Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

I’m considering converting to Catholicism.

World Youth Day is nigh, and it seems like it might be a great party.

On July 15, swinger Ratzinger is bringing his homies for a week long Holy Homebake. Cardinals, bishops and 200,000 plus pilgrims will be getting down in the House of the Lord, a carefully reconstructed and consecrated field at Randwick. Ah yes, on reflection, the Racecourse is the obvious place for the party, considering just how many prayers have been made, if not answered, there.

There has been muttering among the racing fraternity and all are not happy. After the equine flu plague and crappy, cold weather, the industry needs to fill its coffers again, handing around its collection plate at as many Randwick racing meetings as possible. The lock-down for his holiness takes away many money making racing opportunities. While the evils of gambling are well documented, we must consider having to feed the families of the racing fraternity. And they’re used to Moet, not loaves and mullet.

So, here’s some divine intervention that came to me in a dream last night. Combine the gambling with the meeting. Make it a new date on the calendar – a truly new Winter Carnival, supported by the TAB as well as the Lord. Obviously, the horses can’t race around the track as it will be filled with the pilgrims and their pitched tents, so here’s a few events for consideration:

• A Toss the Boss competition. See how far you can toss a cardboard cut out of Jesus. He who throws furthest, gets to the second phase of the game and gets a ticket to enter The Kingdom of Heaven.
• The Kingdom of Heaven. This is a special smoking room where South Sydney Juniors has relocated its pokies, handily placed outside the portaloos. Pilgrims can invest a dollar or two while waiting to spend a penny. Entertainment value is undisputed and the church gets a 10% tithe from the winnings.
• Immaculate Egg and Spoon races. A fun one for the whole extended Catholic family. Place an unfertilised egg on a spoon and race to the finish line, being cheered on with a catechism. The winner cannot drop their egg and replace it. This automatically disqualifies the pilgrim. Remember, every egg, as well as every sperm, is sacred.
• Holy Mary Two-Up. Pilgrims gather in a betting ring. The game is similar to two up with 20 cent pieces replaced with coins with Mary, Mother of Jesus on one side, and for colourful local flavour, a picture of local almost-saint Mary MacKillop on the other.

What’s not to like?

So I’m off to Target for my WYD08 T-shirt and matching drink bottle. My Kev07 shirt has lost its glow somehow. All the White King in the world won’t restore its sparkle.

And I’ve got to register pronto before the special Pilgrim offers run out. Don’t want to miss the 60% off for my self-inflating Pilgrim mat or sleeping bag-Sleep Out Solo Tent from Harvest Youth Tours, proud supporter of celibacy and the World Youth Day.

My only problem is that, at over 40, am I young enough to be considered a youth in the Catholic world?

I’ll take my chances and try via the WYD08 Egeria registration system, named after a nun who recorded her journey to the Holy Land, a-la Bridget Jones, in the 4^th Century . Using the Pilgrim username John Wayne, I fill in the form and I’m in.

Soon the registration pack with my special admission badge and passes will be delivered. This is a  massive event on the Sydney landscape and I feel a thrill similar to that of registering to go to the Olympics way back in 2000. This time I’ll get to see the events I want, and it’s much cheaper too!

WYD08 will bring in millions to the coffers of Sydney and its businesses. And how much harm can 200,000 Christians do? Hmmm. Don’t think I’ll ask any Aztecs that one.

So come on down, Pope. Bring your new pope mobile, spread your message and the money. The jaded local folk may not listen very closely, but financially the winner will be Syd-ern-ee.

“Look at me, I’m Deborah Lee,
Lousy with re-virginity
I won’t leave your bed, till you’ve given me head,
I can’t, I’m Deborah Lee!”

Apologies to Grease-lovers, but there’s nothing like a musical number to put me in a good mood.

And after this week’s encounters with the opposite sex, I need a cheer up. A rapid re-think of my game plan is required if I want to be considered more of a Playboy bunny, less a bunny-boiler.

Up till now I’ve been rabidly age-ist. Anyone younger than me has definitely been off-limits. I think that there are two reasons for this. First, I’m a mum of boys, so I automatically equate young men with lunch money, school sores and wrestling on TV. I tended to treat any guy sub-40 like a son, checking sureptiously for cooties if I run my fingers through their hair. Second, I’ve been conditioned to hunt in the land of the dinosaurs. I was married to a young fogey with favourite past-times of golf, golfing jokes and talking about what happened on the 15^th fairway. What a hoot, I can tell you. (Hmm nice brochure for aged retirement home overlooking golf course in the current edition of The Wentworth Courier, by the way).

This week I had an epiphany. And I’m with Deborah Lee.

 One night a gorgeous gym-friend tried to set me up with an old guy. He was just weeks away from Senior Card status, so we’d always be able to get a discount at Hoyts, as long as he got the tickets while I bought the popcorn. That didn’t seem such a bad offer, when the alternative was another night of CSI Bodrum or wherever. Kiss, kiss on the cheek hello and four of us (friend had brought hubby) settled down for a glass of red at a posh Woollahra bar.

Well, Viagra man was on a roll and I got squashed. The only seat available was beside him. That seemed OK. But the jerk saw it as an opportunity to indulge in the Olympic display sport of free grope. Hands on my legs, inexpertly massaging my back, placing my hand high on his thigh.  Ewww. Yuckie, yuckie. I had two choices, ignore and remove hand surreptitiously whenever possible or tell him to “shuffle off home, you old bugger, you’re missing Michael Palin on Channel 7.” No option really with friend looking on with massive guilt at putting me in this position and as shocked as me. I couldn’t do it to her, so he continued to do it to me.

And to make matters worse, granddad bus conductor man was wearing a poo-brown zip up leather jacket on a stretchy band, over a nice pair of comfy slacks and a striped polyester-look shirt. If I was brave enough to look down, I swear the shoes would have been grey pleather slip-ons. I on the other hand, had a sexy top and a fashion forward inverted pleat satin skirt, with Salvatore Ferragamo shoes and new pewter earrings. What the?

The icing on this particular 60^th birthday cake was when he told me (while not letting me get a word in) how much he could read my essence and understood what a truly special person I was. Here’s a clue, arsehole.  “GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME AND GET BACK TO THE POKIES, YOU OLD PERVE! I’D RATHER GO DOWN ON ALEXANDER DOWNER THAN HAVE A DATE WITH YOU!” Ewww. Ewww. Ewwww.

What the hell had my friend told this aged lothario, channelling Rupert Murdoch while missing the vital billions? Apparently she said that I was up for a friendship with a nice person who liked going to the theatre and art galleries, looking to pay Dutch in return for the company and friendship. I wanted a walker; whether gay or straight, I didn’t care. Obviously, what this really meant to Alzheimer man when hearing aid was switched on was that, as a single mum, I was gagging for it. Apparently the word around town is that getting a single woman to bed is as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. The only barrel I had in mind at this point in the evening came from Snowtown, S.A., handily filled with acid.

Contrast and compare this to situation number two. I have this lovely young male friend who called around yesterday because he was worried that, as my kids are away with daddy for the long-weekend, I’d be blue. He just wanted to make sure I was OK. He had a cup of herbal tea and was away. He is a true friend and a dear and a gentle man. And he’s not a one off. Early in the piece, just after my separation, I had a drink with a guy I had always fancied and whose goodness was just blindingly obvious.  He has three sisters and talked about women in a way that was respectful and quite nicely, I think, kind of awed. We chatted about his career and my kids. When I found out he was 33, I ran like the wind, wheezing a bit in my skinny jeans. Too young, old girl, I thought to myself. Get out of the playground.

Based on this scientific sample, the whole Deborah Lee, Hugh Jackman thing makes so much sense. Obviously he gets a talented, gorgeous wonderful woman who is an adult and lets him go play and develop his career, safe in the knowledge that she’s a big girl and can happily amuse herself till he returns. Granted she’s a bit of a Botox fiend, but that’s OK as long as she can still blink. (Hint, hint, Hugh types: That’s me, that’s me – well not the Botox, of course!!). And, apart from his scary physical perfection, with Hugh she gets Mr Nice and Easy. He’s kind, listens to her, seems a great dad and, being comfortable in his own gorgeous skin, wants a partner, not a plaything.

Apparently there are a lot of metro sexual men who are not hung up on dating an older woman. They want a peer, who’s in a similar life space, not arm candy. And this phenomena is so entrenched in the brave new world of dating, there’s a term for women who like younger guys. They’re called cougars. Hmm. I don’t love it, but it’s definitely an improvement on the superannuated term for older woman/younger man – slapper/toy boy.

So in summary;

Guys over 50 – it’s all them, them, them, when it should be you, me, you, me. They seem battle scarred and scared. Did I miss a war or something or is it purely that love is a battlefield for the fogey set?

Guys around 35 – they seem much more in touch with their feminine side. They care about the environment and watch Desperate Housewives as well as the footy, but never the Footy Show.

And you can’t blame divorce for the differential. I know some young divorced guys and they are lovely.

So, I’m recalibrating my internal attractiveness indicator, resetting it to 10 years younger. Cougar on the loose!

Fortuitously, the undisputed Queen of the Cougars, Elle Macpherson, is reportedly resettling in Sydney any day now. The word is that she’s returning home for her sons and an improved quality of life and maybe on the look out for a new man.

Well, Deidre Chambers, what a coincidence! I am a returned ex-pat too!  And we’re both mother of boys and both single. Surely she’ll be needing a little bit of advice from one in the know on choosing a good school and the best place for a brow wax? It’s Karma, baby. I’m definitely Elle’s new best friend. And on her nights off from the boys, relaxing with a drink or three in the VIP section of the Piano Bar, she’ll be needing a wingman.

Meow. Elle’s belles? I’m there.