George Has Left The Building

It was less than 12 months ago.

I was in a veritable Magic Faraway Tree of topsy turvy worlds.


George Clooney had been ditched by his girlfriend

George 1

This week, the media is awash with tales of how the seemingly-eternal bachelor has been nabbed/tamed/snagged by an uber-savvy brunette who has already earned the moniker of HRH (Human Rights Hottie) and at every opportunity is flashing dark locks and some seriously chiselled cheekbones


Amal Allamuddin

All the while:

  •  single women the world over, regardless of the likelihood that they would have ever crossed paths with GC, let alone done any snaring), and
  • every gay man who believed George’s procession of girlfriends was a carefully choreographed ruse

sighed…. just a little.

Let’s just put aside our feelings that WE might have been that ONE, and consider here what it would have taken to snare the world’s most eligible bachelor.

The Good News

  1.  You don’t need to be blonde. Since 40s chick has a long history of the relentless pursuit of blonde in an ongoing battle with my genetic predisposition to mousey, and to the detriment of my credit card balance, this is cold, cold consolation.
  2. You can have a major shoe shortcoming.       This will include inappropriate combining of short boots and beige stockings, (who does peep toes with stockings?)

.peep toes


and a very clashy approach to flats


The Bad News

  1.  You need to be Oxford educated and speak three languages (and the Braille/lala-speak that comes out of you after 1.5 bottles of Veuve does not count as one of these)
  2. You need to have clients that include Kofi Annan and Julian Assange, you need to have a role advising the UN and you might also need to be the legal adviser to the King of Bahrain. Being an occasional letter-writer to the Herald-Sun and a protester to the local council on the topic of inappropriate suburban medium-density housing (hello, City Of Boroondara!) may not count.
  3. At the tender age of 36, when 40s chick was still trying (and failiing) to nail that pivotal decision point where you walk away from Tequila shots, you need to be capable of representing the interests of the entire population of the Ukraine.

Which only goes to prove, that instead of George being the one who got nabbed, it might just have been the reverse, that Amal was the uber-catch of the singleton world and that it is GC that is counting his lucky stars that he planted an ethically-mined sparkler on someone with slightly more ambitious life goals than a blonde lady-wrestler.

Just sayin….

If you are taking your online dating a little more seriously than this blog, check out this website for fabulously simple online dating advice.



Why You Won’t Find Love On A Plane

No one wants to gain all of life’s single-girl learnings through personal trial and error, so we owe it to the sisterhood to share life’s hard-won lessons.

Here’s two

One – Don’t date John Mayer.  Granted, probably not a stumble we are all likely to make, but bear in mind that girls more famous than us fell into this trap. Rebound guy, professional heart-breaker and kiss’n’teller,  Mr Mayer is only useful as short-term breakup-recovery fodder.

john Mayer

Bet Katy Perry wished she knew this before releasing that cringeworthy duet with him. (just google it, I am not going to legitimise it by posting it here)

Two – You won’t meet the man of your dreams on a plane. 

Logically, if your airline travel takes you to grown-up capital cities frequented by savvy business travellers, you would think that you’d be more likely to meet an intelligent eligible male with prospects than in a random bar because:

  • you are not travelling Garuda Airlines with hordes of ‘end of footy season’ lads clad in Bintang singlets, headed for Bali.
  • If you are mingling with the frequent flyers you are likely to encounter the ‘been married but too many airmiles put paid to that’ set who hopefully have no more baggage than that carry-on-limit-flouting mini-tank that they are trying to wedge into the overhead compartment.

ie …its just not to going to happen.

The reason why a long haul flight won’t magically matchmake you with a compatible co-traveller?  That co-traveller will be this guy:

 One – Mr Chatty

Before you even set butt on seat, Mr Chatty is eyeing off your magazine collection, your paperback, your hand luggage brand and has his head cocked to one side to take in the scent you are wearing.  Why?  He knows them all.  Not in a creepy ‘has stalked you since check-in’ kinda way but because he just knows everything. Period.

Your paperback, only released two weeks ago?  He’s read it and he’s going to talk you through it in excruciating detail (ncluding spoilers) before you are even through the safety briefing.

He knows your destination.  How? He’s read it upside down from the boarding pass clenched in your teeth as you awkwardly tried to stow your cabin baggage to avoid exposing your midriff (you regrettably wore a T-shirt a touch too short for airline travel).

Re: that destination, he’s preparing to tell you every immunisation you should have had before this journey if your work schedule had only permitted a window to consult with the travel doctor.

t shirt geek

There’s no escaping Mr Chatty.  You can pull on your fab, noise-cancelling headphones (Note: his are better) and try to watch your fave chick flick where you already know the ending so he can’t spoil it.  He’ll still tap you on the arm and tell you the 10 things no one knew about Julia Roberts before the movie Pretty Woman.

Unless you have a large dose of the celebrity-snooze-aid Stillnox, you aren’t going to be able to pass the time easily.

 Two – Mr Quirky

This guy is slightly less annoying than Mr Chatty, but will subject you to a long-haul parade of random.

He’s a faith healer that sensed ‘a distortion in your aura’ from the minute you sat down. In reality?  That distortion in your aura was the speed-wobbles caused by descending the aerobridge in heels after three sneaky Sauv Blancs in the airline lounge.

He’s a life coach that can sense that you are not in fact on a journey that will fulfil your life’s purpose. (anyone could guess that from the fact that you are carrying a copy of Gourmet Traveller and you are headed to Townsville)

He’s got a fear of travelling that will cause him to grip the armrests, go rigid, and rummage in your seat-pocket for an extra sick bag at the slightest hint of turbulence.

None of these seem to immediately resonate with you.

Three – a colleague

Much as we may enjoy the daytime company of our colleagues and even chit chat over a 5pm beer, no one ever really wants to fly, eat, sleep next to, and wake up drooling beside a colleague on a long-haul flight.   There are precious few in the world that I would share that level of intimacy with and none of them are on the same payroll as I am.

No one wants to hear office rumours come back about the weird ‘phhhhrruuugh’ sound that you make whilst sleeping.

I have been known to take extreme evasive action to avoid being seated with a colleague on a long haul flight including (but not limited to)

  •  Hiding in the Ladies upon seeing a colleague in departures so that they don’t beckon me to join them in a shared check in
  • Declining the opportunity to car pool which would again imply joint check-in by suggesting that I was coming not from home but from a non-existent bayside holiday house
  • Choosing to travel Melbourne to Singapore via Perth

Do these things.  No one wants to find an unauthorised photo of themselves slack-jawed and dribbling on the office gossip’s instagram.  (that was so #lastyearsxmasparty)

 Four – an eligible version of George Clooney

george 3

This all sounds good, and you may have to paper-cut-slice-yourself with the corner of the infight magazine to make sure you aren’t dreaming, but be aware that all you have here is some mocking at the hands of the airline gods.

Why?  Pretty as HE may be, these are not going to be YOUR finest hours.  You might start all freshly made up, clothing neatly ironed and with the sparkle that is the combination of some bronzer-testing in duty free and a Bollinger in the first class lounge, but its all going to go downhill from here.

You won’t be wearing the skinny jeans that have a spanx-like effect on your thighs, simply because the last time you did this on a long-haul you felt like you gave yourself an entire-lower-body case of deep vein thrombosis.  Therefore your thighs will spread horizontally, taking all available real-estate with the zeal of Lindsay Fox reclaming some Portsea foreshore.

Instead, you’ll be wearing a cargo pant.  In a stretch this means you have something in common with the off-duty supermodel but only if paired with high heels. You know you won’t do that as you’ve already learned that trying to stuff fluid-engorged feet into stilettos has all the grace and finesse of  trying to get a sleeping bag back into its little sack.

No one can do this.

About mid-way during the flight your facial skin, perfectly prepared for the journey with hydration that would green the Nullabor and a raw food vegan diet that would have Gwyneth genuflecting, will FAIL in its ability to wake up with acceptable plane-face.  You will look like you put your face into a 90 minute industrial tumble dry cycle on hot.  Every hour of plane travel ages you a year.  I know this.

So your Clooney-like neighbour will dismiss you from contention whilst ogling your trash-mag to see if there is a Di Caprio cast-off he can snag *

(*men do not suffer the aircraft ageing process)

But don’t despair.  Just regard your likelihood of meeting a new partner on a plane as low as snagging an unexpected upgrade from economy to first class, and you won’t be disappointed.

Wake me up when the world returns to normality

I’m sitting perfectly still on the couch, arms braced, unwilling to move my pupils more than two millimetres either way.  Not since the day after the night of the 17 tequila shots have I been so certain that any sudden move would shatter the universe around me into a million pieces.

I half expect the four horseman of the apocalypse to be standing on my balcony, quietly wheezing breath redolent of new-testament hay, horse-nostrils anxiously steaming up the glass.

I’m wondering if I’ve done one too many Bikram classes and have slid into a Gwyneth Paltrow life of Sliding Doors.  (the fact that there is a box of Favourites chocolates  in my hand rather than a cucumber, basil and lime juice would suggest not, but nothing is certain in this shaky new universe)

gwyneth juice

Nothing about the world makes any sense anymore.

For something EVEN MORE INCOMPREHSIBLE than my bestie giving up champagne, me growing a maternal gene or a Kardashian stepping out of the limelight has occurred.

 George Clooney has been dumped.

Someone voluntarily kicked this one to the curb.

George 1


I’ve burned up the google machine looking for an explanation on what Stacy Keibler was thinking in sending George back to the dating pool to the  point where my laptop is in ashes on the lounge room floor.

I even asked Siri.

“why did she dump George Clooney?”


Even Siri can’t get her head around it and needs to have a little lie down.

I’m unwilling to accept the ho-hum old chestnuts around the difficulty of long distance relationships and the likely disconnect presented by George’s avowed bachelor and child-free status.

Given none of my electronic devices are prepared to elaborate on her rationale for ditching THIS

george 3

I’ve done my own research and come up with the following

 She hates the man cave

Lord knows this can be a dealbreaker.  I’ve observed through friends how their partners can retreat to whatever form their man-cave takes and progressively disconnect from the relationship.

Sure, George’s man cave takes the form of a villa on Lake Como with 25 rooms, is worth about 40m, with a pool, lake views and a very effective anti-stalker system (trust me, I know this having driven past there whilst on holiday in the region.    Maybe 25 times. Whatever.)


And yes, it’s a LONG way removed from a 3m x 3m stainless steel shed with the fridge that’s no longer good enough for the kitchen and a view of the clothesline.

stainless steel shed

But that doesn’t mean she’s happy about him hanging out there with his buddies, knocking the top off a cold one and rabbiting on about the footy.

There’s that awkwardness about his bestie

Speaking of buddies, the long-term bromance between Brad Pitt and George Clooney has been well documented.  Two individuals, so genetically blessed, that when they hang out the embarrassment of physical talent sucks the universe dry such that every other male looks like a cast member of the Big Bang Theory by comparison.  A pairing that has lasted longer than George’s last three relationships combined.

george clooney  - brad pitt

Stace had the misfortune of putting this quote out there early on, and no doubt has suffered a touch of the awkwards / the daggers of Angelina since day one.  That stuff can just get really, really old.

stacey quote

She’s having that mid 30s ‘is this all there is’, meh phase

Been there, done that, have the half-started naturopathy degree, meditation mat and self-help book collection to prove it.  The mid 30s are tough.  Look closely at Ms Keibler’s life and you see it playing out in her career journey.  From kickin lady wrestler

stacey wrestler

……to a reality TV show that touts itself  as “featuring aspiring food entrepreneurs pitching their food-product inventions to a panel of industry experts, with the ultimate victor receiving a nationwide launch in a major grocery-store chain”

stacey supermarket

Chick is trying to find herself.

 Pesky political incompatibility

Nothing can kill a vibe like being on the opposite ends of a political spectrum.  George practically has Darfur as a middle name, has been awarded a peace award from the Nobel Peace prize laureates in Rome, is a UN messenger of peace and is an open supporter of Barak Obama.

Stacy has been ALMOST as prolific in expressing her political views, tweeting this during the 2012 Presidential election:

I #voted. Have you?


Poor George.  Presumably he’s dealing with this the same way that many of us have, downing a glass of something alcoholic while brushing up his online dating profile, in a desperate attempt to boost his self esteem and search for someone to spend his next (based on the Clooney law of averages) two years with.

If there’s any fairness in my now-wonky universe, I’ll be able to let go of my vice-grip on the couch and see a wink in my email from Taurus52, sometime resident of Laglio Italy.

More likely that the horsemen will crash through the door and run off with my box of Favourites.