Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

Now where was I?

I had come to the conclusion that the Bondi Blonde should be retired via a Cinderella ending. My view was that she had gotten lucky on the Lottery, and was spending the $10 million of unearned funds on world peace, sashimi, Nintendo DS’s and holidays featuring St Tropez (the place, not the brand of fake tanning cream).

I figured she’d had her moment in the sun, and was in danger of deep tissue burn. A new year meant, I thought, that it was time to cover her – and my – heart, skin and bones with a little protection.

I also thought that I had written all there was to write about single mum-dom by the beach – my vodka and tonic version of Home and Away. Who really wanted to read more about me getting off on the throb of the 380 bus as it ground its way up Bondi Road; who cared if my kids nits transferred themselves effortlessly via me to my latest three-date boyfriend, killing the romance stone dead in a whiff of killer chemicals; who wanted to read about my plastic surgery – same nose, new girlie bits, compliments of three “natural” deliveries and a uterus in my handbag.Errrgh. (I promise I will never, ever mention this again!)

Well, apparently an ex-boyfriend wanted to read about it. Note to him: turn off the auto out of office reply when you go on holidays if you want to maintain the cover of Darth Vader darkness. And a few friends. And all of those lovely financial types who read my mates hugely successful, really serious blog brontecapital.blogspot.com and who has me on his blogroll.

So let’s take stock shall we?

Bondi Blonde: 39, cute, two kids, savvy, sexy, switched on, hotter than the Melbourne Open.

Me: 43. ARRRRRRRGH. Single mum. Scratchy income. Desire for handbags. Great kids. Good friends. Happiness with self slightly greater than desire to nominate myself for next series of Extreme Makeover.

Bondi Blonde’s life: $10 million dollar Powerball win. New nose, butt, eye colour, teeth, hair length (longer hair extensions), accent. Unfortunately her kids don’t recognise her in the playground and she lisps because her new teeth are a little too big.

My life: Alas, did not win the Powerball $40 million, the Lottery $15 million or the Valentine’s Day $14 million, or part thereof. New strategy for wealth creation includes hmmm…..working?

Her strategy going forward: Get teeth filed, get lifestyle coach, turn the blog into book, then a sit-com, and then get her own television show. Grow a herb garden.

My strategy going forward: More lottery tickets, less heart pain, cleverer choices, wising up. As Wendy Whiteley, widow of artist Brett Whiteley said, “Age has taught me to learn from my mistakes.” Halleluiah sister. No more blue eye shadow for me!

So shall I stop living in the shadows of the Bondi Blonde and just be me? Or should I continue to write crap for the amusement of people I will never meet and who ma y be vaugely amused about the life I don’t lead? The sad thing is that the make-believe me is having more fun and loads more sex than me, so here goes….the New Adventures of The Bondi Blonde:

To my married friends out there.

1. I do not want to sleep with your husband.

2. If you die, I will not want to a. Sleep with your husband or b. Raise your children. I will mourn you and buy your old handbags, if worthy (but never your shoes).

3. If you invite me to your place for dinner, please don’t talk about my divorce ALL the time. I can also whistle, write, bake and am great on SingStar. Let’s talk about something more fun, like your hemorrhoids.

4. Do invite me to your house for dinner. I like seeing big people after 7:00 p.m. at night in a home environment; and see Point 1 above.

5. And if you think you’ve got it tough having to sell raffle tickets at the school fundraising night, consider my position, via the wise words of Bridget Jones, the world’s most second famous diarist (after Anne Frank – and she wasn’t nearly as funny): “The only thing worse than smug married couple; lots of smug married couples.”

Get this. A few months ago I was having a coffee and cookies with a woman friend. She’s nice but we are not close enough to really be called girlfriends, we just share similar lifestyles and taste in books. So anyways, blah, blah, blah and she comes out with:

“If I die, I don’t want you dating my husband.”

Me: “Oh my god…. I am so sorry. What is it Cancer? Anorexia? (She’s major league skinny). How long have you got and what can I do to help?”

Her: “Oh, I’m not sick.”

Me: “What the?”

Her: “No, I just wanted to let you know that if I did die it would not be OK by me if you dated my husband.”

Me: “OK then.” (to her). “You are nuts as well as skinny. I’m eating that biscuit.” (to myself).

Now consider this. Her husband loves her. She is healthy. She is 42. She doesn’t do extreme sports. And most importantly, maybe, is that her husband looks like the Crazy Frog, with the same unfortunate habit of saying “What’s going on” repeatedly. And I’m not allowed to date him if she dies? I reckon bury him with her for everyone’s sake.

Since my husband toddled off, I have been told by friends not to date or to date only toy boys, and they try to set me up on blind dates with men in grey pleather slip on shoes who live with their mother. My well-meaning friends give their oh-so-not-asked-for advice, pat me on the shoulder, tell me that they are a “little envious of my exciting single girl life” and pitter patter off home to hubby, dog and children. Condescension radiates off these smug marrieds as I, like Bridget, check for the scales which hideously cover my body, signifying my singledom.

Last Monday night, after consuming Desperate Housewives and all of the chocolate in the house (including a weirdly grey-brown Easter bunny from last year), I revisited my hero Bridget. Like love, it was lovelier the second time around.

The first time I read Bridget Jones’ Diary I was a smug married; wearing big undies and clean, non sexy mummy clothes. I was 14 pounds heavier and my loving husband hadn’t yet decided to share the love around. When the movie came out we guffawed together at the multi-plex, sharing fat Coke and popcorn. I had married at 30 and had experienced the Siberian chill of singledom for many years before snagging my Mr Right for Now. Snuggling into my Mr Darcy-lite I was protected, I thought, forever from the slings and arrows of perilous dating sites. Oop-sy.

Now I’m back as a singleton, wearing bum floss G-strings, but apart from that, I reckon I am so much luckier now. I have children. Which says it all really. But I declare today that I will embrace my inner Bridget. I will follow her single girl resolutions to the letter, including:

1: will obviously lose 20 lbs.

2: always put last night’s panties in the laundry basket.

3: find nice sensible boyfriend and stop forming romantic attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workaholics, sexaholics, commitment-phobes, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits, or perverts.

And if I lose weight, stop living like a teenager (and dressing like one) and work out how to fall in love and maybe get my heart broken rather than going straight for the heartbreak, I’ll be able to finally, pat myself a little on the back for a job well done. Then I’ll definitely fuck up again on some level, for as Bridget says:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces.”