Hunting the Hound-dog

My lovelies,

Apologies for my inactive blogging of late. I have had some wonderful life changes. I am now in a new job working with the most wonderful, diverse range of women imaginable and I am back studying in faded leggings and grandma jumpers, where happiness comes with sun shining through the study window, the sound of the postman driving up the road and the smell and sight of a pot of chai steaming up my computer screen.

I do have some news for you and yes it is juicy. In fact it is dirty and juicy and it involves a potential scoundrel. You will love it my darlings.

Last week I went on my first official internet date. I had been on one before but I do not classify it is as authentic (and it certainly was not blog-worthy). With the first internet date, I attended out of guilt. He had contacted me and paid for it. My heart stretched out when I saw how persistently he emailed, how he wore his cargo trousers too tightly around the crotch  and when I accidentally bumped into him on Brunswick Street and thought avoiding his eye would equate to snobbery. I felt like I needed to meet him, to show him that he was still worthy of an OJ and a sunny afternoon. I showed up all snotly and stinking of the garlic and lemon drinks which I had soaked myself in. It lasted half n hour. He almost ran from the place. I think the garlic did it. Perhaps a vampire lurked underneath the cargos.

The second internet date – the latest- was real. I thought sparks might fly, that we may have an edge. His photo had no head. That is how the chat started. I asked him where his head was and if he had one at all. It seems he did but he was not keen to expose it. Interesting. We chatted and the conversation flowed. Well as much as a little chat box with pinging rings can flow. There were common interests (wine and well, wine) and common friends of friends of friends. We took it a step further. Emails begun and I even exposed my real name. This was going somewhere. He called me when he said he would. We spoke for an hour about the world and how we were going to shake it up. He was a go-getter, a world-saver, a laugher, a runner and a wine-drinker and I damn well liked it.

We met for a soy chai latte. We had two. It was awkward. He asked a lot of questions, I felt like I was in an interrogation unit but still there were moments I felt like this could lead down a sun-shiney path. He won me over when he told me about his eccentric family – the lesbian aunts who created a café called ‘sticky tarts’, the wild uncle who lives in the bush, growing mountains of weed. I was intrigued.

Now, my dears, this is not going where you may expect. This morning I felt like our beautiful little connection was chug chug chugging down the trainline and that it may indeed lead somewhere. Tonight is a different story. I found him on Facebook. A closed account, nothing unusual there. Then I noticed a girl on the left-hand side of the screen – one of his 332 friends – who had her hand enjoyable planted on the back of his ass. Interesting. I clicked. Her photo albums were open. Click. Photos of the two of them peering back at me, at family functions, camping, travelling, picknicking and most importantly, hugging. Her status: in a relationship. Hm. Hm. Hm. And when was the latest photo taken? March 2011. And what had he told me? I broke up with my girlfriend  four months ago. Four months ago, March 2011, in a relationship. Fuck. Now the train is flying off the rails.

Now, I am not jumping the gun my dears but I may have actually hunted down a hound-dog. I may have scooped a scoundrel. Im thinking up tactics and am leaving room for an explanation but right now the hound-dog seems like he is gonna get hung. He better hurry up and explain for the hanging shall not wait. I might just do it tomorrow - on a Sunday, when a hanging can occur in conjunction with a hallelujah.

Love

Sierra x