Tag Archives: weight

Date No. 12 – Man Who Wants To Save Me


I’ve been checking on Big Dating Site obsessively over the last week or so, like an addict sweating through cold turkey and I couldn’t help myself – I accepted a date.

I was totally being picky though and had decided I wasn’t just going to choose anyone – no more heartache for Patty’s plump little heart.

And there was the kiss.  All pleasant-looking and normal-sounding and younger than me (can I really tick the toy boy fantasy of the bucket list?  Yay!).  His profile showed a well-rounded fellow and was full of excitingly adequate spelling and grammar.

Having been all bitten and let down as you well know, I tried not to get too excited about our date on Sunday evening and slapped myself around the head every time I started fantasising about everything going perfectly and ever after and all that.  So going in with low expectations, I was super pleasantly surprised to find someone who looked exactly like his profile and smiled warmly at me.

We went through two cups of coffee and I couldn’t believe it – a date that was going well!  I wasn’t exactly seeing fireworks or anything, but pleasant chit chat, no inappropriate questions or comments, he didn’t ridicule the people around me and was pleasant to the waiter.

So when he suggested we grab some dinner, of course I said yes.

After we’d made our orders (I went for the claypot crab and scallop, he for the vegetable pie), he said “Actually Patty, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Huh?  Surely he didn’t think it was appropriate for me to meet his kids or his parents or something half way through our first date. For me it’s still about four dates too early to even introduce someone to my cat Irony.

He clasped my hands and looked into my eyes.  “I want to introduce you to your saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Now, I’m all for religious tolerance, live and let live and all (hey, some of my best friends are believers), but I don’t believe in god.  It says ‘atheist’ right there on my Big Dating Site profile.  His, I recall, said ‘Christian (other)’.

“Um, thanks,” I said, “but actually I’m an atheist.  It says so on my profile.”

“I know,” he said.  “That’s why I asked you out.  I want to save you, Patty.  I want to save you from an eternity of burning in hell.”

“Thanks again, but I don’t believe in hell, so I’m really not worried about going there.”

“I’m going to help you open your heart to God,” he assured me.

Do you see what he did there?  Totally on-purpose stealth mission in waiting til we ordered food before revealing the crazy.  Nothing up to then suggested he was on a mission and now I was stuck there!

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m really not interested in talking about religion.  Can we talk about something else?”

“Without God there is nothing else.  I don’t know what Satan did to lure you away, but I’m here to help you find your way back – back to your saviour the Lord Jesus Christ.”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Don’t be afraid.  You’re a sinner, Patty.  And sinners need to be saved.  I can help lead you on the path to salvation.”

Someone at a table nearby got their claypot crab and scallop and it looked and smelled absolutely amazing, bubbling away inside a proper clay pot.  Meanwhile, my date was busy quoting some sort of scripture to me.  How come when zealots quote scripture they pick the weird passages that are all wishy-washy and don’t seem to make any sense?  Whereas non-zealous Christians quote the cool things Jesus was supposed to have said which are hard to disagree with, because Jesus sounded like a pretty cool lovey hippy dude, unlike his Dad who sounds a bit crazy.

“Look,” I finally snapped, desperately hoping dinner would be here any minute and really glad I was pretending I wasn’t a total piggy and so didn’t order dessert at the same time.  “To me religion is a fairy tale.  Let’s just agree to disagree, can we?”

“It’s evolution that’s the fairy tale, Patty.  Satan has poisoned your mind.”  All the while he was smiling at me in an oh-so-pleasant but-maybe-not-all-there manner.  “But you can be saved.”

It was pretty obvious that this wasn’t going anywhere any good, but I really wanted my dinner now, especially as I’d have to pay for it anyway.  So I decided to ask him some questions about whether he believed the bible literally (“I believe the Bible is the word of God”), how did he explain the inconsistencies (“There are no inconsistencies if you read it with a pure heart”) and so on to fill in time until my dinner came.

The crab and scallop claypot was worth the wait, but a bit hard to enjoy as I scoffed it down in record time.  I could see people around me doing that “tut tut, and she probably wonders why she’s fat” thing that skinny people do.

So did he ever actually want to go on a date with me?  It seems he uses Big Dating Site stalking atheists and looking for souls to save.  I wonder if that gets him some sort of fast track to heaven or a better job when he gets there or something.

So apparently wicked, sinful me can look forward to burning in the fires of hell for all eternity.  But so long as there’s claypot crab and scallop there, I can deal with that.


Crticial Man – or Why I Stopped Dating and Blogging


So the reason I haven’t updated lately is because I’ve been sitting on my couch like a blob of mashed potato watching back-to-back episodes of Revenge with a selection of gourmet ice cream tubs (which I’ve been sharing with Irony, but not too much because I don’t want him turning into a Plain Plump Pussy).  Wallowing, I tell you.  I’ve been wallowing.  It’s not an attractive look.

The catalyst for the wallow was a series of uninspiring, awkward and downright depressing dates.  See, before this little experiment I was able to convince myself that what my best mate Kate said was true – that I have all this inner beauty stuff going on that will shine through and enamour unsuspecting dates.  But then I went out with Critical Man.

Maybe I should’ve read between the lines when he said he likes a woman who ‘takes pride in her appearance’ in his profile.  But I figured he’s seen my photos and I do try to make the best of what I have to work with, which is why I put myself through the torture of the dodgy spray tan clinic (it’s still true – brown fat looks better than white fat, proven scientific fact) and do things like shower every day and don’t wear tracky dacks outside of the house.

But anyway, as usual, my Dating Alarm was malfunctioning and so I met Critical Man for a weekend afternoon date at a café.

After the cute young waitress took our order, Critical Man shook his head and said “I don’t know why they let girls with tattoos work in the service industry.  They look so tacky.”  Her tattoo, mind you, was a pretty innocuous little symbol of some sort on her upper arm and didn’t look too offensive to me at all.  I made a little lame “I liked it,” comment and he glared at me and told me in no uncertain terms that tattoos were like a big neon sign that the wearer has no class.

I’d ordered a muffin because I was hungry and I do like me a muffin, once I get over comparing their shape to the lower half of my body.  I’d kind of fooled myself that I was the only one who noticed this phenomenon, but Critical Man looked at the muffin, looked at my tummy area, then back at the muffin.

“Are you sure you want to eat that?”

Well, yeah I was sure – it was white chocolate and raspberry.  Who wouldn’t be sure?  I defiantly took a big bite, but then it stuck in my throat and I began to cough and a little bit of white chocolate catapulted out and hit him.  I think I was more sorry about missing out on that bit of white chocolate than the assault committed on my date though.

Critical Man then proceeded into a diatribe of how losing weight was all about having respect for yourself and calories in vs calories out and if I just had a little discipline I would be able to get myself down to a desirable weight.

Disrespectful, undisciplined me defiantly wolfed down the rest of my muffin, told him I’d rather be a bit on the plump side than a balding, big-nosed, over-critical loser and left.  Not my proudest moment maybe.

So that led to the downloading of the entire first season of Revenge, the propping up of the ice cream industry and the vow to never log on to Big Dating Site again.

But then a girlfriend introduced me to meetup.com and took me along to a couple of drinks events.  Meetup.com isn’t a dating site – it’s just a social site, and so far I’ve had a lovely time.  So maybe that’s another avenue for Plain Plump Patty.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

Thanks so much for the messages of support and for thinking of me when I haven’t been around for so long.  xoxo


Trauma at the spray tanning clinic


Anyway, in a promise to keep updating and because I’m going all softly softly on the whole accepting dates thing, I’ll just slip in an out-of-sequence post about my spray tan experience.

This was before Mr F, so I’m totally feeling pretty hot and desirable despite the disasters because I have a calendar full of dates for the week.  I may have even wagged my finger at some people and called them ‘girlfriend’, but if I did, I would have given that up real quick in response to their reactions.  Yeah, apparently I don’t wear ‘cocky’ too well.  Obviously some deity or other decided I was getting a bit too cocky and sent Mr F to punish me.

Some sort of mega cosmic karma or something also saw one of those group buying deals pop into my inbox to get a night of speed dating for just $29 (normally $89.95).  I went and had a look at the website and it seems to be constantly running events for all different age groups, so I’m looking forward to picking one and testing it out (and reporting back, of course).

Speaking of those group buying deals, I got one for three spray tans for $24 a little while back and decided to use one. Because everyone knows it’s a proven scientific fact that brown fat looks better than white fat.

You know what you probably shouldn’t do in life?  You probably shouldn’t get a bargain basement spray tan.  That’s what you probably shouldn’t do.

So I arrive at this place and despite its very glamorous name, it is a dingy little shopfront that’s not even open yet, so I have to sit outside in my carefully chosen super-loose caftan thingie hoping it doesn’t blow open to reveal I’m not wearing any knickers.

Finally this dodgy looking guy, fag hanging out of his mouth, opens up the place about an hour and a half after the opening times displayed on the door.  He grunts at me over a threateningly hanging ash and beckons me inside.

Muttering something about “should’ve never signed up to this scam” when he sees my coupon, he orders me into a booth, tells me to strip and put on the paper g-string and wait for him.

Um… wait for him?  “Are you going to spray me?” I ask.

“Do you see anyone else here?” he says.  “You can wait for a female tanner, but there’s no opening for a few days and you’ll lose one of your tans.  Read the small print.  24 hours cancellation policy applies.”

For the sake of $8, I probably should have pulled a bit of dignity out of my caftan and hightailed it out of there, but I couldn’t stand the idea of looking like an albino whale for a day longer and decided to go through with it.

Traumatic is the only way to describe the next fifteen minutes or so as I stood there in my badly fitting g-string while a guy with a gun demanded I lift this fold and that fold and stand in all sorts of vaguely pornographic poses so that he could ensure each bit of flesh got its brown on.  At least he got rid of the fag while he did it.

When it was finally finished and I was left alone with the funny blowdryer tube (“don’t forget to lift up and dry under all the folds or it’ll be streaky” he warns me), I must have stayed in there half an hour because I was too embarrassed to face him again.

The end result was that I looked a little less whale-like and the colour was thankfully natural enough (and streak-free, because I dried the HELL out of all my folds) and it was almost worth the trauma.  I even used the other two coupons later on, but I made SURE a female tanner was available!

Date 5 – Bitter Man


So again I haven’t updated and the reason for that is I’ve been busy dating!

All fired up from last weekend, I bravely responded to about half the guys left in my inbox.  A veritable flurry of email communication followed and dates were set up.

The first was an after-work drink date with a guy whose profile described him as ‘adventurous and a real man.’  The bellringer for those warning bells must’ve been taking a sickie I guess.

I arrived to find a rather pissed-off looking guy, somewhat rotund and tapping his fingers on the table.  Let’s call him Ernest.  I really want to give him a lame-sounding name (deepest apologies to any non-lame Ernests out there).

“Typical woman being late,” he greeted me in that faux ‘I’m joking but not really’ way people do.

It was two minutes past our agreed meeting time, but nevertheless I apologised with a nice smile on my face.  I ordered a glass of wine and as soon as the waiter left, Ernie said, “I’m not going to pay for your drink you know.”

Hmmm.  I’m thinking I might skull that wine when it gets here.  “I totally expected we’d split the bill,” I told him.

“Sure you did,” he responded.  “That’s the problem with women in this city.  All they have to do is sit back and wait for the guys to come to them and buy them drinks just by showing a bit of tit.”  I tried to surreptitiously hoik my top up a bit but wound up just exposing my belly in what I can only imagine looked like some sort of perverted come-on.  “You’re all such princesses, clicking your fingers and thinking the guys will come running.”

Being lumped in with the ‘princesses’ surprised me a little, but I suppose I have been told I bear a passing resemblance to Princess Fiona in Shrek, so maybe that’s what he meant.

“That’s not exactly true,” I told him.  “It’s really hard for women my age to meet men.  That’s why I’m internet dating.”

“Bull.  You could just walk into any bar right now and say you want sex and some guy will be willing to do it with you.”

“Yes, but that’s not what I want.  It would be degrading.”

“What, so you’re too good for those guys?  See.  All women are stuck up bitches.”

When that glass of wine came, I threw it down in record time, making me do that little throw-up-in-your-throat thing.  Maybe I should have let it be the throw-up-all-over-the-bitterman thing, but I do try to be a lady.

I threw a ten-buck note at him and told him I had to leave.  “Yeah, yeah, you think you’re too good for me, probably got five more suckers to go to tonight.”

I raced out of there before he figured out I’d ordered a $15 glass of wine.  Ah, small victories.

Camp Camping and Fresh Resolve


Okay, sorry I haven’t updated for almost a week, but honestly, I was just about ready to throw it all in.  The guys I went out with were the ones whose profiles looked most promising and each of them was a disaster.  Combing through the rest of the guys who contacted me – well let’s just say, there wasn’t much pushing me to go ahead.

Sorry, too, that I haven’t responded to any of the most recent comments.  I really appreciate them all and want to give a personal response to each of you, so I’ll make that my mission over the next couple of days.

But anyway, about the weekend.

Friday night I went out to dinner with some friends and some friends-of-friends.  One of the FOFs was a lovely guy I immediately clicked with.  Absolutely gorgeous, loads of fun and with a very similar sense of humour to me – we’ll call him Patrick (see how I did that?  Patty/Patrick?  Because we’re, like, so similar and all?).  He mentioned he was going away camping with some people the next day and that all the others were coupled up, so he’d love me to be his (plus-sized) plus-one.

Old Patty would have preferred to exfoliate with a cheese grater than commit to a whole weekend with strangers, but New Patty had survived three Dates From Hell and said yes.  Well, maybe it was the excess litres of red wine that said yes, but New Patty didn’t make a lame excuse the next day.

Quick quiz:

Q:  What do you call a gorgeous, attentive, wickedly witty guy who genuinely likes me and would make perfect long term relationship material?

A:  Gay

Yep, hope you weren’t getting your hopes up for me; Patrick is 100% totally bona fide poof.  But the camping trip sounded like loads of fun and I’d planned to have a date-free weekend anyway, so it was off to the river we went.

I’m so glad I did because my eyes were opened up big time.  Great bunch of people – a straight couple in their thirties, and a gay guy/bi guy/straight girl threesome.  Probably not my thing (okay, so how many people’s thing is it after all?), but it did make me realise that there’s a whole world of options out there and my bad experiences so far shouldn’t put me off.  And don’t judge, even when your brain is in whoa! overload.

As happens when you have such a mixed group, a campfire and a whole lot of beer and not enough fish to go around, conversation got to “deep and meaningful” stage, which really just means we all spilled way too much personal information which would make us cringe the next morning.  I regaled my dating exploits so far, which resulted in fits of laughter, which actually made me feel pretty good.

Life is pretty awesome when you make new friends, so when I got home on Monday night, I resolved to broaden my horizons and open my mind.

When I finally recovered from the weekend’s excesses by Wednesday, I put the resolution into practice and responded to a couple more guys in my inbox and went a huntin’ – sending out kisses to guys I fancy.

I’m also going to set up some profiles on other sites and book in for some speed dating.

Hopefully I’ll have some more dates to tell you about tomorrow.

Date 4 – thinks he’s Yoda he does


So, lunchtime date yesterday.  I didn’t really think that I’d click with this guy, but as my top three choices had been such disasters, I figured maybe my radar was a bit off and I should expand my horizons a bit.

His profile showed a guy who likes to wear hats in his photos, stated to be 5’7”.  (As an aside, I’m beginning to notice a pattern here – it seems that the less vertically-able men are as much maligned as those of us who enjoy our pastas and curries a bit too much).

A bald guy about 5’5-and-a-half” turned up, which I was totally expecting.  See how quick I catch on?

“Pleased to meet you, I am,” he said with what I thought must be a dyslexic smile.

I felt absolutely no attraction whatsoever to this guy, but I still had hope of being blown away by the wit and charm that was not at all evident in his profile.

“Eaten, you have?” he asked me.  I say ‘asked me’ like I immediately knew it was a question, but it actually took me a while to work that out.

“Oh, yes, just a coffee please.”

He seemed a pleasant enough fellow and smiled a lot, which was a nice change, but conversation was a struggle, so in desperation I went our online dating experiences (I say desperation because my mate Kate says that’s a no-go subject.  I dunno, we’re supposed to pretend.

“I’m quite new to this,” I said.  “It’s very daunting.”

“So true, that is.  But pretty you are.  Popular you must be.”

It finally dawned on me that this guy wasn’t just doing a cute icebreaker thing, he actually thought he was Yoda.  He spoke like this a lot, sometimes even employing a croaky Yoda-voice.  It made conversation bloody difficult.  And he didn’t seem to be doing it as some sort of cute joke, like Michael and Holly from The Office.  I got the impression he talks like that all the time.

After our coffee, when it was gone 2 o’clock and I was justified in saying I had to get back to work (even though that was a fib as I had a day off and because I was feeling good about myself I was going bikini shopping – but that’s another story.  Traumatic.  I hear the burqa-look is in for plain plump spinsters this year), he said “See you again, I shall?”

“Not compatible, we are,” I said.*


So this was the most pleasant date so far, but there was no click, conversation was near impossible and I just flat out didn’t fancy the guy.  There’s no point in trying to make something happen when it’s clear it’s not going to.

No dates lined up this weekend – already have plans with friends.  But I do still have several fellas in my inbox that I’ll get back to and hopefully have more dates next week.

I’m also going to check out the speed dating thing someone suggested.  Anyone got any experience with that?


*okay, total lie.  That’s just what I should have said.

Date 3 – Inappropriate Questions Man


Last night was almost the date-to-make-me-throw-it-all-in.  A good sleep later and I can laugh about it, and now I plan to keep laughing about it all weekend.  Which may seem a bit odd to anyone in my presence when I suddenly let out a maniacal chuckle for no apparent reason, but whatever.

We’ll call him Chucky.  Actually, there’s another word starting with ‘C’ I’d rather call him, but I rated this blog PG, so I won’t.

First of all, there is no way in hell this guy is under 60 (age listed as 45) and that’s being generous.  And he’s wearing an Ed Hardy t-shirt.  Now, I try not to have too many prejudices, but as soon as I see an Ed Hardy t-shirt, I think “wanker”.  When I see an Ed Hardy t-shirt on a 60-years+ potential date, I think “run”.

Oh why, oh why, oh why did I not obey that little inner voice of mine?  Why did I do the polite thing and sit down?  Running – even the uncoordinated jiggly-wobbly run that I do – would have been the far more dignified course of action.

We went through some vague pleasantries, though everything about this guy was repulsing me to the point my body was having actual physical responses to him.  But we ordered a drink, so I really had to soldier on and I owed it to him to give him a chance until we at least finished a glass of wine.

“So when was your last relationship?” he asked.  I didn’t particularly want to share too much with some guy I’d known for less than a minute, so I muttered something about it ending about 18 months ago.

“So, just short term things for sex since then?  Do you have lots of one night stands?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, more than a little startled.

“So do you have a healthy sex drive?”

“What?” I felt rooted to my chair.  And I really didn’t want to be thinking about the word ‘root’ right now while looking at this repulsive gnome.

“I have a very high sex drive and it’s important that my partner is the same.  What position do you like best?”

“Are you seriously asking me this when we’ve known each other five minutes?”

“Quite often bigger girls like doggy style best because it actually makes their bottoms look smaller.  Do you like doggy style?”

At this I let rip at the guy, which went something like: “You f_____ing foul little toad.   You grotesque, repulsive little troll.  F____ off back to whatever hole you crawled from you perverted, mini-dicked turd and don’t ever contact me again.  And by the way, Ed Hardy on a geriatric looks ridiculous.”  This had virtually every other table turning to stare at us.  The place was crowded and when I tried to stand up my chair hit the chair of the person behind me and I nearly fell flat on my face in my efforts to get out.  I struggled for what seemed like five minutes trying to extricate myself from the table and fled.

I think I heard the word “cocktease” shouted out behind me, but I didn’t look back.