This Blog was Not My Boyfriend because my boyfriend became My Boyfriend.

(Also, it turns out, PAY TV is Not My Boyfriend.)

What kind of sista chooses a boyfriend over a blog? The worst feminist since this character, that’s who, rhetorical question. Sigh. Hopefully it all balances out and they won't revoke my femmo membership because at least I downright refused to see ‘Sex and the City 2’ even though a friend offered me a free ticket (JUST BECAUSE I AM A GIRL DOES NOT MAKE ME SHOE-OBSESSED, MAINSTREAM MEDIA! Plus, having a size ten foot makes that hard).

It’s been one year since I wrote about my last non-boyfriend. And it's not for want of fitting candidates roaming the globe. In short, I quit my impressive (by this man’s standards) full time job in the middle of a GFC to work freelance and tend to all of the projects I’d let fall by the wayside, but instead, two things happened:

1. After seven years of being single, I rekindled the flame with my first ever boyfriend (not counting Jason Priestley, my first FANTASY boyfriend), which is a little bit of a shame because I was kind of getting geared up to live life as Miss Havisham, but this is turning out to be a much nicer alternative.

2. I celebrated EOFYS and got a Pay TV subscription.

I’ve spent over ten blissful months on the couch eating food with someone who shares my love of 'Degrassi: The Next Generation'. And come on, who can blame me? Things got really, REALLY tense around Season Six. (And don’t even so much as google the word ‘degrassi’ because SPOILER EFFING ALERT.) And, I didn’t think I could write credibly on NMB when I’d landed me a B. So I just didn’t. (By the by, Brandon wasn't really supposed to come down that far but I couldn't shrink him any further!)


Yesterday, I fell into a five-hour Foxtel detox nap, woke up realising I was still alive even though I’d missed both ‘Clean House’ AND 'Clean House Comes Clean', and remembered that The Internet makes all things possible. Example:

Even way BEFORE the Internet in 1917, two plucky little British girls pioneered the way to world deception by taking photos of cardboard cut-outs and convincing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle they were fairies. (I just saluted those lasses by going to the Cottingley Fairies Facebook group and clicking "like".)

If they can achieve that feat with scissors, coloured pencils, and no drink-spiking, then I need to step away from the Foxtel and the evil day-destroyer that is THE IQ PLANNER and write 500 measly words to put myself back on that god forsaken Information Superhighway!

The last year has not been totally fruitless, though. I’ve had some good times with my Foxtel friends. Like that time I got hooked on 'Bones', spent a week trying to figure out if I had the bigger crush on Booth or Brennan and then went out and bought all four seasons on DVD and polished them off in a fortnight. That’s the kind of focus I went to private school to get, Mum.

There’s the worship I cultivated for the perpetually pregnant property professional Sarah Beeny and her 'Property Ladder'. (Why oh why do they always refrain from accepting her advice? A loft conversion is a good idea, but you MUST make sure you get the planning permission first! Ay carumba.)

And speaking of baby bonanza, there’s also the reconnaissance I had with the original Dr Phil family. (Alex, I get you, you’re a good egg, your folks are a bit nutso, but please, please stop having so many babies with different baby-daddies, it just LOOKS bad is all.)

I will always have those precious memories with my couch, my NMB (new man boyfriend!), Thai takeaway and the TV people, but the time has come, not to give them all up for good (what am I, Amish?) but to recall the wise advice of my father. No, not ‘don't eat fast food because they cook the burgers in the microwave’, but 'Πaν μέτρον Άριστον'.

Everything in moderation.