Shit Date Number 4: Wildly Inappropriate & Mr Mummy Issues

Some people have manners. Others do not. Some people can read social cues. Others are wildly oblivious. I think of this when I remember that one time I tried speed dating. The night promised a group of tall men (180cm and taller to be precise) aged between 25 and 35. This suited me as I was a) in my twenties and b) a tall girl myself.


It was at a pub on Sydney’s fringe. The girls were all huddled together on one side of the room, the men on the other. Were we back at a primary school dance? Would a brave soul venture across the threshold? Or were we just waiting some Dutch courage and instructions?


Various participants could have used some instructions. Or some kind of manual. That would have avoided the disaster that befell some of my dates. They only lasted ten minutes apiece, but a couple left a lasting impression to say the very least!


We women took our spots at various seats. This was like an adult version of musical chairs except the men were going to be on the move and it was a bell – not the absence of music – that signalled it was time to move on. In hindsight, music would have been preferable, say Blur’s Song 2 if things weren’t going well or an extended version of Stairway to Heaven if you wanted to keep the chatter going.


The night started off without a hitch. I met a pleasant-enough electrician. A nice-but-rather-boring Merchant Banker. The talk was quite friendly and jovial. Until along came Mr Cocky (I now know why Mr Cocky isn’t a character in those Mr Men books… this guy was quite unremarkable!) So rather than keep a respectable, gentlemanly distance across the table as every other bloke had, this charmer decided to sidle up right next to me. I thought, “Oh goody, a space hog,” as he sat virtually on top of me. He was a letch in no uncertain terms.


When he found out I lived with my parents he pushed me to tell him what religion I was. With a cagey, “Raised Catholic” he replied, “You’re a good Catholic school girl, alright!” Oh dear. There isn’t enough holy water in the world to wash this stain out!


The date ended soon enough and then I met Mr Croat. He was a proud Croatian boy with jet black hair, brown eyes and a kind face. We exchanged names and he replied excitedly, “Oh, that’s my mother’s name!” Why on earth he’d think I’d want to be compared to his Mum is beyond me.


He proceeded to tell me he was a “Good Mummy’s boy.” He too lived at home. All this talk of his Mum made me feel like she was there, chaperoning our date. I couldn’t kick the idea that I’d need a permission slip from Mamma Croat for whenever I needed to see Baby Croat. So I left it here.


Speed dating had proven an interesting, if fruitless experience. It did serve as a lesson though, that when you’re dating you really should leave your parents at home. We’re not nine years old (although mentally, it’s questionable) and really, it’s a rather odd look…


Mr Croat's Mum?
Mr Croat’s Mum?

Shit Gift 1: The Chocolate Roadkill Bunny

I came late to the whole driving thing. My father tried to teach me as a teenager but his white Ford Telstar didn’t have power steering. The lesson felt like having to push an army tank around our small, suburban cul-de-sac. In my 30th year I changed my mind and decided to get some professional driving lessons. I would have three different teachers. There was the affable Wally from Persia (he said this rather than Iran), an African gentleman from Sudan whose name I don’t remember because it was a single lesson courtesy of Groupon and Trina from Afghanistan who did most of the important work. I joked with friends that I needed instructors from war-torn countries to put up with my atrocious driving skills.


After getting my licence I did a road trip from Sydney to Canberra. Driving some 279km along Australia’s Hume Highway. In Canberra there was a quaint chocolate parlour called Koko Black, which a colleague of mine had raved about. I thought I’d be a nice girlfriend and buy Mr Shit Date a 500 gram dark chocolate bunny. I grabbed the plastic box and placed it delicately on the back passenger seat. I fastened the seat-belt and we were all set for the long drive home. The bunny travelled well and would sit in my house undisturbed for a few weeks waiting for Easter.


The Thursday before kick-off I drove my car to Mr Shit Date’s place before work so it would be waiting there for when we got back to his place after dinner that night. I left my overnight bag and Easter chocolates in the car. I didn’t give things a second thought. In hindsight though, it had been an unseasonably warm day in Sydney.


That night we got back to Mr Shit Date’s and I was shocked when I saw his present. It had melted down from a three-dimensional rabbit into a 2D one. If you had chalk you could have drawn an outline around it and gotten the NCIS guys to investigate the murder of a once-delicious bunny.


Mr Shit Date was kind and laughed about it. Turns out he’d gotten me the exact same dark chocolate rabbit because a Koko Black had just opened up in Sydney’s CBD. He is the winner this time around because he hadn’t had to travel across country for my gift and it had the added bonus of being fully-formed. I felt bad and told him that I’d keep the roadkill bunny and that he could have the good one.


The next morning we woke up and went into the kitchen to have breakfast. Do you know what’s worse than a roadkill bunny? It’s one that has turned white and now resembles a dried dog shit. Just what you’re looking for in an Easter chocolate.


The next year I bought him a chocolate bilby from somewhere local. I really couldn’t bring myself to buy another rabbit, roadkill bunny or otherwise. He bought me a one kilogram fish from Haigh’s chocolates, a joke to my Catholic heritage because we don’t eat meat on Good Friday. I think next year I’ll play it safe and just turn Jewish.



Chocolate pops- not the bunny
Chocolate pops- not the offending bunny