Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

OK. I’ll come clean. I’ve been on a dating website, once, twice, three times, as a different lady.

It’s fun to have internet alter egos that are sexier than you. And it’s really, really interesting to see what the responses will be. One profile was vaguely truthful. I was Delilah, a 35 year old buxom blonde business owner from the Shire who travelled the world promoting a new cure for male snoring. Hey, I’m blonde and have a valid passport. The second profile was of Sheryl, a boot scooter from Parramatta who ran a Pomeranian dog breeding business from her backyard. I own boots though they are too high to be of the scooting variety. The third persona I tried on for size was way off-field. I was Irina, a Russian migrant who liked to party in her lingerie and clean, preferably at the same time, singing along to Kraftwerk. I like parties and lingerie, but cleaning? Pure fantasy.

It was a hoot to create these new profiles – like I was all three of Charlie’s Angels in the one body – no wonder I’d recently put on five kilos. I had learnt two new languages overnight and developed skills that I could hardly spell. Ever tried campanology? As Irina I’m an expert campanologist, or bell ringer, having practiced in all the churches in Leningrad while busking in train stations, playing the ukulele along to my Kraftwerk repertoire. And, as Sheryl, I can tell you that for $1,000 Pomeranians – or pom-poms, as I like to call them, make wonderful pets. Just vacuum them daily and you’ll have no pet dander worries. Male snoring cures abound, but Delilah’s works a treat. Just tell the guy in question that you’ll cut his gonads off it he doesn’t stop right now. You’ll have a peaceful night as your Samson will too be scared to fall asleep in case he wakes up with more than a haircut. Snip, snip.

I never knew I had them in me. And the accompanying dating site photos were easy enough. I just pulled apart a very sticky old Playboy from the neighbour’s recycling bin (morning Vicar, thanks for the mag!) and scanned in the photos. How gorgeous I looked, as a red-headed Russian, blonde business bombshell and brunette dog breeder. And my collars and cuffs matched in all three shots – not like real life at all! Well, obviously I had to change the photos to more sedate ones from The Women’s Weekly “Farmer Wants a Wife” story to get them past the dating site sensors; those boring spidermen web-police.

So – of Irina, Delilah or Sheryl – who do you think was the most hit upon in world of on-line dating?

It’s not what you’d think and not what I expected. Irina definitely led the field for the first 24 hours. Probably from blokes who couldn’t afford a cleaner. And my, my, my Delilah was certainly popular among the business owning gents from the Lower North Shore; they probably wanted to talk about offshore tax havens as it was approaching the end of the financial year. But it was the wholesome Sheryl who proved the stayer over the course of a week. Although her picture was no more attractive than the other two potential farmers’ wives, she pulled over twice as many hits as the other two make-believes combined.

The difference was that she seemed nice, not scary, and was in no way exotic. Sheryl liked boot scooting around town, Top 40 music, watching sport, playing X-Box and her favourite film was The Shawshank Redemption. She read biographies, the Saturday edition of The Sydney Morning Herald and the odd Bryce Courtenay. She liked watching CSI and House. Apart from her Pomeranians, Sheryl also liked gardening and camping. Compared to Delilah’s bulletproof, Exocet missile life and Irina’s suspicious lack-of-visa- style profile (who goes fruit picking three months a year?) Sheryl was relatively normal.

Alas, not like the Bondi blonde. Compared to me, Sheryl’s wholesomeness was like a piece of Vegemite toast versus my lifestyle of meal replacement low-fibre, no-fat, organic chocolate and summer berry slimming bars. If the Bondi blonde did any of the normal things that Sheryl embraced – like cooking a Sunday roast – I’d be so far out of my comfort zone, my head would swivel 360 degrees and I’d be singing The Best of Beelzebub, backwards.

So. I looked at my RSVP profile (a different on-line dating provider to the one I had so shamelessly exploited) and decided to airbrush my profile to up my hit rate. I had been approached five times in the past three months; Sheryl got that in a morning. Two of my hits were from Eastern suburb guys under 23 who want to have a root, now (probably because their mum was at Coles WBJ buying the tissues and oven pizzas), and who think single mums are gagging for it, all of the time, like them. Two hits were from men with comb-overs. I don’t mind bald, but I draw the line at waking up next to a guy with a ponytail down his back and no hair on the top. I never want to do the Time Warp again. The other hit ended up in a luncheon date at a local cheap and cheerful. I went in with high expectations. The guy’s photo was lovely. He had teeth and hair and a neck too. In the photo. Which was of his brother. What goes around came around and I’d been caught in the same trap I’d been having fun with. I’m pretty sure this gentleman had a few different profiles on the internet, and I’d scored James the photographer. I really think he was Barry the builder, judging by the state of his nails and the name on the side of his ute (Barry the Builder – Can he fix it? Yes He Can!) He sped off after an awkward hour, without a backward glance and going through red lights with obviously gay abandon, talking on the mobile while scratching his cattle dog. And James/Barry accepted my completely insincere offer to go Dutch. Mongrel (man not dog).

So I figure if I want a normal date before I heal over down south, I better zing up my profile. Hmm. Favourite Literature? Delete Serious Feminist Tomes, He’s just not that into You and Astrology for Dummies, replace with sporting biographies.

Sport? Delete surfing and two-up. Replace with sunbaking in my bikini, working out at the gym and watching NRL, AFL and rugby (go the Nullabys!)

Movies? Delete Beaches and Eyes Wide Shut, replace with The Shawshank Redemption.

Ideal male profile? Breathing unassisted, straight, no police record, owns shoes – both the same type and colour and not stilettos.

That should be a good start.

So I think I’ll take down the profiles of Delilah, Irina and especially Sheryl for now. I don’t need the competition or want to break the hearts of too many men thinking they’ve found the perfect princess pom-pom breeder.

Soon, I’ll report back from the trenches of modern, internet dating life. Wish me luck!

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