by Sami Lukis
I’m not sure if Troy was aware of our life plan, but that really didn’t matter. I knew exactly what I wanted in a man when I was just four years old.
I also knew exactly what I didn’t want, apparently: a man with a smelly lunchbox.
Let me explain.
Mum found herself on the receiving end of an awkward phone call from another classmate’s mother one day, regarding a sensitive situation that had been distressing her son Darren. Every lunchtime, I would forbid Darren from sitting next to me because I couldn’t stand the smell of the hard-boiled eggs in his lunchbox. Poor old Dazza was longing to sit with me, but I told him he could only do so if he was sans egg.
Shunned and rejected, Darren would go home each afternoon and beg his mother to stop putting eggs in his lunchbox. But every morning, she’d throw those little stink bombs in, unwittingly exposing him to rejection in front of the entire class.
Day after humiliating day.
Bless his little, broken-hearted, cotton socks.
Okay, I know this makes me sound like a bratty four-year-old ballbreaker, but I was never one of the mean girls. My folks were actually quite proud of the fact that I was a bit of a bleeding heart. When I found out the school was dishing out punishments to any snotty-nosed kid who forgot to carry a handkerchief, I insisted on taking extra hankies with me to school every day, so I could distribute them to anyone in need.
Hanky Panky Sami to the rescue!
My reason for shunning Dazza at lunch wasn’t coming from a nasty place. I just had an overwhelmingly visceral reaction to the smell of egg. It’s been a problem all my life. The slightest whiff of it – boiled, fried, scrambled, otherwise – still makes me dry-retch more than forty years later.
My overly sensitive olfactory actually produces an intense reaction to all kinds of unpleasant odours (you’ll discover the extent of it later, in the chapter ‘Putrid Phermones’).
Anyhoo, Darren eventually broke down and explained to his mum that the eggs were turning him into a social pariah and preventing him from getting the girl of his dreams (i.e. moi). Which is when his mother reached boiling point and called mine to discuss.
My dear mum explained to me that my behaviour was upsetting poor Darren and she tried to persuade me to reconsider my egg-free zone. But I stubbornly refused to relax my no-eggs-near-me-at-lunch policy.
So, instead, she gave me the best advice she possibly could at the time. Rather than brutally rejecting Daz so mercilessly, I could try to gently reassure him: ‘I’m really sorry to upset you, Darren. It’s not you. It’s just your smelly lunchbox.’
Which, as it turns out, has been solid advice I’ve used throughout my entire dating life. Just replace ‘your smelly lunchbox’ with ‘your thin shoulders’*, ‘your wave machine’*, ‘your warm sushi escape clause’*, ‘your weird text message’*, ‘your two pugs’*, or any other appropriate wording for the particular man and/or situation.
Thanks, Mum! (They really do always know best.)
*All are actual excuses I have used over the years.
Okay, so I might be romantically challenged. But I’m a really great kisser. That’s what three decades of dating does for a girl. Plus, I had pashing lessons when I was just ten.
I had just started ‘going around’ with a boy when the most popular girl in school, Kylie, told me that if I was ‘going around with someone’ it meant I had to kiss him . . . with an open mouth. I had never kissed a boy like that before and my ten-year-old, Type A personality was petrified that I might do it all wrong and that I would be a really bad kisser. So Kylie agreed to meet me and my boyfriend each lunchtime behind the school dental clinic and teach us how to pash.
I’m not talking any girl-on-girl action here. Kylie would literally just talk us through the actions, step by step, as we did it. ‘First, he has to turn his head this way. And you have to turn your head that way. Good, now your lips need to touch. Open your mouths. Keep your lips soft. Okay, move your head slowly left and right. And move your heads up and down. Now he has to put his tongue into your mouth and move it around a little. Softly. Now touch his tongue with yours . . .’
And that’s how it went, daily, for two weeks, until we perfected the pash. The irony of being taught the finer points of tonsil hockey behind the school dental clinic was completely lost on me at the time.
I don’t know how or why Kylie became such an expert on kissing, but she was a very good teacher. And we were obviously outstanding students because we eventually graduated from Kylie’s ‘pashing lessons’ to her ‘pashing sessions’.
We were one of three couples invited to Kylie’s secret after-school pashing project. As soon as the school bell rang each afternoon, we’d all race down to meet in the giant concrete pipe in the playground, where there was enough space for us all to get it on, but remain hidden from any sneaky onlookers. We would assume pashing position. Kylie would look at her watch and yell, ‘Go!’ and we would all have to suck face for a full minute. Then, when the minute was up, we’d stop pashing, jump on our BMX bikes and ride home.
Strangely, it’s more humiliating for me to share this now than I remember it actually being at the time.
I also look back and think, how hilarious was Kylie? Teaching pashing at the age of ten. What a legend! I wonder what she’s doing now? Probably managing a brothel. Or directing porn.
In spite of my early smooching escapades, I’m not a random pasher. Never have been. I need to be attracted to a guy both physically and mentally before I want to feel his lips on mine. That first kiss is a precious moment I might just want to remember for the rest of my life. What if he turns out to be my Mr Happily Ever After, and that first kiss is the last first kiss I’ll ever have?
Some of my girlfriends have no qualms about going straight in for the pash within seconds of meeting a guy. My dearest friend Angela is known as the Pash and Dash Queen for this very reason. I’ve never seen anyone sidle up to a complete stranger on a dancefloor and get their tongue down his throat faster than Angie. She would go in for the kill, suck face with the guy for a couple of minutes and then rejoin our group to continue dancing around our handbags as if nothing had happened.
I don’t know how Angie managed to get away with it so often. A certain naughty twinkle in her eye, perhaps? Or her flaming copper-coloured hair, which practically screamed ‘I’m a randy red-head’? Or maybe it was just the simple fact that no man on the planet can resist a random kiss from a gorgeous girl on a dancefloor.
Angie is now a respectable married woman, so her P&D days are well and truly behind her. But, good Lord, we had some fun watching her in action back in the day.
Anyhoo, with a little help from Kylie and her expert pashing tuition, I now pride myself on my kissing ability. And I’ve certainly put that training to very good use over the years during my decades-long, frog kissing crusade.
When it comes to dishing out advice on how and where to meet men, I’d like to respectfully ask my smug married friends to please shut the fuck up. Especially if you feel the need to share this particularly unhelpful pearl of wisdom: ‘Listen, darl, you’ve just got to stop looking. Because that’s when love will find you.’
I’ve heard this one from my married girlfriends over the years, collectively, no less than around 4 million times. And each time I hear it, I sit there smiling at my dear friend’s smug little face and nodding politely, while secretly thinking about how to break into her smug little house while she’s sleeping, find her smug little wedding dress and rip it to shreds. Yes, it can be surprisingly easy to call off the search party if you have made the decision to take a break from dating and you have absolutely zero interest in meeting anyone. But it’s a completely different story if you really, really, really would like to find your person. We might tell you we’re not looking. Hell, we might even tell ourselves we’re not looking. But the fact is, we are always looking.
You cannot simply flick your internal ‘seeking love and companionship’ switch to the off position. An
yone who’s ever been single for an extended period of time knows it’s impossible to just stop looking. You are always on alert. Every time you leave the house.
This does not imply a sense of desperation. It’s simply (and feel free to blame this on every rom-com ever made) about remaining optimistic that you just might just stumble across your future husband anywhere, anytime, in a moment of perfect serendipity. Perhaps even when you least expect it. Maybe in the unlikeliest of places.
Which is why I spent two hours blow-drying my hair and painstakingly applying a full face of makeup before arriving at the hospital to have my gall bladder removed. I convinced myself that this was perfectly acceptable behaviour.
It was also the first time I’d ever had any type of surgery and I had no idea how many people, or who, might be staring down at me while I lay there unconscious on the operating table. What if my anaesthetist was single and he looked like Patrick from Offspring? Why shouldn’t I look my best while having an organ removed?
My makeup actually looked pretty good that day, too. And my hair sat just the way I like it, even post-surgery (miracles can happen). But I left the hospital the following day, with one less organ and no new love in my heart.
My gorgeous girlfriend Shelley never leaves the house without a full face of makeup. If she’s going for a run around the park at 7 a.m., she’s up at 6 a.m. to blow-dry her hair, fix her face and apply fake lashes. I always thought it was a touch ambitious to think you could meet someone while out running. I mean, how is he even supposed to notice you or get your attention as you whiz past? But this actually happened to another friend as she was enjoying her power walk along the Bondi to Bronte scenic coastal track. A man walked up beside her and said, ‘I notice you walking here every morning and I’d really like to take you out. Here’s my number. Call me if you’re interested.’ And she did. And they ended up dating for a few years.
My friend Nina once met a guy at a wake. It was a funeral for an old schoolfriend, and a guy she hadn’t seen in twenty years showed up looking much finer than she remembered. They ended up sharing what they agreed was an entirely appropriate, if somewhat overly affectionate, send-off for their old mate.
See – it can happen. Anywhere. Anytime.
If you’ve ever been a single woman in Sydney or Brisbane for any extended period of time, someone has probably suggested that the best place for you to meet men is . . . in Melbourne. Yeah, thanks. Like that’s helpful.
I discovered, quite by accident, that the cute little town of Portsea (ninety minutes’ drive south of Melbourne) might just be the pick-up capital of Australia. More men hit on me during one eventful night at the local pub in Portsea than in some entire years in Sydney.
First there was ‘Sandy’, the young surfer dude. After he flicked his blond dreadlocks in my direction, his opening lines were a) Are you that girl from the telly? and b) Come here often? Not a good start, but at least he had a go. He was young. He’d learn.
‘Randy’, the fitness trainer with an awkward sense of dress, offered to take me sailing. I was willing to overlook the fact that he had his jeans pulled up too high. I even turned a blind eye to the matching snakeskin shoes and belt (bless). But I declined his kind offer after discovering that a) he had a girlfriend and b) she’d been standing 3 metres from us the whole time he’d been chatting me up.
‘McSleazy’ was a handsome guy in his forties who had an obvious love affair with his own chest. Too many buttons undone for my liking. He also talked too much. In less than five minutes, he told me that a) he’d just had the ‘best conversation of his life’ with two large-breasted women and b) they’d been discussing porn. I moved on.
‘Mr Big’ was a late yet promising arrival. Tall, dark, kind of handsome. We chatted for only fifteen minutes before he a) told me I was going to be his ‘future wife’ and b) offered to fly me to Fiji first class the following weekend for our first date. Tempting, I agree (especially if I suddenly discovered a thirst for kava). But a little too intense. And kind of desperate.
‘Bob’ the builder from Ballarat, was the cute guy with the cheeky smile who engaged me in the most witty and charming conversation I’d had with a bloke in a long time. He had me in stitches for two hilarious hours, before a) asking ever so politely for my number and b) asking even more politely for a kiss under the full moon.
Bob from Ballarat definitely won the contract that night.
There’s another charming little saying every single gal has heard during extended periods of singledom, usually by some well-meaning smug married friend or a parent. ‘You really need to get out there, darl. Mr Right is not going to come knocking on your front door.’
Of course, I realise this is 100 per cent true. I live in an apartment on the eighth floor of an inner-city building with fortress-like security. There’s security to get into the building, second-level security to make it into the lift, and third-level security to get through my front door. So the chance of my dream guy somehow making it through Fort Knox and randomly knocking on my door on the eighth floor are slim to none.
Okay. More like none.
Unless he moves in next door. Or, if he’s the Thai delivery guy, who actually appears at my front door once a week. The Thai delivery guy is really lovely. He’s kind of cute. His name is Mok. But, sadly, he’s not my guy. He’s too young. We have zero chemistry. And, over the years, I do feel like I’ve spent enough time with him in that brief exchange of food and money to know.
While I haven’t found my Happy Ever After with the guy who delivers my vegetarian laksa, Mok has taught me a valuable lesson about love (other than reinforcing that my dream guy will not come knocking on my front door). My beloved furchild, Lolli, gets crazy excited whenever Mok arrives. It’s the same ritual every time. She hears the security buzzer to signal his arrival at the building and she starts barking. It’s a bark I’ve come to recognise as different to the others. It’s a bark of pure anticipation.
There are many people who ring my buzzer each week (clearly not a metaphor), so I’m not sure how Lolli knows it’s Mok. But she does. She must hear a unique tone in my voice when I answer the buzzer – something that subliminally says, ‘Yippee, the delicious Thai dinner that I didn’t have to cook myself is here. Get. In. My. Belly!’
So after I’ve let Mok into the building, Lolli barks and barks and barks at the top of her little lungs until I let her out into the hallway where she sits, on the edge of her paws, staring at the lift door, willing it to open. She sits there waiting as if her little life depends on it. Body upright. Tail wagging. Laser-like focus. Waiting for the lift door to open. And Mok to appear.
And when that lift door finally opens to reveal Mok (with my tasty Thai treats), Lolli literally jumps for joy. I love watching this interaction. It always makes me smile. Mok’s arrival fills Lolli with the kind of happiness and pure joy I imagine you feel for a great romantic love.
So this is what I’ve learned: my dream guy will never randomly come knocking at my front door. But when I do meet a guy and I’m standing in my hallway on the eighth floor waiting for him to step out of the lift, I hope to be feeling the level of excitement and anticipation and happiness and joy that Lolli feels in that moment, when she’s waiting for Mok.
While I’ve never had a handsome stranger come knocking at my front door, I did have one randomly knock on my car window once.
I’d just returned to my car after running errands in the busy business district of North Sydney. I was about to drive off when I heard a tap on my window. A stranger was standing there, motioning with his hands for me to wind down the window. I immediately thought there was a problem with my engine or I’d left my handbag on the roof. Why else would a complete stranger be knocking on my window? So I rolled it down and, rather timidly, the man leaned in and said, ‘Hello, I was just wondering if I could take you to lunch?’
No introduction. No small talk. Just a knock on the window and an invitation to eat. Very forward, indeed! I’d never seen the gu
y before in my life. He was dressed in a nice suit and he looked professional and harmless (and handsome) enough, but there was no way in hell I was going to just saunter off and have lunch with a complete stranger. So I freaked out and drove off at high speed. As if the guy had actually leaned in and said, ‘Hello, Samantha I would very much like to cut your body up into little pieces and eat your intestines with some fava beans and a nice chianti.’
*
One of the most memorable TV commercials from my childhood was an ad for antiperspirant, in which a girl walks past a stranger, and he is so captivated by the delicious scent coming from her underarms that he chases her down the street to give her a bunch of flowers. I remember being totally enchanted by such a wonderfully spontaneous and mysteriously romantic gesture and at the same time thinking something like that would never happen in real life.
But when it did happen to me (well . . . sort of), it just felt creepy. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I started to panic. Had the guy been following me? And, if so, for how long? How did I know he wasn’t a serial killer? Or a Scientologist?
It takes a brave woman to go on a date with a total stranger. I’ll only accept a date with someone I’ve already met, or researched online or been introduced to through mutual acquaintances. I like to know at least something about that person (age, interests, job) that might indicate we have some kind of connection. When the guy who approaches you has never met you and knows absolutely nothing about you, you can only assume that it is based on physical attraction alone. Which should probably be really flattering.
But instead, I saw it as disconcerting and a little desperate.
Later, I wondered if I did the wrong thing by driving away so hastily. Should I have been impressed by a man who had the balls to take a risk, in that spontaneous, ‘sliding door’ moment, rather than let the moment pass him by, as so many of us do? We’ve all had a sliding door moment (or three), haven’t we? When you feel an inexplicable, undeniable attraction to a complete stranger and for one fleeting moment, you wonder, Should I say something? Should I get their attention? If I let this moment pass, I may never see that person again. Your decision, in that moment, could change your destiny. But instead, you do nothing, and your destiny is just a dirty big ‘what-if’. Most of us choose the second option, because I guess living with a dirty big ‘what-if’ is easier to deal with than a big fat rejection.
