Teawithle tweets.

I confess, before online news I tried twitter – and I hated it. With one swift glance I decided it was something to fear, something that worked against its user rather than with them.

I couldn’t understand so many parts of it – how to write to someone, how to see if someone wrote to me, and what was with these damn hashtags??

The worst part was keeping within the 140 character word limit. I’m a confessed babbler, and deliberately go the long way about saying things to create a dramatic effect. A story to a friend about a date, for example, will consist in carefully dissecting every detail: “well first he picked me up, in a sky blue lancer I think it was?

Anyway, he was wearing jeans and a top. Ok so he knocked on the door – three times I think it was – which was really cute and showed he’s not too persistent…” as you can see, my friends get everysinglebit of information, whether they like it or not.

Being blunt and to the point is something men are much better at – while my girlfriend’s voice messages often consist with a 10 minute analysis of what they’re doing at the moment and why, their messages consist of “Its Darren. Call me.”

So when I was required to face twitter again for online news this semester, I approached it with trepidation. Staring blankly back at the “write something in 140 words or less” tag, I begun to type, each time getting the “wrong answer” message from twitter – each sentence was way too long.

It was annoying for me, because shortening my sentences meant that my tweet wasn’t as funny or witty as it could be.

But, gradually over the months I got the hang of it, and now I’m shortening everything, even my neverending stories. Now even my in-person stories can be to the point: “date was worst. Had #motherissues”.

Tell it like it is?

I was out shopping recently when I had a bit of a wake up call.
While trying on a size 10 jacket and finding it a tad too big, I kindly asked the shop assistant if it came in a smaller size.

She gave me a swift head to toe once-over and declared (loudly), that there’s no way the size 8 would fit me.

I would have liked to tell you that I yelled at her, or reminded her a little something that I learnt in the retail business, that “the customer is always right”, but instead I muttered thank you and left immediately to avoid any sniggers.

Later on, fuming about it over coffee with a friend, I wondered whether the shop assistant was perhaps right – maybe I suffered from body dysmorphia, or high self-esteem?

You see, I’m not unfamiliar with it. An ex-colleague of mine used to always ask to borrow my clothes, pretty much every weekend. Now she was about a size 16 at least, and at the time I was a size 8 (believe it or not, Ms shop assistant).

I liked this girl so I didnt want to hurt her feelings. So, I’d let her borrow my stuff. As she squeezed into the teeny tiny dresses in front of me I tried hard not to wince when I heard the fabric snap and tear.
“See, it fits!’ She said, twirling gracefully, seemingly not noticing the huge rip in the rear end.

After about three ripped dresses I finally came up with a story that I hoped she would believe – I had sold all my good dresses to Vinnie’s and just didnt have any nice ones for her to borrow anymore. Of course, she found out that wasn’t true when she saw me post photos wearing the dresses on facebook, and we eventually stopped talking after that.

Yep, a friendship broken all because someone suffered from high self esteem, and the other didnt have the balls to tell it like it is.

Well, I’m sure you all think I’m a real cow now. But I just couldnt bring myself to say to her what that shop assistant told me - you are not a size 8.
The week after my shopping disaster I stormed into that same store and grabbed the size 8 jacket I had been advised against, head held high.
As I pulled it on, I noticed it was a little tight. As my fingers fumbled with the buttons, I could hear that same fabric-pulling noise. By then I was trying desperately to button it, making awful noises in the change room like I was in labour. “Errrrrrrrr” “offffff” “gahhhhhh”. I was determined to prove that shop assistant wrong.
Finally, when I had buttoned it all up, with huge gaping holes between each button so you could see my bra, each button straining, holding on for dear life, I walked out and surveyed myself in the mirror, ignoring the shop assistant’s collective gasps of horror.

“I’ll take it,” I said smugly.

And that, ladies, is the story of how I proved a shop assistant wrong.

The power of the hairdresser

“Hello there,” she said dryly, sauntering over to where I sat nervously.

She’d kept me waiting for half an hour at least, and although I had somewhere to be in less than an hour, I never once complained or attempted to hurry her. At times I’d send a worried glance over in her direction, but she simply ignored me.

And so begins the countless mind games of the hairdresser.

Some may write them off as a bunch of uneducated bimbos, but trust me, these girls and guys are in one of the most powerful professions.

They’re up there with waxers, shop assistants and door bitches.

Why? Because they hold your fate in their hands, and if you’re rude to them or they don’t like you, watch out because they are armed: with scissors, searing hot wax or a simple “no you’re not getting in, sorry.”

Don’t believe me? One of my friends was once rude to a beautician. Five minutes later, she had a gap in her eyebrow the size of a small island just before a huge party.

For fear of being scorned, she didn’t go to the party and thus missed out on – who knows what? But it certainly would have been better than sitting at home in pyjamas and whimpering.

Yep, her fate for the night was held in that beauticians’ well moisturised hands.

Another of my friends was in a bad mood the day of her haircut, and was snappy towards the hairdresser. She looked down to read her magazine, then looked up again fifteen minutes later to see a mullet-style haircut and her hairdresser smiling smugly. 

As for me, I hadn’t been to my usual hairdresser in well over a year now – pretty much a dumping in any hairdresser’s books. We were the best of friends in hairdresser world, and my hair benefited from it – my mop was a shiny, swishy haven. But then I got bored. Started to look around, and found someone else. Someone who would be a bit more adventurous and let me put a few highlights in here and there.

Unfortunately my new hairdresser ruined the state of my hair with a bad dose of peroxide and now I have to come crawling back to the old one, and she ain’t happy.

I’m being punished now, of course. With the long wait, the crappy magazines set in front of me, and the cold coffee. Now she’s running her hands through my hair, tsking, while I cower in fear.

“Look what they’ve done to you.” She said disapprovingly. “I can’t believe you went to someone else and let them do this…” she trailed off, hurt, while I avoid her eye and stare at the floor.

“I’m sorry…” I say. “Um…I was actually living overseas for the past year…and then one day I was minding my own business when this crazy man who didn’t speak English came up to me and started to cut my hair, and…”

The lie is terrible, poorly executed, and doesn’t work on her. “Hmm.” She simply says flatly, folding her arms.

I’m starting to think by this stage that not being monogamous in a hair relationship is truly worse than a normal relationship. The cruel words, awkward lies, and disappointed stares are all too much for me.
Eventually she works away at my hair, as I sit there sweating. Luckily she doesn’t do too much revenge-fuelled damage. The fee is $50 more than she usually charges, but I pay it with a thankful smile and rush away, promising her I’ll never cheat again.

Was this guilt trip she put on me just an excuse to get more money? Probably, but I’m certainly not going to go through that one again. If you’ve ever been one of the many people who have been the bearer of a bad haircut but simply smiled and said “that’s great” tearfully when the hairdresser asks you if it’s ok, you know what I’m talking about.

They have the power.

Is your gaydar working?

Have you all heard of the gaydar? It’s the little radar that goes off in your mind when you meet someone who you get the feeling is gay.  To put it in a sentence, “he was really nice, but my gaydar was going off like crazy.” It’s an intuitive ability to assess one’s sexual orientation that saves you a lot of time and heartache.
Complacently, I’ve always maintained I’ve got a pretty spot-on gaydar.

But I’ve got something to confess to you.

When we first met, I thought my boyfriend was gay. Quite sure of it, actually.

We worked in the same building, and with his neatly pressed suits, expertly coiffed hair and perfect posture, everytime we got in the lift together I’d sigh and think “what a shame he’s not straight.”

But it wasn’t just those stereotypes that made me sure he batted for the other team. It was that darn gaydar beeping away, responding to his aura, his actions, his mannerisms. Polite, neat, and a little flamboyant…but then, I was used to the “bloke’s bloke” who yelled out “nice arse” from the window of his ute, so perhaps I wasn’t the best judge of character.

Anyway, at the time I thought I was an expert in that field; and usually my gaydar was right on the money.
So when he casually emailed asking if I wanted to go for a drink, I was slightly surprised, but thought that he must be on the hunt for a ‘hag’ – the must-have accessory for a gay man, a woman who they can share their thoughts and secrets with, minus the sexual confusion.

He offered to pick me up from my house, which I thought was a bit odd but considered he must just be the curteous type.  A small part of me was madly hoping he was straight, because something about him just seemed like my type, yet I couldnt pick it.

Throughout the date, my ‘gaydar’ was beeping madly. He turned up in jeans that fit snugger than mine, a country road scarf (for fashion, not for warmth), and a bright pink shirt. Flamboyant hand gestures, check. Ordering a cocktail with a little umbrella in it, check. Looked into my eyes rather than my chest, check.
So while I was attracted to this guy, and I felt a spark (which at the time I just a BFF spark), I thought surely this one is a write off.

There was the odd flirtation now and then, but mostly it was just friendly banter over cocktails, not unlike an outing with my girlfriends.

The date ended, and he dropped me home. As I was saying how nice it was to catch up, I noticed him eyeing me off in a way that didnt look like he was just admiring my outfit.

Just as I was thinking maybe this guy is straight, he turned to the car mirror and asked with serious concern: ”do you think my hair looks funny? I got a new hairdresser the other week, and I just dont think she did a good job.”

Playing with his hair, he sighed sadly…and so did I.

My gaydar was so confused by this stage it had malfunctioned; so I was on my own to figure it out.
Then, just as I slumped over, defeated with this guessing game, he leant over and kissed me.
There were fireworks, sparks, any cliche words you can use to describe it. And with that the game was called off, and my gaydar hasnt beeped once since.

The Three Monsters of Dating

It’s just like the old saying – you hear about it, but you never think it will happen to you.
Sometimes a friend will tell you a horrified, detailed account of it happening to her. You tell her how awful it is, but secretly you are thinking, smugly: ‘That can never be me.”

Unfortunately, it can.

However long you’ve been in the dating game, studies show 80% of women have encountered at least one of the many monsters of dating.

Usually normal-looking to the untrained eye, these monsters have been long roaming among us freely and are often impossible to identify until it’s too late. Here is a list of some of the most common monsters that may help.

The “Mr Excel and Brake”

This one is probably the most common of the three monsters. From the time you meet, he gets things started at a rapid pace – dinners, trips away, even talk of meeting the parents. Then, as suddenly as it started, he has a major freak out and says things are moving too fast and needs to stop seeing you – acting like it was you who suggested these trips, dinners, meeting of the parents. He’ll completely turn the tables around and while he had his foot firmly on the accelerator a week ago, now he’s slammed the breaks on the whole thing, leaving you to pick up the pieces and analyse just what happened. Studies show this particular monster has similiar traits to the “commitment-phobe”, which is mentioned later.

The “Mr Vague”

This one is tricky. Flying under the radar, this is a dating monster that has left the most experienced dating self help writers have baffled and simply unable to explain.
Picture this. You meet a guy in a bar, he gets your number. All sounds pretty normal, right? Fast forward a few weeks. You’ve been getting weekly text messages from this guy, usually every Thursday at 5. Each time his number comes up, you can’t help but think: “he’s going to ask me out for this weekend” – right? Wrong. These messages that Mr Vague keep sending are flirty, sweet even, but they never ever allude to meeting. Some Mr Vague victims think “he’s just too shy to ask me out.” So they ask him – but this has led to devastating results. One victim recalls: “I decided to take action and ask him. He didnt write back for days. Then the next week he sent me a message asking how I am… but everytime I mentioned catching up he gave a vague reply or disappeared off the face of the earth. He still messages, but I never write back now.” So, why is this guy wasting his credit on someone he has no intention of seeing?
Researchers have suggested various reasons.  The first reason is that he perhaps has a girlfriend, and wants to keep you on the “sidelines.” Just waiting there as a back-up, in case they break up, or he gets bored.
The other reason is a confidence boost; he may not want to date but likes to have women messaging him when he’s feeling bored or lonely.
Further studies are being conducted into this baffling phenomenom.

The “Mr Commitment phobe”

He hates planning in advance. In fact you usually get a message asking if you want to meet up just a few minutes before, giving you just enough time to throw yourself into the shower and chuck on the first clothes you find – usually resulting you turning up to the date with wet hair and your mother’s old sundress.
“Would you like to go to a movie this weekend?” You casually ask. The fear in his eyes is clear. Dont even think about trying to meet his parents, asking him to meet yours, or mentioning the word “marriage” or “wedding” – even if you are talking about your friend who just got married. You’ll have to sideskirt around the topic completely.

Dating gurus say the best thing to do is act easy breezy at all times and pretend you hate marriage or commitment. “Don’t call him or you’ll scare him off. Don’t talk about the future or you’ll scare him off. Don’t hold hands or you’ll scare him off.” Don’t listen to this crap. Clearly this monster is a time waster that forces you to walk on egg shells that you shouldnt have to walk on. Best thing is to drop him until he grows up.