This week I went on full-blown mini-break weekend holiday to a music festival on the central coast. 5 friends and I camped, drank and danced ourselves silly surrounded by strange festival folk. You know the type: weed smoking, moustache having, singlet loving, underground music enthusiasts that like to wear their own buttholes as necklaces.
* Not a single body that exists in nature, look at that. *
The one benefit of this particular scene was the availability of 3,4-methylenedioxy-methamphetamine. No, I didn’t end up in a Thai prison giving a Madge master class though I did end up somewhere quite unexpected.
* Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin. *
I decided before we went away that I needed a conquest or a rebound, whichever came first. And considering that the whole world of dating terrifies me perhaps finding a hobby might’ve been a better idea. Earlier in the week I considered “destroying men” but unfortunately I’m a couple of recently divorced women and a lesbian daughter shy of the First Wives Club.
How about knitting? Or pottery? Or menopause? Maybe not.
* Matchmaker, Matchmaker make me a match. Find me a find, catch me a catch. *
Pick up attempt No.1:
I noticed a guy next to the dance floor who seemed to have his own supply of various phallic shaped fruits. We shall call him B2. I would like to say beforehand that outside of a gay club setting (which as we know can be misleading anyway) it’s really hard to figure out who’s gay and who’s not; short of bringing up a dislike of female reproductive organs and putting your mouth on their mouth.
Anyway after striking up a conversation with B2, my friends and I relocate to our tent with his fruitiness in tow. During the conversation that follows it comes to light that:
a) He juggles for a living.
b) His mother’s in a cult.
c) He’s straight.
I might’ve dodged a bullet on that one.
Pick up attempt No.2:
A few hours later I’m 6 inches deep in dubstep and breathing easy with my pride rekindled or forgotten in an alcoholic haze. I spot a silver party hat perched on a familiar face of a gentleman who shall call Mr. Sheffield. Mr. Sheffield just so happens to have dated one of my previous boyfriends who, as coincidence will have it, bumped into me that same afternoon. At the same festival. Fun!
I shout a few comments at him like “Alec Baldwin is the Ryan Gosling of the 80’s” just to make sure it’s a thing and
* One thing led to another, and dot dot dot. *
Cut to me 40 minutes later outside his tent imitating Beyoncé en pointe while he sings Halo. Thanks for this embarrassing display must go to Lena Dunham for making this an acceptable dance move and to Microsoft Word for autocorrecting my lack of accent on the e.
* I beat Meryl! *
Personal idiocy aside it turns out I may have scored a second date next week! I also scored an invite to my 5 year high-school reunion today and a text from my ex-boyfriend. One I don’t want to speak to and the other fills me with dread. I vowed never to go a high school reunion until I was rich and famous or married to someone rich and famous. Which is where the ex boyfriend or any boyfriend would’ve come in handy. I would introduce them as “Astronaut Mike Dexter”
* I have to go back into space, Liz. I hope you enjoyed the kissing, followed by my genuine interest in that T.V. dance competition. *
*You say potato, I say vodka.*
Well, better dash. I have to write up a first date contract.
Must like Gouda and Harry Potter.
 While we’re on the subject of Mama Mia! I once famously said mid channel flick “Oh, that’s Meryl Streep. She’s like gay Jesus.”
 Drugs, redheads, camping, sleeping with a woman (twice).
 All of my ex-boyfriends.