Bunny’s sleeve.

Stay tuned for the next episode of The Sadim Touch…

Well, sort of… not exactly “walking” but more like stumbling forward. He’s been testing out his Christmas walker wagon that Auntie got him. He’s a bit wobbly on his pins, mind you, and there’s a look of concentrated consternation pasted on his face. I’m not sure he’s enjoying himself, but he’s giving it a good go, and I’m proud of him.

He’s grabbed another developmental milestone under his belt. It won’t be long before he’s rushing about the living room with that thing. God bless his little cotton socks.

The most embarrassing moment of my life is from my childhood. It isn’t funny, and it isn’t cute. As a matter of fact, it’s depressingly dark and heavy. So if you don’t feel like a downer today, then bugger off and read someone else’s blog. I need to get this off my chest. It came up spontaneously in the writing workshop I went to this weekend, and I’m thinking it has something to do with that snake attack dream I had the other night.

I was about 8 or 9 years old, playing “London’s Burning” on my recorder in the school hall. We were practising for a performance, and I badly needed to go to the bathroom, but didn’t know how to ask. There was no space to ask. No one noticed when I tried to put my hand up, and I had to carry on playing.

Finally, I couldn’t hold on any longer, I had to let it out. I was bursting with pee. It came gushing out in a great torrent that flowed hopelessly down my legs. For one awful heart-stopping moment, I pretended to the boy next to me that the roof was leaking, and we both looked up. And then everyone stopped playing and stared at me. 

It was obvious that I had wet my pants. My clothes were soaked. A puddle had formed between my legs. There was no escape. I was paralysed. I hid my face in my hands and hung my head in shame.

It was the worst moment of my life. I wished that I were dead.

The teacher seemed angry, and all the other children laughed and pointed. I knew I would never recover from the shame, and I never have. I remember it vividly. Like it was yesterday.

I’m wondering now if this happened before “The Attack” or after. It would make sense if it happened after. It must have happened after. That’s why I felt like I had no voice. That’s why I felt invisible. That’s why I felt paralysed with fear. I didn’t think anyone would listen to me. I was afraid of being seen.

I was painfully self-conscious. I was acutely aware of every little bit of space that I took up in the world. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I knew I was different from everyone else. I knew there was something terrribly wrong with me. And now by peeing my pants in front of the school, I had proved it to the world. I would always be branded a freak. Only freaks wet their pants in public.

Why didn’t I just go to the bathroom if I needed to pee?” That’s what the teacher said to me, and before now I couldn’t understand it myself. It isn’t logical. It isn’t normal. But that’s what happened, and now I know it makes sense in the wider context of my life. It had something to do with “The Attack”.

I find this realisation reassuring and healing. It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t a bad person. A bad thing happened to me when I was child. My sister and I were sexually attacked by a stranger when we were picking blackberries in the woods. I was 8 and she was 9 years old. One horrific incident that changed our lives in an instant. 

No wonder I peed my pants.

I’ve been slacking on writing this blog lately. What with no sleep, duff dates, and the F.O.B. swinging back into town for an impromptu 5 day visit, it’s a wonder I manage to sit down at the end of an evening and write anything at all that makes any sense.

Yesterday I went to a 4 hour writing workshop at Book Passages. It was a BIG day out for me. A major event. The workshop was called “Awakening the Writer Within: Getting that First Draft Down on Paper“. Here’s the blurb from their catalog:

Do you have a story you’re longing to tell, but hold back out of fear? In this class you’ll learn to unhook your writing arm from your editing (and censoring) brain. The day will be filled with focused, rapid pen-to-paper exercises designed to outfox, outrun, tame and even befriend your inner critic. Later we’ll shape promising starts into short stories, Op-Eds, personal essays, and articles. Be prepared to be amazed at the quality and quantity of the work you produce – and the fun you have!

Sounds fab, doesn’t it? I’ve got bags of fearful stories I want to tell, and an inner critic that puts Satan to shame. If I could only tame the bastard, I’d be up and away in writing heaven.

Anyway, the class was pants. My inner critic came out in full force, and had a field day, stomping all over everything I wrote, making me feel like a worthless worm who can’t write for shit. Might aswell shoot myself in the arm, and write with my foot.

I hate creative writing workshops.

They’re always the same. We go around the room and introduce ourselves, and say why we came to the class, and what we hope to get out of the day. That can take up to an hour, depending on how many people are in the class and whether they’ve got verbal diarrhea. I’m always short, sharp and to the point. I can’t stand waffle. I’ve noticed in these workshops that other people tend to like the sound of their own voice.

Next, there’s a writing exercise (surprise, surprise!) with a one-liner prompt, such as “the most embarrassing moment in my life..” or “if my life was a landscape it would look like..” or “the biggest turning point of my life was…” And then we write stream-of-consciousness (no editing, no pen lifted from paper) for 10 or 15 minutes, and then we go around the room and share what we wrote. Everyone says “ooh” and “aah” and “how wonderful” and then we move on to the next writing exercise with another one-line prompt. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseum.

That takes up the whole 4 hour workshop, and I always end up thinking “tell me again, why the fuck did I pay ”X” amount of $$$ to come to this workshop?“

I hate sharing my writing in a group. I always feel like the odd one out. The one who can’t write. The one who needs help, because some horrible story inevitably rears it’s ugly head out of the dark shadows of my subconscious, and I feel compelled to write about it, and then I’m supposed to share it with a group of complete strangers, for godsake. It’s like group therapy, but worse because there isn’t a professional therapist in sight to help you work through your trauma. Just a bunch of women who want to be writers (I’ve yet to meet a man at a creative writing workshop).

I left early. I couldn’t take anymore. I’ve got more important things to do with my time. Like cooking dinner.

BUT it was not a complete waste of time. I did take something away. I had an amazing aha! moment through my writing. A healing insight into “my most embarrassing moment“, which I might share on this blog if I can squash my inner critic into a matchbox.

At the end of the day, I got my money’s worth. Healing insights are precious and priceless.

I went out with date #2 last night. He wasn’t as bad as I thought he was going to be. He definitely had an ego that could barely fit in the room, but underneath that massive, fragile balloon was a crushed, suffering, shadow of a man. He had a few chips on his shoulder, and being from the school of hard knocks myself, I could see life had thrown him a few curve balls.

I felt for the man, I really did. He was the sensitive type. Soulful. Deep. I like that in a guy. He’d been through the mill, and it showed in his character. He had edges and interesting lines. He had insight into the nature of life. He was a thinker. He was authentic. He told me stories that touched my spirit. 

We talked about everything under the sun and moon, and he said I was like a bright light in the room. I told him I had a pretty intense shadow side too, and he said “the deeper the shadow, the brighter the light.”

On the shallow side, he told me he worked in the movie industry in LA and then went on to dish some dirt on a few celebrities (I’m always up for a bit of celebrity gossip).

Then he wanted me to talk about my baby boy, and I could see he was entranced. He said there was nothing more attractive than a woman talking about the love for her child.

I liked him.

But that does not excuse his shabby date behaviour.

I was exactly on time, 5pm sharp, on the dot. I know we were only meeting casually at a cafe in downtown Mill Valley, and it was bucketing down with rain but STILL, I had made an effort to look good. I had slinky black suede boots, a fitted Diane von Furstenberg skirt, black polo neck jumper (that’s a turtle neck sweater to you yanks), updo hair, diamonds and lipstick. I even had my nails done for the occasion.

I thought I looked pretty damn hot, and when I walked in, he almost fell off his chair. He stumbled to his feet, explained that he’s just arrived and had already gotten himself a coffee. In a take away cup. Are we going somewhere, I thought, or does the man just lack class? I waited a moment to see if he was going to offer me a drink, and then seeing that he was not, went to the counter and got myself some tea. After I sat down (and no, he did not stand or offer me a seat) I noticed that he had the most hideously scruffy looking laptop bag next to him.

He said he wasn’t sure I was going to show up after he sent me his photo the night before. Clearly, he’d had a few “bad” dating experiences. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t making much of an effort.

After about an hour, he was so relaxed with me that he peppered his conversation with such choice words as “fuck” and “asshole“. At one point he described someone by curving his fingers into a fist and moving his hand back and forth as if he was masturbating. I suggested “are you saying he’s a wanker“? To which he nodded vigorously.

If you read my blog and you know I’m British, you’ll know that I tend to have a gutter mouth myself. However, I would never, ever swear on a first date. I would never swear in front of the F.O.B. either. I’m too classy for that. I wasn’t particularly shocked by my date swearing, but I did find it rather distasteful. Low class.

He also lavished me with compliments. It was too much. Crass. I don’t need to be constantly told how beautiful I am, how fabulous I look for my age, what a brilliant mind I have, what a great mother I am, blah, blah, blah. It’s embarrassing, and makes me squirm in my seat. I’m English for goodness sake. Let’s be civilised. A simple “you look great” when we meet is fine. I can pick up the rest from our body language.

Finally, he maintained eye contact WAY too long, and when we went to say goodbye he hugged me WAY too long, and then he pressed his cheek against mine for WAY too long. All of which was WAY too intimate for me on a first date. Perhaps I’m an English prude, or maybe I just didn’t fancy him.

I pulled away from the embrace, smiled and said goodbye, and that I hoped I’d see him again, which was a blatant lie. I have no idea why I said that. I wanted him to feel good. As he left I noticed he drove a fairly beat up Toyota Camry. I’m not really a car snob, but I’d rather he drove a Prius or a Porsche.

I don’t want to see him again. Actually, I don’t know if I want to date anyone again. After 2 dates I’m already jaded. I haven’t got the stamina to stay in the game. I’m burnt out on men big time (except for bunny of course).  I don’t seem to have a sex drive, it’s totally dwindled and disappeared down a hole.

Which reminds me, last night I dreamt I was being stalked by a big rattlesnake, which tracked me down in the grass and bit deeply into my left ankle. Get your teeth into that, Freud.

I was in the pet store yesterday gathering supplies for my new kitty who arrives next week, when I had a flashback to one of the most original chat up lines I’ve heard over the years. It was a long time ago, but I remember it vividly. Sigh. Some memories last forever.

It was the end of a working day, and I was knackered. I needed some new toys for my cats, and in my brain-dead state I couldn’t make my mind up between “Da Bird” feather tickler, or “Cats Claws” feline flyer. It was a tough decision.

I must have been standing there for 10 minutes or more, swirling feather toys about, when suddenly a man stepped close beside me. I ignored him. I wasn’t in the mood for being sociable. I was burnt out.

“Those look fun!” he said suggestively.

 I glanced up and saw a pudgy, balding guy leering down at me.

“Excuse me?!” I was sharp tongued in those days. Not much time for men I didn’t fancy.

“Looks like you could have a good time with one of those.”  He leered again, and moved closer.

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. I stared intently at the toys and took a step in the other direction. I couldn’t make up my mind about these damn feather ticklers, and now this old guy was bothering me.  But instead of taking the hint, he moved along with me.

“Hey, are you a witch or something?” he asked. I was wearing knee high black boots and a long black cardigan.

“Yes. I am.” I snapped. I was starting to lose patience with this guy. Couldn’t he get the message? I was giving all the signs. I was just not that into him.

But instead of going away, he smiled and pulled out his business card, and said: “I’m Dean Ornish. You may have heard of me. I’m writing a new book on Sex and the Single Witch, and I wondered if you’d like to help me with my research? Here’s my card, call me.”

And without waiting for a response, he walked away, leaving me standing there stunned into silence.

The cheek of the man. Of course I didn’t call him. In those days I wasn’t interested in a man unless he had the body of a God and was at least 5 years younger than me. I liked men who had all their hair. On their head anyway. Not coming out of their ears and nostrils.

If only that had happened today. Today, I’m a different woman. What I wouldn’t do for a chat up line like that again. I would DEFINITELY go out with him. I don’t care about a bit of hair loss and a beer belly. He would probably have been a really interesting date. Sadly, I think he’s married now. I missed my chance.

I went to see the film last night. It was alright. Not exactly my cup of tea. More of a cute, shallow, light entertainment sort of film. A chick flick. It didn’t come close to “Slumdog Millionnaire” which I saw last week, and which was brilliant. The best film I’ve seen in donkeys years. Danny Boyle is a genius.

Even so, last night’s flick, “He’s Just Not That Into You”was worth a watch.  It was full of  sound snippets of advice for the ladies, and also provided some insight for the guys. Some parts made me cringe with embarrassment, and others had me laughing out loud. I might even have shed a few tears of joy at one point (having a baby has clearly turned me into a soppy cow). That’s usually the sign of a good film, one that takes me on a run of through all my emotions. 

I didn’t learn anything new. I already know how to read the signs of disinterested men. It’s not rocket science. It took me a while to figure it out, but I’ve been clued up on that front for years now. Thank God. I would hate to be as naive and gormless as Gigi (Ginnifer Goodwin). That girl didn’t seem to have much going on upstairs. Are women really that desperate? Or that stupid?

The best part of the film was that the celebrity women all looked normal. That is, they all looked like their everyday selves, warts and all, their imperfections out for everyone to see. Drew Barrymore was looking positively pasty and flabby. And her teeth looked shabby. She needs to go see Dr. Smile. I didn’t realise Scarlett Johansson had such a big backside. Apart from those bee stung lips she isn’t the sultry stunner I thought she was. Jennifer Aniston is gorgeous, but she has little piggy eyes, and a very square American jaw. Jennifer Connelly looked good but she also looked wrinkly and tired. Maybe I was sitting too close to the screen or something… whatever, it made me feel better about myself. I like it when celebrities look like me.

The guys all looked fabulous, of course. All perfect teeth, great skin, fit bodies and laughter lines.

I liked how Bradley Cooper (Ben) took my breath away in the beginning of the film, but by the end I couldn’t stand the sight of him. He was a schmuck and VERY unattractive. L.O.S.E.R. Whereas the other guys, who were basically dorkish and uninteresting, became hot babes by the end of the film. I never thought I’d see the day when I thought Ben Affleck was hot. I must be growing up at last. Bit of a late bloomer, but I think I’m finally not into bad boys any more. I like dorks.

If I looked a little deeper into the film, I’d probably get annoyed by it’s cliche portrayal of needy, shallow women with only one thing on their mind: marriage. Plus it was full of beautiful white people. I mean, how realistic is that in Baltimore when 65% of their population is black? But since I don’t have much of a brain myself these days, I’ll leave these concerns aside, and end by saying that I found the film quite enjoyable. Somewhat trite, but not downright shite. One thumb up.