5.0 Twelve months, 50 blogs and 39148 bottles of wine.

Well I finally did it. I started a blog. I posted my ranting, my crazy, my dating, my tears, my ups and my breakup downs for exactly the last 12 months. It’s almost poetic I started this blog on March 27th 2013 and I’m making this meaningful last post; 50 blogs, 1 break up and more likely 76 bottles of red wine later on March 27th again.

Yes, you read it right – I’ve decided to bring my blog to an almost end. Because as much as I love doing it – I love sewing just that little bit more.

We’ve had our tantrums, I’ve been hurled abuse. I’ve had long lost friends I barely remember what they look like message me out of the blue to say how much they enjoyed reading my blog and what disaster they’d been dating of late. Which was the one thing I wasn’t really expecting and have really appreciated the most.

A huge thank you to my editors – Ben, Michelle and Frawls. And of course to Dan for hosting and spending the $16 to get me online after my 2nd bottle of break up red.

As I write this there has been a total of 39,148 reads and 11,801 unique user clicks. Something I never thought imaginable. Some people out there must have really boring jobs.

Thanks to Google analytics – the strangest country award goes to: Yemen… actually no make that… Kyrgyzstan. I know having a travel writer boyfriend who reads from Fiji to Timbuktu must surely push the numbers up – but he hasn’t read my blog from 90 countries in the last 11 months unless he’s actually Superman and I haven’t spotted any Lycra beneath his suits just yet.

Before Google took away the power of search term visibility the funniest thing someone typed into Google that bought them to my blog was “Gucci long black socks.” What the latte-hell?

Coming in at the highest hit rate most likely as it was published on Elephant Journal was:
1.8 Date a girl who can sew.
5634 post views.
Elephant Journal publication: Date a girl who can sew.
(Their post stats: 3912 views. 155 Facebook shares.)

Second place goes to:

3068 post views.

And third place:

2962 post views.

Thank you for all your loyal readership and I promise it’s not goodbye forever. I’ve just got bigger projects to begin and a fashion label to launch (fingers crossed).

Feel free to write in any relationship or dating questions and I promise to write a public blog response. internationalsmorgasbord@gmail.com

And yes – there most likely… definitely… will be a book.

x
Lorenza

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4.7 Ten things girls don’t want to hear.

1. “Your boobs look weird.”
I’m sorry, what? Well your bits don’t exactly look like a Picasso themselves (hold that, yes they do – more so his later stuff though). No girl wants to hear her wobbly bits look weird, not quite right, or like puppy dog ears. Just say they look fantastic a lot and you’ll end up a much more satisfied man.

2. “I need some space.”
Any guy who asks a girl for some space should know 0.5 seconds later she’s going to turn into the neediest, scared-like-trying-to-throw-a-cat-in-the-bath feline you’ve ever seen. Hang out with your mates or in your man cave and just tell her you get no reception in there. Ride it out till you’re hungover and clingy enough to want her to look after you again.

3. “You look a little bloated.”
Do you have to deal with you body leaking for three days and some-women-have-murdered-and-not-gone-to-jail hormones? No. So buy us some chocolate ice-cream, give us cuddles and breath a sigh of relief you’ll never have to be pregnant and squeeze something out of somewhere that is usually meant for things that are a lot more fun.

4. “You’re so much like your Mum.”
If you’d told me this when I was a teenager I would have stomped my 10-hole cherry red Doc Martens and screamed how dare you. Though I notice it now in the neat way I have to fold my tea towels and the sudden abundant use of plastic bags. Cringe. Wait, maybe that’s an Italian thing? As long as I can send my kids to school with salami in their sandwiches… oh dear, it’s happening isn’t it?

5. “We don’t ship to Australia.”
Come on rest of world, we have Zara and Topshop yet you can’t find a post office and some stamps for the land of plentiful drop bears Australia? We’re paid far too much and like to buy silly expensive things so please pull your shipping together.

6. “Why are you worried about your career? You’re only going to get married and have kids.”
Ummm ok Mr 1940s. Heck, why even go to school really? Women just need to be able to read well enough to turn on the washing machine and count badly enough so they can’t figure out the credit card. Sigh.

7. “Didn’t you wear that dress before/ to another wedding/ years ago?”
I recycle and wear clothes like they’re going out of fashion, and that’s not a figure of speech – they actually are. I’m not a Kardashian or aspiring actress so my clothes don’t come in size free. If I fit into a dress that’s five years old and my metabolism bottomed out at 25 you’d think most people would know when to zip it.

8. “When are you getting engaged/ married/ moving in together?”
This is the question that keeps on giving – When you’re single it’s, “Why?” When you’re coupled it’s “when” and once you’re married it’s “Where’s the grandies?” I know people are asking to look interested in my life – but ask me where I got my handbag from, ask me how my drawing class is going, ask me if I like my job and if I’m doing what makes me happy. Don’t only ask about the male status of my life like it’s all I’m actually worth.

9. “Sorry, that’s the biggest size we have.”
You’re not really sorry though are you? You’re waiting for our heifer-like calves to exit your store immediately before we scare off any of the lactating skinny cows. Just lie and send us on a trip to Chadstone so we can at least expend 14 calories driving there to realise they don’t make above a size 2 – at least there’s a champagne bar and a KFC there for us to drown our plus-size woes.

10. “So are you still into cross-fit/ running/ cycling?” <stares at thighs>
Ahh you’ve noticed I’m not quite my svelte summer self of late? Yeah.. nah I didn’t run that marathon I signed up for, crossfit gave me a self confidence injury and work’s been Reeces Pieces busy. So please just give me a break – in fact a Kit Kat will do.

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4.4 Stranger danger – and the time I got into a taxi with a cowboy and a chicken.

“But I just paid $20 to get in here – I don’t want to leave yet!” I was waving my glass of tequila-glad-I-don’t-drink-those-anymore-sunrise as I whinged at my friend Michelle. Ok, so maybe we really had been there two hours already but the night was just beginning, my tequila sunrise was just setting and guys were falling for drunk girls like shooting stars. Fine, that’s an odd exaggeration. But you know when everyone wants to go home and you don’t? That’s called “being Lorenza”.

“Ok,” Michelle finally agreed, and then waved towards the smoking area. “But I’m going to get one of my guy friends out there to keep an eye on you.”

I spoke to my smoking-man chaperone, danced like I really didn’t know anyone there – that being the truth – and told loads of people I was a dolphin trainer or lawyer because really when you’re out, wearing black and drunk you’re never going to see these people again.

A few hours later I walked out and stared at Golden Arches opposite and thought mRmm-nom-yes. Upon my exit I realised my taxi dilemma, with all the other drunk cheeseburgers out there, this was going to be harder than I thought.

Two guys were standing near me – dress-up party, clearly. One looked like something of a cowboy with tassels and pointy leather shoes and the other I don’t know whether he was a chicken or a cow. He certainly wasn’t vegetarian looking as he pointed at my shoes and asked “Can I try those on?” “Of course you can!” I responded as he tottered back and forth in them whilst ToyStory Woody and I chatted and decided we were all going in the same direction so why not share a cab.

Now 32-year-old me who have scolded 27-year-old me for getting in a cab with complete-costumed-strangers. But if you’ve lived in inner city Melbourne you know you have to lie and tell cab drivers you’re heading to the airport or Maroondarough (I made that place up) if you want a cab any time past nothing good-happens-after- 2-o’clock. And well I realllllly didn’t want to walk home alone, because that’s unsafe and these guys seemed like way more fun.

Four cheeseburgers and five minutes of drunk bonding later, I’d decided to keep partying on at theirs. Yup. WHAT? Never mind sharing a cab. Look, there was some Diet Coke deliberation and a cab driver asking me silly things like “You’re not worried they’re gong to chop you up into little pieces? CHOP! CHOP!” I guess I’ve trusted my drunken intuition for a Long-Island-iced-tea time by now and haven’t ended up a bloody mary just yet.

The house was HUGE. There were more people to play with (housemates not fellow abductees) and they even made up a sofa bed for me in the lounge. We drank more vodka, cooked McCains chips in the oven (oh the delicate details I remember) and played Pictionary or poker or was it PacMan? Till dawn.

I arrived home the next afternoon roughly 15 hours since I’d last seen Michelle. Calling … “Sorry! My phone died and I just got home.”
“Right” she said and muffled her annoyance “Well, make sure you call your Dad.”

Me: “WHY?” Suddenly very worried she’d called my parents in distress.
“Because it’s Fathers Day!” she said, and hung up.

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4.1 I could never date a guy who…

A guy who thinks baked beans on toast makes an acceptable brunch. No Melbourne-freaking-way. Brunch requires pancetta and egg poaching, and a guy who doesn’t get this will probably take on everything else in life with lackluster imagination. Think I’m being ridiculous? You can tell a lot about a guy by what he wants to eat, and by that I mean.. umm nevermind.

A guy who can’t iron a shirt, change a light bulb, put together a table – you know what I mean. It’s cute the first frowny half smile he gives when he’s running late for work and looking at the iron board like it’s a giant-sized tampon. But the effect wears off after a few mornings of sidelining hair washing for his wrinkles of lazy cotton.

A guy who wears a salmon pink polo shirt to the pub and thinks the ladies will love it. It’s not ‘salmon’ buddy – It’s a shade of Barbie pink left out of the fridge that’s gone bad. Stop it Ken, your T-shirt-with-matching-convertible choice is drunk, go home.

A guy who freaks out and won’t deal with you when you’re sick. Whether you’re a snot fest, a Bali belly or that 28-day punch in the ovaries. You need someone who’s going to take the good with the bad and realise when he’s coming down with the man flu he’ll get the same chicken soup and Vicks vapour rubs in return.

A guy who’s obsessed with his body and what he’s putting in it. If he needs it cooked in organic butter with grain-fed baby lamb and broccoli grown in his fairy godmother’s garden with pesticide-free unicorn dust, then he can get it himself. Ease up on the heath nut spread and eat some preservatives and red colouring – you might be a lot more fun.

A guy who’s not into his family at all. We’re all allowed to have a personality clash with a sibling or crazy cousin. But if he’s dissing his Dad and calling kids ‘little shits’ – unless they’ve stomped on his foot and run away – then he might need some mummy issues therapy before starting anything with me.

A guy who doesn’t eat salami or pasta. Get out of my kitchen and don’t let the pasta maker hit you on the way out. If you can’t roll gnocchi off a fork and take the heat of spicy salami on a stick, then you’re not going to understand my passion and crazy for fettuccine and deli bacon goods. I suggest you date a girl who comes in the colour beige.

A guy who won’t sing karaoke, or drink wine out of a bottle on the street – whaaat? – or do 14 Jager shots and dance on a podium at Spice Market. You want a guy who’s not scared to act like an idiot and not be worried what everyone thinks. If he’s not going to let his perfectly coiffed hair down every Friday night then he’s only going to be embarrassed by Beyonce-singing me.

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3.0 The top ten reasons I’ve dumped a guy.

1. He’s clingy – super clingy. He wants to help you hang out the washing and you’re ready to wring dry his neck. He doesn’t have to do everything with you, there’s this wonderful thing called space – learn how to wash and wear it.

3. He wants to start a family, now. Did he mention now? How about right now? Does he care you want to see the Taj Mahal first and you’re not sure about your bottom looking like a large tourist attraction just quite yet? Put the pregnancy brakes on Mr Clucky or she’s sure to fly the coop.

4. He has a career that’s more important than you. Never mind the secretary, he’s more into that brightly lit Blackberry than he’ll ever be of your La Perla lingerie. Save those stockings for a guy who’s going to appreciate it – hit refresh and start the man search over again.

5. He’s bossy, he’s in charge and he thinks compromise is something for getting stains out. It’s his way or the water-level’s-set-to-high-way. He won’t listen to you, he won’t reason with you and he certainly won’t help fold the sheets. I suggest White King bleach for this one – it whitens and brightens and removes stubborn boyfriends.

6. He doesn’t peel the carrots. Seriously, have you tried unpeeled carrots? They taste rotten. It’s like licking an eight-year-old child’s hand with a side of pesticide and a sprinkle of ear wax. If you don’t want to taste what your greengrocer had for breakfast, then peel that layer of scunginess away.

7. Cleanliness – I might be from the country but that doesn’t mean I like dirty fingernails. I know plenty of truck-driver-engineer-come-what-grease-monkeys-may and they scrub up clean after a hard day’s work. All those metro-sexual man ads are true – we like it when you’re clean.

8. He’s terrible with money and/or stingy – and no we’re not talking first-date-buy-me-a-drink stingy. He blows his pay cheque on things for himself then leaves you to foot the grocery and electricity bills. Guys, learn to pull your weight and work your finances – it’s the most unattractive thing to have to baby a man’s debts.

9. He lives in bum-crack-Idaho and expects you to make the trek out to see him. Investment properties are all well and good – but if you choose to live a one-hour-and-16-minute drive out of the city and pay very little rent then expect to be spending that extra cash on coming to the inner city to see your girlfriend. Suburb snobbery? HELL yeahs.

10. Table manners. You don’t need to have done deportment and grooming with Pippa Middleton but you do need to know how to handle a knife and fork. Face near the plate and shoveling is for the Biggest Loser – not my future husband.

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