The Man Who Sat Next to Me on the Plane is Not My Boyfriend.

Largely, because his girlfriend was sitting on the other side of him. And, she had the window seat. Lucky break for her.

You know what I’m sick of? Losing the love lottery every time I board a plane. A relative of mine met his wife-to-be when they were seated next to each other on a flight. I don’t want to start sounding like a John Cusack movie (well, THE John Cusack movie - I can be specific because I saw it; it’s ‘Serendipity’ and that’s the second John Cusack movie I’ve referenced in a post - see "Hugh Jackman with Facial Hair in Australia is N.M.B." - which makes me sound like I have a fetish. I don’t. Well, he did make a very attractive Dimitri in ’Anastasia’, which means I think a cartoon man is hot, which I'm pretty sure is some kind of fetish…) BUT, that’s some hardcore destiny action going on there. And I want in on that!

I was flying to Brisbane. I’m flying back out of Brisbane in a few days’ time and I will bet my bottom dollar I will not meet my boyfriend on that plane either, because now I’ve invested too much thought in it. Which is totally unfair but it’s Murphy’s Law and that shit is airtight.

Not to be one of those annoying people who talks about their holiday… but… I went on a ferry. There. Show and tell. I’ll send you a postcard later.

I like Brisbane because for four dollars and forty cents you can drift aimlessly up and down a river all afternoon without even a destination. The CityCat is also handy for being pensive on. I bet a lot of my fellow ferry-ers had blogs to go home and write.

I was thinking about this potential plane boyfriend thing on the CityCat and as a result kept sizing up every guy that got on board, which made me feel as creepy as I probably looked.

I walked out to the front of the boat to wait for a space at the rail. It’s hard to get one of those spots because everyone wants wind-hair. I waited a few stops until I saw a small gap, beside a 20-something couple. I should ask them to make room for me, I thought. No, but then they’ll think I’m annoying and I'll be embarrrassed. Who cares, it’s my holiday and I deserve a good view of water. Now ask, you pansy. I like it when Wuss Me loses and argument with Ballsy Me. It makes for a nice change.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I squeeze into that gap?”
“Yeah!” The guy answered. “You want to get in before it gets crowded?”
“Yeah.”
He was wearing sunglasses; and sunnies make everyone look good, so I was trying to mentally subtract the sunnies factor when I realised I was checking him out.
Girlfriend standing next to him! I reminded myself and then an even bigger ferry sailed past our little CityCat. An old man on board with a bushy moustache waved to our boat.

“Do you think that moustache is glued on?”

Is he asking me? ...Yes. It was to me.
I laughed.
Pointing out a comical moustache is exactly the kind of thing I find funny! I was going to attempt to say something else but then I didn’t want to seem like a hussy to his girlfriend. So I stared at water.
And stared at water.
The ferry made a few more stops and no one spoke. And then out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the guy turn his head, look at me for a second, before shrugging and walking away to get off the boat.
The girlfriend stayed behind.
Which I suppose meant she wasn’t his girlfriend. SHE WAS JUST ANOTHER RANDOM GIRL ON A FERRY!

For the rest of the day I thought of amusing things I could have said after his moustache comment: “Yes, they probably made him buy one along with his boat licence”; “Yes, and on weekends he works as Yosemite Sam down at Movie World“; “No, maybe he’s doing Movember and forgot it ended.” Gold, GOLD, gold.

Nothing, I said nothing. I’m so mad at me. Ballsy Me isn’t even speaking to Wuss Me.
There I was, waiting for Destiny Man to sit next to me on some form of transportation and he was right there and I missed it! The best tell-the-grandkids story ever.
Elderly me: “We met on a ferry.”
Ancestor of me: “Cool, Yiayia!” (What, I’m Greek, I may want my grandkids to call me Yiayia.)
No grandkid would baulk at a met-on-a-ferry story.

But I blew it. Because I didn’t think it would happen to me.

If this were that John Cusack movie, a friend of his would be reading this now and then say to him, “Hey, man, did you ride the CityCat on Wednesday the 7th of January? Because some chick was checking you out. Then she blogged about it, which is freaky so maybe don’t go there.”

Hey, fair call, City Cat Guy’s Friend, but I’m trying to be facetious! Can you please add that!? ADD THAT I’M TRYING TO BE FACETIOUS!
“Okay, but you’ve told, what, 12 people about this blog? It’s unlikely that the random friend of a random guy you stood next to on a ferry who made you chuckle and may have looked attractive under his sunglasses and may have been single and may have looked at you for a second too long would be reading this.”

Shut up. I’ve imagined you. Stop raining on my parade.

He’s right, though. The chances are slim. Then again, to quote John “Whispering Jack” Farnham. Farnsy. “Have a little faith.” Yeah?

Hugh Jackman with facial hair in Australia is Not My Boyfriend.

Look. Hugh should just go back through his resume, jump on to imdb, have a look for any film he ever did without facial hair and do a big ol’ DELETE.

I haven’t seen 'X-Men'.
Haven’t seen 'Van Helsing'.
Haven’t seen 'Paperback Hero'.
Did see a bit of (okay, all of) 'Someone Like You' but it wasn’t my DVD, it was my housemate’s - and it was my housemate’s burnt copy, at that - and I know that doesn’t make it okay but I was bored one night and I’d already watched 'Must Love Dogs' the night before so I had a hankering for another mediocre rom-com that starts out with promise but that just ends up leaving me wanting.

It’s a very narrow genre.

So, basically, I’m new to Hugh.

Many did not like 'Australia'. But I stuck it out. I was there for the highs and the lows (and by lows I mean that part in the middle where he doesn’t have any facial hair for a bit). And you know what, I’m better for it.

You see, I’ve been wondering about my femininity. When colleagues discuss shirtless tradies, I usually drift off and think about the necessity of showers. When gal pals are firing up the age-old ‘Would You Prefer to Be Mrs Bloom or Mrs Depp’ debate, I’m usually thinking about the pretty dresses Keira Knightley wore in POTC, and that if I did get married I’d want to keep my own name and that if I really did have to choose, I‘d choose neither because I think Orlando is pointy, and Johnny will always be that pale guy with stationery instead of fingers.

The authorities were about to come and take my Straight Girl Licence off me.

So, it was kind of a relief that for almost three consecutive hours all I wanted in life was to be that tree that Hugh leaned his rugged, Aussie, manly, bristly self against...

But hey, Deborah Lee-Furness seems like a good egg and the two of them are my last hope for a happy Hollywood marriage (I will NEVER get over Tom and Nicole, I don’t care how many babies they have with other people) so no way am I getting in the way of that. And so, Hugh Jackman with facial hair is Not My Boyfriend. Which is for the best. I would be very bad for Gillette sales.

But thank you, Hugh for reinstating my sexuality. And of course, a big thanks must also go to Baz. Great call on the facial hair, my friend. Gonna go out and buy another Red Curtain Trilogy box just to do you a solid.

Liquor Land Man is Not My Boyfriend

There’s not a whole lot that housemates can bond over aside from brands of detergent and how the friggin’ hell to put together the clothes horse in one go.

So, it was a momentous day when I was planning an excursion to the local bottle-O and the housemates decided to come too. Usually we drown our sorrows separately.
“I hope Liquor Land Man is working,“ Girl Housemate #1 said, eagerly.
“Ooh, yeah!“ said Girl Housemate #2.
“Yeah, Liquor Land Man!“ I chimed in. “Hang on - you guys have noticed him too? I thought I was the only one!“
Giggles.
Squeals.
Pillow fights.
Friends 4 eva.

Liquor Land Man has some serious charisma.

It’s not like I’m a booze hound. I don’t go to the bottle-O like it’s Coles and I need a litre of milk. I just pop in every now and then to replace my mint chocolate Baileys or for a bottle of vanilla champagne (when I do drink, I go very hard.) But, in the few times that Liquor Land Man has sold me my grog, the banter has been lively, he’s given me a big old grin and I’ve walked out of there happier than when I went in.

Yes, I do realise this is the customary emotional pattern for a bottle shop experience. But when Liquor Land Man is not rostered on, I just don’t get the same vibe from Liquor Land Girl. Liquor Land Man always seems to have had more than the recommended two standard glasses of personality. (Bit of alcohol humour there.)

Liquor Land Man is Not My Boyfriend because I saw him last night, NOT AT LIQUOR LAND!


It was New Year’s but I was most certainly NOT doing that panicked last-minute scan for a random to pash. In the last few years, some schmo decided we’re all in an American sit-com and that a kiss at midnight is the be-all and end-all of New Year’s Eve. It isn’t and I wasn’t. I swear.

I just happened to spot a vaguely familiar tall man walking towards the bar and said to my friends, “I think I know that guy.”
(Why do we always insist on pointing out that we’ve seen someone we know? It’s not like it ever elicits a response.)

“It’s Liquor Land Man!” I gasped. No one cared, of course.
What would I say to him? We normally talk about alcohol…
Maybe he would be interested in hearing about my attempt to make cider my new ‘thing’… Although, I don’t actually know any of the names of cider so I would hit a wall and look like an idiot.

He turned up at the bar and ordered a drink. He stood next to me, tall and sans-Liquor Land t-shirt. I opened my mouth a few times to try and say hello. My friends were moving away from the bar and I told them I’d rejoin them in a minute.
“I just want to see if this person I think I know is the person that I know.”
I don’t know what the point of this mission was. But I felt it was my duty to the Girl Housemate bond to report back with something.

Liquor Land Man got handed his drink.
Last chance to say something. Last chance to say something…
“You work at Liquor Land!”
I may as well have opened with “See Spot run” or “I think I like green eggs and ham.” He turned to face me.
“Do I?”
“Oh my god, you don’t?”
“Don’t what?”
“Work at Liquor Land?”
“No, I do.”
“Thank god, I thought I was going crazy.”
“Well, you do look crazy.” (See? Charisma!)
“I am pretty crazy.”
He got his change from the bar and I realised we were almost at the end of the conversation. I had to stall him with a question.
“Um… I don’t really look crazy do I?”
“It’s okay, we’re all a bit crazy.”
I threw in a bat of the eyelashes.
“Yep.”

He walked away, then. And I felt that remorse you feel when you’ve just met a celebrity and tried to say something really amazing and friendly and funny so they would automatically want to be your best friend but what it actually came out like was: “Hi, Delta, I harmonise with you in the car.”

I went back to my friends. The guy has helped me pick out cheap wine twice. I don’t know why I thought I was going to have some kind of Sex-and-the-City cut to us cheers-ing on a date, cut to us at his place surrounded by empty bottles of plonk, cut to us as boyfriend-and-girlfriend, buying a winery. I know life’s not like that. It’s just that sometimes I hear stories from people that life is like that!

He walked past me again half an hour later and I thought I just hadn’t given it enough of a crack before. So, I got his attention and mustered up everything I had to give it another red hot go:
“Liquor Land Man, I’m always going to call you 'Liquor Land Man', okay?”
“Okay.”
“My name’s…”
But he was gone.
Today, when I went to get goon, I went to Dan Murphy’s.