The Sun-Herald

Odd couples give me hope

Among the predictable, central-casting romantic pairings I encounter during my adventures in partyland there's a growing number of not-so-obvious couples with disparate ages, incomes and cultural backgrounds. It cheers me.

I've been thinking about this since I bumped into my friend Cate the other day. She met Dean seven years ago, when he was 21 and she was 35. I can all too well remember the raised eyebrows and toyboy jokes when they first met, but they're still going strong and planning their wedding next year. Their deep connection proved everyone wrong and outlasted all the other matches we'd considered Most Likely to Succeed.
Another one of my favourite love stories belongs to my pal, Karen, a high-flying British media executive who married a much younger waiter from Thailand 15 years ago. You can imagine what people said about that in the wine bars of West London. But two kids later, they're as in love as they were that first week on Phi Phi Island.
I'm happy for them, but happier still that these days their mismatched backgrounds don't attract as much comment. They're not that unusual any more, thank goodness.
Wherever you go, odd couples abound - as mentioned, even here on Sydney's notoriously superficial social scene. Among my acquaintance are several women with significantly younger men, many gloriously contrasting cultural mixes, no end of 'blue collar/white collar' couples where the woman is the higher earner and a few pairings which frankly, would look impossible on paper but work like magic in practice.
Unsuitability is hot these days in Hollywood. Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher are its poster couple. At the other end of the scale are your Calista Flockharts and Catherine Zeta Joneses, who wouldn't look out of place producing their partners on the Antiques Roadshow. (I can't help imagining them evaluating Michael Douglas: "Despite the wear and tear and the clumsy attempts at restoration, I'm happy to tell you, Catherine, this one's worth several million.")
I like the age-gap trend, because it's actually woman-friendly. Beyond 30, girls now have a choice: take a toy boy, or select a gentleman of vintage. But whichever you go for, they seem much happier than their cookie cutter counterparts. Remember Brad with Gwyneth and then with Jen? Both blonde, wholesome and lookielikie unions; both doomed. I'd rate his chances of success with strange Ange and their rainbow family much higher.
What the successful odd couples all have in common, of course, is love. But that hasn't always been enough.
It's amazing to think that as recently as 40 years ago, interracial marriages were outlawed in several American states. We're approaching the 50th anniversary of the landmark US Loving vs Virginia case, which is another one of my favourite odd couple stories.
Traditional relationship wisdom has decreed that couples from similar social, educational and economic backgrounds work best. The evidence is based upon research that shows the majority of marriages are between what the sociologists called 'homogamous' couples. If you're interested in this stuff, check out an interesting discussion of it here.
But until recently, we just didn't have as many opportunities to meet people from vastly different backgrounds. Now we have Internet dating, which of course is a portal to potential partners from anywhere on earth. We travel more. Women go to work, where we meet everyone from the CEO to the postroom boy.
Importantly, women are also more independent and wealthier than ever before, which means our partner choices need no longer be driven by the imperative of economic stability. If The One happens to be a gardener and you're a stockbroker, no matter.
No-one said it'll always be easy. As well as an ability to see straight through the layers of difference to the soulmate inside, couples embarking on such a relationship also need the courage to tackle conflict and worse - the judgement of others.
But this is why we need unexpected couples most of all: they remind us of love's power to conquer the odds. Imagine how depressing it would be if all romances - especially high-profile ones - consisted of no-brainer couples with matching pedigrees, ages, jobs, looks and attitudes. In a world obsessed with perfection, mating can be such a rational game of deliberations and calculations: we scrutinize each other's flaws, study compatibility profiles, sign prenuptial agreements, concentrate on damage limitation.
Love needs leaps of faith, too. And without seeing it work its strange magic, we might stop believing in it.

Anyone out there defied convention? I'm keen to hear to hear how it worked for you.

• by Amy Cooper at 07:48 PM
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I am blonde, hear me roar

Whoosh! That was the sound of this city's vast army of blondes tossing their heads triumphantly at the satisfying news we're not so dumb after all.

Those of us who can read have taken heart from economist Robert H Frank's fascinating examination of the dumb blonde sterotype and his conclusion that blondes are judged unfairly upon their academic choices rather than their innate intelligence. Thanks, Bob.
But I feel duty-bound to point out that this report and the work it mentions by sociologists Satoshi Kanazawa and Jody L. Kovar suggesting that blondes are actually born smarter than others (bright by appearance, bright by nature) both miss an important point.
It's one of the most crucial characteristics of blonde women: we're not really blonde.
Most blondes are made, not born - like genies, we come out of a bottle. Underneath the shiny surface are mousies, gingers - even the jet black. This differentiates the blonde stereotype from those based upon race, height, build and other hereditary physical features. It's a chosen label.
That's why I've always felt it's churlish to winge about blonde jokes. If they become unbearable, I can just change back to brunette and up my perceived IQ by several points.
Or, as I once remarked late at night in a bar to a lumpen suitor who made rude comments about blondes: 'I can be brown-haired again in the morning, but you'll still be stupid.'
Being blonde is not the easiest hair choice. Apart from the perpetual flow of low quality jokes, there's also the cost. As all faux blondes will tell you, this hair requires its own bank account and doesn't play nicely with weather change, seawater or the wrong shampoo. When you've been sitting in a salon with smelly stuff on your head for three hours, it's hard to believe blondes have more fun.
I'd never much considered why we go to all the bother until a couple of years ago I reviewed an intriguing book by Joanna Pitman called On Blondes, about 'the power of the blonde throughout the ages'.
It's a history of the world's obsession with blondes and a tale of gold fever as old as ancient civilizations who worshipped sun and fire. They prayed to all things gold, traded in the real substance and then moulded it into female form as Aphrodite, goddess of love. Artists and poets portrayed her as a dazzling, flaxen-haired sex symbol - the image of female physical perfection. Men were crazy for her and Greek and Roman courtesans, seeking her golden allure, bleached their dark hair with horse's urine and yellow mud. (Even Julia Roberts did it as the brunette prostitute in Pretty Woman who wears a bright blonde wig to lure customers.)
She believes this cultural preoccupation with blonde lies at the heart of so many modern women's decision to turn fair. As I wrote in the review: 'It's this alchemy of the bottle blonde that fascinates Pitman. Very few blondes are natural, she observes, so blondeness is a decision - and one not to be taken lightly. Not just because of the necessary time, expense and arsenal of maintenance products, but because you're buying into something bigger than you. Cultures have projected so many ideals, preoccupations and fears onto the blonde banner that the way you wear it can reveal more about your subconscious than a Rorschach inkblot test.'
In the book, Blonde Like Me another 'blondologist', Natalia Ilyin, divides blondes into categories inspired by hair dyes: summer wheat, sun, moon, Apollo, baby blonde. Each represents a female archetype: the maternal ideal; the sexy siren, the mystical goddess; the trophy, the child-like innocent. Canadian anthropologist Grant McCracken went even further, with his 'blondeness periodic table', identifying 'bombshell', 'sunny', 'brassy', 'dangerous', 'society' and 'cool' blondes. They separate Jane Mansfield from Doris Day; Camilla Parker-Bowles from Princess Diana, Marilyn Monroe from Alfred Hitchcock's silvery ice queens, Pamela Anderson from Gwyneth Paltrow. They show the flags we fly with our choice of tint.
Neither book ignores the dark side of blonde symbolism and its associations with racial supremacy, but both focus more on a detailed and thought-provoking deconstruction of an almost exclusively female stereotype.
Perhaps both books are an elaborate justification for a hair colour linked more with Paris Hilton and Britney Spears than intellectual clout. Perhaps that's why I'm writing this right now.
I stay fair because actually, it is more fun. This hair colour works hard when the rest of me can't be bothered. When I'm dull or disheveled, my hair reflects the sun away from my sins. Heads always swivel towards blonde, no matter what horrors lie beneath. I tried a brief foray back to brown, didn't like it at all, and was blonde again in days.
Is any of this true for blonde men? My handsome, fair Swedish friend often gets pigeon-holed as a dumb spunk, but he doesn't really mind.
Tell me what you think, and if you feel compelled to post blonde jokes, please at least make them funny.

• by Amy Cooper at 01:47 AM
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Animal attraction

My dog Zach's friends, George, Martin, Frank and Dave all have human-sounding names. They have single, female owners, too and I wonder if there's a connection.

Are these pooches human family replacements in a part of the city where singledom and sole occupancy prevails?
Certainly, I'm so devoted to my dog I've been asked if he's a child substitute. He isn't - he's a dog, but I can see the attraction of that concept if you want to save on school fees and avoid all the worry about emos and Internet gatecrashers. Then again, I still think making children is more fun than buying dogs. On balance.
Two of my friends claim their choice of plain, bloke names for their canines is protection against a feared stereotype. Perhaps it all began with Mrs Slocombe and her pussy, or maybe we can blame Bridget Jones (I blame her for most things - she even gave Chardonnay a bad name), who feared she'd die alone and be found half-eaten by an Alsatian, but pets and single women do seem destined to attract more than their share of ridicule.
Cats, especially, are treated as some sort of dirty secret and many women would rather reveal the existence of a dungeon in the basement or a collection of those dolls that fit over toilet rolls than a feline housemate. "People assume if you have a cat on your lap, you've got a rabbit boiling in the kitchen," says one very sane, Persian-owning friend.
It doesn't seem fair that people remember Mrs Slocombe and her pussy in Are You Being Served? but conveniently forget crazy, cat-stroking Dr No in the James Bond movies. Or that no-one thought it strange when my friend Iain used to share his bed with a giant rabbit called Attila the Bun, but eyebrows are raised when a local lady takes her Chihuahua, Frank Sinatra, for a walk in his Versace-inspired wet-weather ensemble (all right, that is a bit much. In fact it's unforgivable and heinous). When a man bonds with Flipper, Skippy or Lassie, it's the stuff of prime-time TV adventure. When women and pets appear, it's the witching hour or a bad sitcom.
As someone who's fond of men and animals, I'm baffled by the notion you can't have both. Sometimes, in bleaker moments, I've wondered if it reflects a more general resentment of the close bonds women form with their kids, friends and families. Women who love a lot are always judged more harshly than passionate men. They're more likely to be branded wacky, scary or even dangerous. And although today's blokes are more comfortable with their feelings than ever before, we still applaud every emotional display - even if it's just whistling to the budgie - as a step up the evolutionary ladder.
Anyway, bet you didn't know this: Czechoslovakian scientists have discovered a parasite passed on by cats can change women's behaviour so they feel sexy, desirable and adventurous. If their findings are true, those old ladies with 12 moggies and dotty reputations are probably juggling so many toyboys they're simply having trouble remembering what day it is.
So far, there's no antidote for the bug, and I'm not sure there should be. If man, woman and cat can live in greater harmony, then there's hope for all species.
In the meantime, you can lend your support to that Utopian vision and, more importantly, the people who help animals who aren't loved as much as Zach, Dave, George, Frank and Martin by heading to the RSPCA's Paws for Celebration Dinner on Friday July 20th, at Doltone House in Pyrmont.
It'll be full of animal people of both genders, and one of the best-known supporters of the event is TV personality Laura Csortan, who's an owner and foster parent to rescue dogs as well as a pretty decent ambassador for single girls with furry families.
With a 'walk on the wild side' theme, it's the perfect setting for some animated discussion of all of the above. See you there.

• by Amy Cooper at 03:48 PM
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The Power Hour scares me

You learn things in bars. This week I was sampling one of this city's newer establishments when a woman leant across her Bellini, scanned the vicinity for eavesdroppers and, as if imparting the whereabouts of the Ark of the Covenant, whispered to me: "This place has the best power hour anywhere in town."

This was an upmarket bar so I assumed she meant an after-work spot for executive pow-wows, deal making and important decisions. "So you do business here?" I said and she chortled into her drink. "You could say that."
I used to write a weekly column about the mating game, but that was a couple of years ago and my terminology is foggy these days. My new friend had to enlighten me.
Power Hour, for those unfamiliar with the tag, is the last window of opportunity before a bar closes. It's when you'll find men looking to pick up and, driven by the imperative of limited time, particularly eager to impress. It affords a fast-track mating solution for the time-poor, results-oriented woman.
"Didn't we once call that 'the dregs' or the 'last chance saloon?'" I asked the friend who used to be my hunting partner on the dating scene. Things have changed, she says.
The Power Hour is not for desperados, but women with the vision and focus normally reserved for ruthless acquisitions brokers.
They've done their homework and know that certain bars attract certain men who know the women will come looking for them at that certain time. They also know where the high calibre blokes can be found, as an angler knows where the salmon congregate on his favourite river.
Armed with this information, the girls can then spend their evenings doing something far more interesting than sitting in a bar all night trying to attract the attention of men; a movie, perhaps, or dinner with girlriends. When you're finished, it's off to Power Hour. And if you know where to look, I'm told, the spoils are exceptional.
You've got to love the sheer, streamlined common sense of it. And the guys don't appear to be complaining. But I also worry about a romantic landscape which seems to be increasingly pragmatic, romance-free and - worst of all - dominated by the language of commerce.
The most horrendous dating self-help book I've ever read (and believe me, in three years of writing about dating you see far too many) was Rachel Greenwald's The Program: How to Find a Husband After Thirty Using What I Learnt at Harvard Business School. This alarming tome advocates a mix of extreme networking, drastic makeovers and ruthless self-promotion to deal with the 'emergency' of being husbandless. Cold-calling, guerilla marketing and 'personal branding' are all part of the plan.
The book's vocabulary sent chills through me when I first read it: "maximum volume, minimum time investment", "auditing" or "closing the deal." But it's been a global best seller with many women swearing by Greenwald's advice.
What I find hardest to swallow is this use of the word 'emergency.' Although Greenwald has always insisted her book was not written for desperate women, 'emergency' usually signifies someone, somewhere, is pretty darned desperate. But why? Marriage doesn't rescue women any more. To be unmarried is not an emergency. You won't die without a husband, or be forever condemned, like a Jane Austen spinster character, to life as an enslaved governess. People in modern Australia, quaintly enough, marry these days because they love each other, not to stay out of the gutter.
Power Hour, with its clinical, goal-oriented philosophy, is a little too similar to The Program for my taste. Can we not, at least, find a more romantic name for it? 'Trysting time' or ''The wooing window,' perhaps?
Or am I just hopelessly anachronistic?

• by Amy Cooper at 06:33 PM
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