How match.com tenderly imagines The Godfather III brings people together:
“I like old movies, especially Godfather III, it’s not considered the best one, but that’s just me…”
How my match.com date imagined The Godfather III (and indeed I and II) could bring us together:
Ah, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? The kind of offer every girl dreams of… I should send it to match.com. They can do something with it in their next advert.
“I’ll finger you while watching The Godfather I, II and III”
I declined his (very kind) offer and instead reached for the notebook I carry with me at all times and wrote it down. When you’ve drunk the best part of a hotel bar and someone propositions you with a gem like that, it needs to be recorded for posterity, lest you forget.
PS. I actually only wrote “I’ll finger you while watching The Godfather”, which is what he said when we got got back to the hotel room and I clocked the big bed and massage oils, and he clocked the widescreen TV and DVD library. He added the I, II and III himself – which just sounds sore, quite frankly – and signed it with a flourish. I cropped his signature out. See? I know when to stop sharing…
PPS. We didn’t watch The Godfather I, II or III, but he was so very, very drunk, he fell asleep mid-fuck, collapsed heavily on my left leg and gently snoring. Can anyone tell me why I miss this man…?
Or rather, I realised that it’s not cool to look down on someone else for making an effort when your own leg hair purrs when you brush against stuff.
There are now no errant hairs on my body. Anywhere – I shaved and strimmed and plucked and waxed. And I went and got my nails done. I dyed my hair to get rid of the greys. I face scrubbed and masked. I arranged a contact lens trial. I pulled in a favour from a make-up artist I know, and she’s going to give me a lesson.
And it was all very tiring. Not physically. There is nothing very demanding about sitting while someone files your nails for you. Lying back for 10 minutes and letting the mask do its thing? Not so strenuous. But all that thinking about yourself, and preening… It’s very, very boring. I’ve always wondered how high-maintenance women find the time, especially ones with children, but now I’m double-y in awe, because it isn’t just the time it takes to physically create the look – there’s all the time thinking about yourself, too. I am not that interesting, and I’m not that interested in myself. It was hard.
Ah… A very shoddy effort. I didn’t get past the basics. I am now a clean, smooth, presentable canvas. I should be putting something on it. I did ask the lady who did my nails about lash extensions. She said they’d probably brush my glasses and annoy me. Yeah. Probably.
Ooh! But today, a very good looking boy (20?) gave me his phone number. He was cleaning my car at the time. So maybe there is something to say for a bit of a spit and polish. I’m not going to call him. He’s way too young. But it was a very welcome ego boost.
I took The Boy to a farm park today. We saw pigs, goats, sheep, llama, cows, guinea pigs and one of The Pirate’s glamorous exes.
How did I recognise her? She’s a Z-list celeb. Had a pretty major role in a pretty major kids’ TV drama in the 90s, and has perfectly preserved herself in Botox ever since. The truly terrible perm has gone – can’t knock her for that, we all had one – but the rest is pretty much as was. She must be older than me and looks about 22.
And she has peroxide blonde hair extensions (I’d gloat that she’s a natural ginger – no point in trying to hide it, we all saw you on telly, love – but I’m the mother of a ginger, and so can’t). And false tits. And false eyelashes. And false nails. And false tan. And really heavy-handed Jodie Marsh-esque make-up.
There was probably a woman underneath all of that nylon and polyester and silicone and oil-and-emolient, but she was hiding really, really well.
I’d like to be generous and wonder what happened to make her hate herself so much that she has to wear a mask (I’d lay the blame at The Pirate’s door, yet from his description of her she was like this before they met).
I’d like to point a naggy, sanctimonious finger at the media for perpetuating the myth that this… creature… is what women should look like. I shouldn’t blame her for aspiring to an ideal.
But I’m not generous, and I do blame her.
I hated her on sight.
I’d have disliked her even if I didn’t know that she’d got The Pirate to a place I couldn’t, meeting the parents, practically living together. She is not my kind of woman, stabbing at her phone with her 3″ nails and ignoring her mute, sparkless children as they listlessly drifted around her knees.
The character she played on TV was spoiled and mean-spirited and snide and bitchy and shallow. It was hard not to overlay these characteristics on her today – not least because her face naturally looks spoiled and mean-spirited and snide and bitchy, and the Botox means she physically can’t move it into a more pleasing arrangement. Everywhere I looked, she was there, peering sourly (and somewhat short-sightedly) at her phone with her piggy little eyes.
(God, it feels good to get all of this out. I’m not naming the TV programme, or her character, or indeed her, as she looked just the WAGgy type to have a Google alert set up for herself. But the programme was set in a youth club in the North East and launched the careers of a double act who have changed the face of Saturday night TV forever with their shitty inane game shows. Her character – whose name rhymes with ‘Bonna Dell’ – had a ginger perm . PLEASE DO NOT SPECULATE IN COMMENTS, British peeps. She is like Voldemort. We will not summon her through search. I already fear for the traffic ‘bestiality’ is going to generate…)
And ever since The Boy has gone to bed, I’ve sat on my sofa and cried, because I’m not a size 6 with false… everything, I can’t be arsed to type it all out again. Because this is what men want. I don’t know whether the lads’ mags are feeding or creating demand, but their pages are full of women who look like The Pirate’s Glamorous Ex. Nothing about her was real. She’s a walking cartoon.
An entirely different species to me. Fucking me really must have been like fucking a pig, if that kind of woman is what The Pirate gets off on… Kind people have tried pointing out that she is an EX, and I came after her, but she made a mark on his life, and I didn’t. I wasn’t worthy of a mark.
And this could well be because I am in fact a neurotic, judgey, snide, bitchy, shallow mess rather than because my boobs and nails and hair are real, but for tonight, I’m hating myself for the way I look, not the way I am. That can have a go tomorrow.
UPDATE It occurred to me a week later to do some proper Google stalking and I found her on Facebook. She is wearing full drag queen make-up in all of her pictures, has shared a wicked photo of herself in which she is blatantly trying to upstage a bride ON HER WEDDING DAY and actually has a very scary face. Predatory. Like she wants to eat you, and not in a good way. So I feel less inferior now. I may be bitchy and snide and shallow and neurotic, but I have a nice smile and all my own eyelashes.
The day has been spent in a cloud of woe. Woe is the wrong word, actually. It’s a bit passive. I have spent the day in a fit of murderous rage. All those hearts. All that red. Seriously.
Obviously nothing from The Pirate. Obviously. Though it’s all a bit playground, as I didn’t send him anything, so quite why I’ve taken umbrage over the fact that I haven’t been overwhelmed with all those hearts and all that red, I don’t know.
I’m a stuck record, but WHY COULDN’T HE LOVE ME?
I know. He’s incapable. A more salient question would be, why can’t I let him go?
There has been contact. Of course there’s been contact. We exchange emails. It’s not helping. Especially when none of those emails have been exchanged today. Fucking Valentine’s Day. It’s hateful.
There is no point to this post, so I will stop.