A story about me and David Sedaris:

Years ago I went to see Davis Sedaris read his essays live (he was obviously amazing). At the time, I was about to embark on my own essay reading show. I waited in line for hours to get my copy of his book signed.

My manager, who was there too, repeatedly asked if I was going to tell him I was a comedian.


He asked if I would tell him about my show. I said I would rather die in a slow, painful, glue-related death. No one wants to be that guy. “You know I do a bit of writing myself-”
*shoots self in the eyeball*

As the time passed my manager became more and more persistent and ran to a local Internet cafe to print up my essays to bring back to me.

My time with Mr Sedaris finally came. I was nervous. I was sweating; on my lip and behind my knees. He was everything you’d want him to be; polite and charming and warm and genial. He signed my book and complimented me on my knitting needle broach. I felt like the swooning daughter of Virginian property owner, fanning myself at his words, “Oh Mr Seadaris…”

Burnt up by a sense of loyalty as I walked away from his desk I turned back and said, “I’m so sorry to do this but I’m about to do my own essay reading show and my manager is with me and he went to print these off at an Internet cafe so I think I have to give them to you. You don’t have to read them. You can put them in your hotel bin when you get back.” He gave me a look I couldn’t read like I’d tried to teach a cockatoo a new word. He then asked if I could put my address on the top. I told him my email address was already there. He corrected me, “No, your home address.” I didn’t understand at the time, but you just do what David Sedaris asks you.

I walked away feeling elated. But not quite as elated as when I got home two or three months later, having forgotten about that interaction, and had a hand written post card from him waiting for me in the mail.

It’s one of my most prized possessions.


PS I will post those essays here over the coming weeks.

T: @felicityward

F: Felicity Ward

E: info@felicityward.com >>> Join Felicity’s mailing list/e-newsletter here – just write “Join Newsletter” in the subject line, then your name, suburb/State/Country in the body of the email.


The Seven Stages of Preconceiving

Although I have only been whoring my wares, rotisserie WAG on Brownlow Medal turnstile style for a month now (if you’re from the UK, look up our football awards ceremony called the Brownlows where the girlfriends of the players stood on a rotating podium to be judged- classy), I’ve really had my ups and down. I’ve had lots of feelings, you guyz!! Online Mating websites are like having a real relationship with heaps of people, simultaneously but without any of the benefits. So, like being in a long distance relationship then. One polyamorous, sexually unsatifying long-distance relationship. I think in my most honest moments I’d assumed it would go something like this:

  1. Put up profile photo
  2. Whilst filling in profile page details, my inbox would be inundated with offers of marriage and consensual on the car boot sex.
  3. I’d shake my head with demure humility, and continue to fill out this application form of love; all the delicate nuances that makes me me. *spews into someone else’s handbag*
  4. 17 days later, when I’d sifted through the final quill written love letter (an hilarious fireman with a penchant for the Pixies and boardgames, I recall) I’d make my decision as to whom I’d write back to.
  5. After all of them immediately reply, I’d go on a series of amazing dates of all shapes and sizes (Flashmobbing in Trafalgar Square, to a quiet night on a boat restaurant in Embankment…of which I’d inevitably have to get off as I spend the night trying to not bring up my slowly undulating meal…he totally understands though. What a(n imaginary) gentleman!
  6. I’d have some casual flings with some, and then a month or two later, realise that the guy I’d been friends with and super attracted to felt the same way, and we hire a Goodies type tandem bike, ride into the sunset and make jokes about how we’ll have to find one of our single friends to come with us next time. *clinks glasses of apple cider, high fives, and makes out*

That’s what I really thought it would be like. It’s not. It’s more like a funeral, or rather the seven stages of grieving in reverse. So I’ve made my own list:

1. Excitement – this is by far the best part of the online mating process. This is the stage filled with hope and possibility; filled with meticulous word choice, so you sound buoyant but “chilled.” Like you might use the phrase “YOLO” in real life, but somehow coming out of your mouth it sounds inspiring. You wonder who will be interested in you and how they feel about a girl with IBS (that’s second date talk, though.)

2. Obsession – this is the part where you try not to act like a stalker. Except you are. All the time. That’s what this is designed for. To trawl the pages of endless strangers’ profiles. Telling your friends that you’re being really open minded about the process, but in reality judging everyone on there like you’re a pageant Mum from Toddlers and Tiaras. (See my first blog entry).  You can see who has visited your page, they can see when you have visited theirs, which makes it all the more painful when your messages have been opened but not replied to. Cue: Bridesmaids on DVD and a 3 Meat & Rice Curry Combo…in bed. The most humiliating part of course is the Rogan Josh stains on the pillow the next morning.

3. Confusion – this is the part where you slowly figure out the reality of what you’ve signed up for. Oh cool! The same old shit! Except it’s costs money! Yayser! That sounds like a sweeeeeet deal. Next month I’ve decided to get creative and instead of investing in a dating website I’m just going to start making accessories out of my cash. A broach made out of soldered £1 coins. A shawl weaved out of £20 notes and rejection. It’s the rejection that makes them stick good.

4. Depression – this is part where you invent time travel and revisit your piece of shit teenage self. It’s like an episode of “This is Your Life!” I walk in and see all my old friends:

“Oh my god! Anxiety? Sexual insecurity? Is that you? Wow, you haven’t changed a bit. And don’t tell me…is that? Yup, it’s the Importance of looking like others fairy, even though I’ve got a nose like a Commedia Dellarte mask (quote from an ex-boyfriend). You guys! I didn’t even know you were still around. Let’s have a reunion. I just wish my old friend alcoholism could be here as well.”

5. Anger – This is where you listen to a LOT of Destiny’s Child. You start swearing at your laptop screen and giving it a bit of “I don’t need you anyway.” Like you’ve been cheated on. By a photo. On a computer.

I’d look at profiles I’d *liked* and they hadn’t *liked* back. Or worse– I’d *liked*, they’d *liked* back, I’d sent a message, they never messaged back. OR WORSE mid conversation (like 4-17 messages back and forth) and then they stop. Inexplicably. Out of the blue. You scour your messages in case you’d written the words “fundamentalist doucher” or “massive Nickleback fan.” Or the absolute worst; the guys that are interested in you. Because they’re usually the ones who say the weirdest shit. I don’t know if it’s just me, but it seems that 98% of the dudes actually interested in me write things that makes me wonder if they have a child lock on their keyboard, whether they’re allowed to have furniture with sharp edges, or if they have ever worn an adult nappy just because “it seems logical.”

6. Stoical Perseverance – this is the part where you stop acting like you’re on Maury Povich and realise that there are no short answers. That the right person will come along, when they’re meant to, if they’re meant to at all. And then you have an Oprah moment, and you pretend you’re talking to Gayle. That you are an awesome person, with a reasonable body; you’re lots of fun, and just as stupid. And realistically, that you’re quite happy being single. So you just keep plodding on on the ole’ website and if something happens cool. If not…

7. Start a blog.





Same Chick, Different DaY

On the homepage, of the particular online dating website I’m putting my rapidly declining Australian dollars into, is a small gallery of faces. Faces, like me, who are desperate to prove that they are the best. Faces that say “hey guys, I’m easy going and funny and just happened to have been snapped at my most beautiful, most relaxed moment – HOLLA!” It’s like a ‘best of’ for loneliness. I don’t know how you get on the homepage gallery, but then again I don’t know how to get the “Official” blue tick on twitter or how to part my hair properly. (I haven’t included that in my profile – am I actively lying?) But there is one lady who has figured it out. And I see her every time I log on.

She’s been there for two weeks. Every day I go to the website (don’t judge me! Writing can be boring), centre-stage is the same thousand mile stare looking back at me suggesting I’ve done something wrong with my face, by the fact that I am not on there.

Now I’m sure the word ‘jealousy’ is popping into people’s minds. Sure: she’s 24 and hasn’t had the onslaught of disappointment and intermittent insomnia that will eventually befall her with time. Actually, she looks like one of those people that says, “I don’t really get hangovers.” She has an avalanche of hair and she is bubbly. That’s how I would describe her picture: down-to-earth and bubbly. But it’s not her age or beauty that bothers me. It’s rules, goddammit!

There has to be some kind of system! Some kind of rotation!

Something I have included on my profile is that I’m more competitive than I’d like to admit. A simple example of this is that I had an ex-boyfriend one day spontaneously take me to a golf range. I was so excited. What a great idea! I used to hit golf balls with Dad as a kid in the park, so this would be a lovely stroll down memory lane. Well I took 3 swings down memory lane and realised I was actually on struggle street. Then I was the Mayor of This is Bullshit town. Then I quit politics all together and sat in the car. Granted, that was a long time ago, but I think the sentiment of that sporting tantrum still lingers within. So when I see ALL the faces on this wall change every couple of days, except for Pantene Penny I lose my cool, triple bogey style.

Side note: WHO NEEDS TO DO ONLINE DATING AT AGE 24? You’re still in your “I can drink my standards away” phase. I have no such luxury. When I leave a bar I am as sober as I was when I went in. There’s no “maybe I can see past the double dragon shirt. There’s no “he’s probably sweaty because he’s been dancing…with his mates…mime bumming them…while he’s wearing a nurse’s dress.” And certainly no, “I’ll worry about the fact that he’s doing a public dick hamburger in the morning.” I have to deal with everything then and there, so online dating places are for people like me.

You become almost accustomed to the people you like the most not looking at your profile back. You become hardened to it. It’s actually really good practice for walking the streets of London. You smile. They stare through you. Life imitating…life. But when someone gets a hold of a virtual step-ladder and they’re not letting the grogans have a borrow? Well that I just cannot abide. I don’t care how many chestnut farms it looks like your family owns.

So I want one of two things to change:

a)    that Martha Stewart goes back to her own page and bakes some humble pie there
b)   she reads this blog and helps a sister out.

Stand by for results.






Hello again,

Well it seems I’ve attracted some unwarranted attention. No, no, not from an avalanche of eligible bachelors that have been cast under my bewitching spell of arrogance and tracksuits. No Siree, Bob! I have been contacted by another site that thought I might be interested in, wait for it, A SUGAR DADDY. It is a dating website for, and I quote, “Rich Men and Hot Women.”

This single invitation has generated so many questions:

The obvious one: how did they know? No, I’m joking. I have never understood the Sugar Daddy concept. On top of the fact that I think IT’S GROSS, there is no amount of money that could buy me a partner. I’m not trying to be humble (that would be out of character).  Think about it: What if they had a whistling nostril? What if they said “Yeah, baby, yeah!” Austin Powers style, all the time? What if they used crystal deodorant?

I am currently writing this on the train and there is B.O. thinly veiled by the smell of crystal deodorant. And somehow, over time, it has only become stronger, not weaker, like some post-match soccer ghost is rubbing its armpit in my face. There is no amount of money that would make me tolerate that if I didn’t love the shit out of someone. We all have our faults, (sometimes I walk around with my eyes closed to see how long I can trust in my sense of balance) but I want to see past those flaws because I have sincere feelings for someone, then over time I can resent them because of familiarity and the fact that we’ve settled on eating dinner in front of the TV, not because THEY PAID FOR MY STUFF. And I’m no rich woman. I lick the inside of the yoghurt lid so as to get all of the value, but I earn enough so that I can be financially self-sufficient. I don’t want to be owned by someone, or have someone own my things. I worked hard to pay for my series of Spice Girls stickers and Beverly Hills 90210 badges, thank you very much. (That last one is a lie. They were a gift last year, from my mother. I’m 32. )

Second question: how does a sugar daddy work? Do they just buy you stuff or do you ask for specifics? It all seems so poorly thought out to me. Assuming they buy the stuff for you, what if they have terrible taste? Let’s paint a hideous stereotype:

There’s a sweaty, grossly overweight man with a comb-over, whitened/enlarged teeth, cosmic orange tan, strangling his way into some Speedos, ornamented with a lot, I mean A LOT of semi-precious stones and gold jewellery, and he is eating a 24 piece bucket of KFC chicken. No refresher towelettes. He is your sugar daddy, okay?*

Is this the man I want to have buy me things? I’ve never worn dangly earrings by the pool (my immune system closed over every piercing I’ve ever had) and I have no interest in being Vagazzled, but I feel like both of these things would be thrown my way in the first 2 weeks. How do you broach that conversation?

“Listen, Jerry, you’re a real swell dude, and I appreciate the gifts…ah you have some chicken grease on your face…anyway, as I was saying, I was wondering if we could tone back the gaud, and maybe focus on some more practical gifts?”

“You mean like a fish pedicure?”

“…I’m not sure we’re on the same page here.”

Third question: if you do request things, how does that take place? A weekly meeting? A shopping list? During sex? Oh god. Feral. I just had a spew. I’m sorry if you did too. I’m just saying, how do you ask for infomercial Box  Set of 101 Soft Rock Classics from a man that wears a blackhead strip to bed? It’s a tricky convo to initiate.

Lastly: the invitation said that all photos and profiles are censored and discerned by the website. And it actually states, you don’t have to be rich to join. That means you have to be hot to join. What if you’re not hot enough? What a blow to the old self-esteem. I’m not hot enough for a sugar daddy? I’m not hot enough for The Colonel and his 12 secret herbs and spices? Man, dating is hard enough, let alone realising that I’m not good enough for people I’m embarrassed for.

I’ll be interested to see if and more invites come flowing through. No doubt, I’ll keep you posted.

Peace out.

*I’m not saying that any one of these traits, or even this combo of traits is always disgusting and I apologise to anyone who looks like this or feels like they are being portrayed in a bad light because of their physical appearance. To be fair though, at least get a serviette.