Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

The dating game is more confusing than the rules of Deal or no Deal to the Bondi blonde and my strike rate of turning a frog into a prince is pure Ugly Sister. But even when I am dating a hairy-backed halitosis Harry, I know that there are certain situations when I should stick like flypaper to Mr Wrong, which I share with you in a spirit of love and enlightenment:

1. Within a month of a major present event; Christmas, your birthday or Valentine’s Day.
Even if you can’t stand the smell of your partner anymore, if you’ve invested more than three months, body fluids or googly-eyed dinners with a significant other, you’ve got to stick around if it’s close to a “show me the pressie” time. Nothing makes my heart or legs open wider than a Jo Malone gift pack. The scents are mostly unisex, so you can share the spray and Mr Stinky will smell nice for the requisite snog or other necessary trade. And the Vaseline effect of the expensive Malone candlelight will make even Shrek look do-able after a Cosmo or five. The only proviso I offer is if you’re dating a Mr or Ms Scrooge. Here’s a story of a lovely lady, who was busy with three boys of her own….

Mr RSVP1 was the cheapest man this side of the ALDI Alps. He was a finance wizard and every restaurant we went to was chosen on it letting him bring a BYO bottle of $10 booze. I would snooze over the shared starter – we did a lot of Thai me ups and Thai me downs – it was pure masochism. He whispered sweet and sour nothings of superannuation and taxation. I knew it was all over Red Rover by November, but hung in till the New Year purely for the double whammy of birthday and Christmas present,the events being one week apart for me. I did the math over the shared chilli squid. I figured, one shag a week to the big present. That would be six shags max, plus three blow jobs thrown in as sweeteners. Voldermort was worth more than $50 million – he loved telling me his net worth as we went Dutch and he asked for French. At conservatively $200 bucks a shag and the blow jobs at double value I worked out would get at least a $2,000 stocking filler – either a wonderful mini-break or a nice piece of significant jewellery. I GOT A CHARLIE REVLON GIFT PACK!!!! He also bought one for his 12 year old daughter as they were doing a two for $40 deal at Price Line. Boy, did I choke on that one. And I couldn’t even recycle a gift that bad to my mum or neighbour; thank God for the school Mother’s Day stall.

2. Close to your high school reunion.
It’s better to go with your gay hairdresser to one of these things than fly solo. I graduated Magna Cum Laude from the School of Hard Knocks so my school reunion was for all those who finished grade 10, as only about 30 of us made it through the HSC without being knocked up. And about 20% of those didn’t show cause of jail commitments. If you can’t stand the person you drag along, make them rent a Porsche Cayenne for the night to arrive in style and piss off the suckers you left behind. If your date is butt-ugly tell everybody they’re rich. If they’re male, good looking, shag like a freight train but are as stupid as mud, give me their number. Now.

3. When you need free labour.
If you need work done around the house but you know that the big “it’s not me, it’s you, arsehole” chat is inevitable, make sure you get in one more sleepover. It’s better to get the light bulbs changed, weeding done, furniture moved or general household clean up finished before the bust up rather than handing over vital shoe money to a “Hire a Hubby” professional. With a bit of luck, you’re not so loved one will get pissed off with all the manual labour and get narky – giving you the perfect excuse to break up with them, bastard.

4. In winter.
It’s too cold to sleep alone. It’s too cold to go out on a human hunt, dragging home a new kill for a night-time feast. It’s too cold to wax your legs or higher up – Brazil is purely a summer fun investment. And if the current squeeze will put up with a cold-footed, flannelette-swathed, housebound, hairy Yeti, they might be worth keeping into the first few weeks of spring, if the cold snap continues.

That’s about it, I reckon. Otherwise don’t waste your time trying to make a silken purse from a sow’s ear, even if the result is very this season Prada-like. Too many of us spend our glory days squinting, trying to soft focus Mr or Ms Wrong into a maybe Right in the right light. Invest in the real deal.

Remember, it don’t mean a thing, if it aint got that zing. Do wop, do wop, do wop, do wop, do wop.

On another note, I got quite a few comments from taxation experts on my last blog – Go ATO! They were very nice and appreciative of my David vs Goliath swipe at Mr Lowy – Australia’s second richest man and by recent accounts, a bit of a hand down the back of your sofa for the loose change kind of guy.

So, should the Bondi blonde stop writing about sex and start writing about tax and corporate espionage?

I can stop telling you about orgasms, vaginas, vibrators, frocks. And I can easily kill my next blog, about my recent dating adventures with a man whose penis was sooo big it needed a road crew with yellow vests whenever it ventured out of its pants. I just had to recover enough to sit down at the keyboard without wincing. Instead, I can regale you with great stories of EBITDA and allowable deductions, relieved with the odd golfer jokes or two.

So gentle reader, the balls are in your court. Tax or Sex?

Subscribe to Confessions of a Bondi Blonde by Email