food blogs

The books to have come out of 2009 started from food blogs. And if you think there will be a mass repeat, well, you are right. But if you were inspired by the movie Julie and Julia, in which a moonlighting blogger cooks herself through Julia Child’s Master of French Cooking, but ou do Joy of Cooking instead, well, good luck. Publishers are looking for fresh, but tested.

But unfortunately, last year’s trend has spun a whole slew of new food blogs. I’m not against having more information out there. I’m against having misinformation out there.

Interview with Sarah.

What you say comes with responsibility. Just because you love food and are passionate enough to send hours of your day writing about what you had.

Come on, it’s about what you had, and what you’ve experienced, and putting yourself out there as an authority, yes? Answer is yes. But with this comes responsibility.

This is not your outlet to power trip.

You don’t slam a restaurant for seating you by the loo, especially if there are no other tables available or if you hadn’t made a reservation.

There are so many knee-jerk food blog, and tweets, that makes me wonder how any restaurateur makes it.

There is a magazine, and I won’t say which one, that sends interns to review for their publication. This intern is most likely still in school, enjoys food but its anyone’s guess how much they are reference and compare other restaurants like the one they are reviewing. This intern was sent to review a new Japanese restaurant in Causeway Bay where she reported the food was small portioned and very expensive. The restaurant shut two months after this review came out after the owners poured their life savings into it. To this day I regret ever have sent this intern and will, as a personal policy, never send anyone new to this game to review a restaurant.

Food, I understand is a very, very, extremely personal thing. That’s having an opinion. Food is a very universal thing. That’s having a reported opinion. The dishes are referenced, it is not just a matter of taste.

You really do need the references to formulate an opinion. But we all have an opinion, we all eat. That’s a universal fact.

Food, ultimately is about personal enjoyment.

I know I’ve just spent an entire column selling you on our food reviews.

We don’t take free meals, but now I understand that more than anything.

I can always tell if this is someone’s first attempt at reviewing. Young (and I just mean new to this game) reviewers have a tendancy to trash a place. Key give aways: no facts, no references, no history, no context. It’s basically a rant piece on himself and what he thought of his taste sensations.

Unfortunately, the media doesn’t have time to revisit places after they’ve fully opened. This is where blogs can shine.

Forget the book deals, that should be the end result after a blog well done (and having lots of followers), not the goal.

Questions to ask: Why are you praising them? Why are you really trashing them? Okay, agreed, if they weren’t such money hungry restaurateurs, they wouldn’t have squeezed an extra table by the loo, but ask yourself if this is a personal grip, or if you’ve personalize this, rather than see it as a super packed restaurant and thye managed to squeeze you in. Another words, Think before you publish.

Here’s a trick, on and offline. Nobody likes to be called out that their wrong. That the all-consuming project, their baby, which took years and all their savings, is wrong. The public will judge. Once you put pen to paper, and publishing it, you are no longer the public. That’s doesn’t make sense. Ask yourself why. Ask yourself, what is your motivation. Too get free food- ennh. Wrong answer.

What is the goal ultimately? To make recommendations, yes. To be wined and dined for free. If you are still considering saying yes. You are doing a disservice to the public.

How much power does a food blog hold?

What people don’t understand is that many of these blog writers are romanced by restaurateurs. They get seated in VIP suites, meals are taken care of, wines are free-flowing. Special chef’s menus are created that would normally not be available to the public.

I was invited by Xiu Long Bao to dine on the private floor of Yung Kee. These guys are treated like princes. You think he is blogging about the roast goose you are eating downstairs?

They are romanced by press relations, and why not they are influencial and they have numbers to prove it. But what many food bloggers do not reveal is their true nature of things. Many are marketers, advertisers, press agents. But under the veil of anonymous, they never have to reveal themselves while pushing their agenda.

But, it is freedom of speech, the little we have.

I’m not saying the latest bad guys are food blog, there are a lot of talented people out there who commit to these blogs because they truly feel they had an experience and want to share it. But there are plenty who do this for personal gain.

You just need to read between the lines and realize who is who.

Love over 35?

SECTIONCODE: 47- feature- 35

SECTION: feature

SUBSECTION:

HED: Too late for love?

SUBHED: Will women find The One after 35? The long and the short of the answer is: unlikely, writes Angie Wong

P/Q:

TEXT:

Experience is sometimes measured in years. And by the time you are 35-years-old, you’ve likely learned a thing or two about the "courtship narrative". It used to be spelled out like this: attraction, dating, engagement, wedding, babies. But something in the narrative has been disrupted.

Spring break sexual liberation led to numerous and nameless hookups; drink-induced flirtations led to numbers you don’t remember inputting in your SIM card; boys who once fancied you in school led to Facebook friendships; a series of low-commitment relationships led to you saving yourself for someone better.

But then you’re 30. And then you’re 35, and you are still spring-breaking, drinking and flirting, Facebook spying on boys from school, or worst, your exes, to see how far in life they’ve gotten. Quite far, according to their family pics and links to their wives’ Facebook pages. Hmmm, you think to yourself as you stroll through her profile, that could’ve, should’ve, been you.

It’s not too late, you think. But you also start to believe you may be getting a little old. The problem is the window between the time you realise you are no longer a young swan and you’re entering middle-age is a very, very short space. A few years at best.

Don’t wait too long, as the old saying goes, or else the train may pass you by. This is a real consideration if you believe in the numbers.

Quite simply, there are more women than men in Hong Kong. The Census and Statistics Department divided the sexes in Hong Kong as 3.3 million men to 3.6 million women in 2008. And the numbers get scarier when describing 35-year-old single male to female ratio: 50,100 to 67,000. It continues to fall at age 37: 47,300 single men to 68,000 single women, and it tumbles each year thereafter until both sexes level off at 55. The age of brides peaked at 29, at 3,835 brides in 2008, and fall every year after 30. At 35, there were 1,539 brides. At 40, there were only 628. male figures If we are just looking at numbers, Hong Kong’s environment is not a lucrative breeding ground for holy unions.

And environment is a funny word—because we create much of it. I looked at the reasons why other countries such as Jamaica and Iran had the best success rates when it came to marriages. Religion plays a big role; social/political unrest drew people together (safety in numbers); the lack of transient (read: expat) lifestyle was another; strong family values and associations were pluses; work-life balance is key (the average Hongkonger worked 22 percent more hours per week than recommended by the International Labor Organization); Money was also a big factor –more money, more breakups.

We’re not Iran or Jamaica, we’re Asia’s World City. We’re also a city of one million expatriates, politically muffled, and frequent flyers. We are applauded for career titles and rewarded for our financial success. Al these things add up to a crippled dating arena.

Hong Kong is a materialistic, career-obsessed, selfish place. And if you believe in the Chinese principle of yin and yang, the harmony of balance in the world, then something’s gotta give. If we are going to put our energy into accruing money, hedonism, and material needs then there’s a flip side. The balance of that are the symptoms: more money, less personal time; more sexual partners, less meaningful relationships; more material goods, less blue skies. If modern self-fulfillments were the goals, these are its consequences.

We are also a city of over-achievers. We did everything our parents told us to: we got good grades, went to good schools, secured good jobs. So what happened? “Mothers should think twice before telling their daughters these things,” says Violet Lim, founder of Lunch Actually, a dating service which has paired off more than 200 couples and 80 marriages since 2004. What mothers and television series forgot to tell them was for every dollar females makes above her man, the chances of their relationship failing goes up, and every year past the age of 29, the percentage of getting married drops.

“The reason you are still single is because you are too career-minded” says Lim. “When I used to work at a bank, my female colleagues were married to their jobs. They were too time-stretched to meet anyone.” According to Lim, guys respect career-oriented women for her achievements but less for being their equal. Men believe they’ll have a harder time providing for her if she is an equal or in a higher position than him and might feel insecure about her, which goes against even the mildest of feminist teachings.

Also men are looking for femininity, “not necessarily strong women,” says Lim. “Some women challenge everything, which is what women are attracted to in a man, but not what men are attracted to in a woman.” She suggests women to get unharden and “wear more ruffles”.

It is, without say, that looks play an important role in the game of attraction. As the saddle bags set in, the rings around her eyes gives a resemblance to Beetle Juice, and hair grows in places she never imagined possible; women have to invest a lot to look competitive in the dating market. An entire anti-age industry is built upon it; the promise of youth is a US$96.89B a year business and is expected to reach US$291.9B by 2015, according to Global Industry Analysts. A plastic surgeon who works in New World Tower, says the majority of his clients comes in for first-time procedures after her thirtieth birthday. A fitness trainer, who works in Central, says most of his female clients start training in the early or mid-thirties, and following a major break up.

Girls grew up idealising marriage, believing it’s some sort of divine spark, and in their dating prime women will walk away from uninspiring boyfriends that would’ve made them happy when considering him as a husband or father of their children. But what they held out for all these decades (true love), has back fired as time passed, and they’re now described to eligible men as “mature”. In Lori Gottieb’s famed article in The Atlantic Monthly, she argues: “Those of us who choose not to settle in hopes of finding a soul mate later are almost like teenagers who believe they’re invulnerable to dying in a drunk-driving accident. We lose sight of our mortality.”

When asked whether women in their mid-thirties will find long-lasting relationships in Hong Kong, Lim takes a long silence before saying: “Hong Kong men are more open-minded to date older women over 25. But most single men who come into Lunch Actually request to be paired up with women 35 or below.” And what were the company’s success rates for finding a mate for 35 + women? “It is hard for us to find them someone,” she admits.

These are the consequences of a super competitive market. One 36-year-old expat female dater who plays her chances with online dating sites describes the market like this: “With some very keen local girls it’s hard [for] a Western woman to compete!”

For Western women it is undoubtedly more difficult to find suitors. An Australian female who, at 35, swapped her prominent financial position in Hong Kong for a lesser position and lesser pay in London describes this:

“I found it hard to meet anyone who was stable and wanted a long-term relationship [in Hong Kong]. I also found the majority of men were more interested in local women and the pool of nice, normal, single, available men much smaller. I did not want to end being 40 and single in Hong Kong like so many other western women I saw there.” Moving to a city where there was less of an expat penalty in the dating pool a big boost for her ego. “Men [in London] find me attractive and I don’t have to compete with Asian girls,” she said over an email. She, like other expat women I spoke with, said they first considered moving out of Hong Kong to find The One at 34.

“Guys usually don’t choose older women… The cut off age is 32-33,” a 34-year-old male consultant says. He adds that men shouldn’t feel like they are the bad guy for opting out of a woman 35 or older. “Biologically, and logically, it’s better to choose younger women if [the man] wants to have children. It’s just a smart decision.”

But not all guys agree. “I want to have kids,” said a 33-year-old business developer. “It’s cliché, but I want a mature partner. Women over 35 have a better sense of security; they are more settled, and grown into their habits. I know what I want in life. What I’m not looking for is someone on a journey or discovery. I want to know who you’re going to be at the end of the tunnel. If I’m dating a 26-year-old, how the hell am I going to know who they’ll be at 30?”

“If I want to play around I look for someone who’s 25, if I want to settle down I look for someone who’s 35,” one late-thirties musician dittoed.

You hear a lot of “if it happens, it happens,” “we’ll see what god has in stored” or “It’s up to fate”. It is rarely advisable to completely leave finding The One in fate’s hands when you know the odds are against you. If you are determined to complete the journey that many have failed, (of course you are you over-achiever), then may we leave you with some ideas.

Lim says, be vulnerable, drop the mask, and change your patterns. Before dates, leave the powersuit at the office and slip on a black dress. Get feminine. Just be out there. Accept every invite. Drop your criteria list and be open-minded to men of all shapes and sizes and income levels. But the most important message is to stay positive. “Men are like dogs, they can smell desperation,” says one 34-yer-old art trader.

A 36-year-old singleton, who admits to lying about her age, describes this: “I always try and be optimistic. I always accept invites from new people to parties. I think most of my single friends accept that you will not find the one in Mes Amis, apart from one who swears by Dusk Till Dawn,” (her friend has a preference for pilots). She also suggests joining wine tastings, tennis clubs, and enlisting her friends for pair-ups. Though she says whatever you do, stay out of Wan Chai.

The problem of finding The One is actually not a problem at all. It is that the references we have for the process are outdated for modern times. We lack the traditions of the “courtship narrative”, but that doesn’t mean we are broken. It just means it doesn’t work for us anymore. Marriage rates are down, worldwide in cities, but there are contributing factors. The world has changed. We put religion aside and stopped persecuting unwedded co-habitaters as sinners; second-third-fourth marriages are more and more acceptable and common; we’ve moved out of the political arenas to focus on ourselves; and we’re making a whole lot more money. It’s not all bad. It’s just different. And we just need to stop griping and embrace it, even if we fear the unknown.

Box:

Yes, the odds are stacked against women over 35, but if against the odds you are persistent. You can integrate into an unwed dead man’s patrilineage. “Ghost brides”, as they are called, will receive the family’s wealth, power and have the ability to be independent without the interference of a living husband. But they must take a vow of celibacy, and immediately take up residence with his family. On the flipside, a ghost groom marrying a dead bride does not have to stay celibate.

Dining Xpress for Professionals, Wed 3 Feb 2010

Participate in this dinner date with a twist! Meet a new dining partner at each course. Take time to savour each course, as you get to know your dining partner! Price $500 per person.Tel: 2524 5020

Ben Hoad's dinner (final)

There is a reason I have a year old leg of lamb in my freezer. Everytime I open my ice box, it taunts me. I will tell this tale on its one year anniversary, then toss out this frozen object of pain.

As the saying goes, the direct path to a guy's heart is through his stomach. An Aussie guy I had an unhealthy obsession for brought up the idea of throwing a dinner party at his place one year ago. "What should I make at your dinner party?" I eagerly offered my homemaking services. "You mean our dinner party," he countered. I glowed for weeks.

We decided on leg of lamb—a classic family-style roast with prewritten gender roles of the man of the house ceremonious carving meat table side. Invites were sent and a date set. Only one problem: I've never made lamb before. I grew up in America where lamb was not a staple, nor the industry.

I somehow thought if I could deliver the perfect meal he would magically lust me. I drove myself insane crafting the perfect meal in my head; nights were lost studying cookbooks; I even bought the Jamie Oliver DVD set. One episode showed butterflied leg of lamb, but in my fantasy dinner party, rather our fantasy dinner party, I imagined carrying out an entire leg of lamb to the table. Arg. Frustrated, I write to Jamie Oliver posting my dilemma. To my surprised his staff came back with a recipe.

I ran this recipe by Richard Ekkebus of two-Michelin starred Amber. "Well you can't serve an Aussie that. Jamie's a Brit, Aussies do it differently." He proceeded to roll out a recipe for the perfect leg of lamb which involved professional kitchen equipment and lots of anchovies. I'll never be able to recreate this at home.

I buy additional legs for test runs. I set off my smoke detector multiple times smoking oysters for our starter course. I procured artisanal ice from Antarctica for welcome drinks. This was going to be the dinner party of dinner parties.

On my way to pick up tomatoes ordered from Sicily the phone rings, it's him, "Hey, how's it going?" "Everything's good, looking forward to our dinner party," I said coolly. "I made a test leg of lamb last night." Shut up! Too much information. "Wow, really?” He said. “When I was a kid my grandmother would roast a leg of lamb, it was one of my favourite memories growing up." Fuck. "She would put-" at that precise moment a roaring city bus crosses my path. "Wait, what did you say?" I said half panicked. He mumbled it again but I still couldn't get a clear connection through the city roar. The forces were against me. I loudly asked a third time like someone using a mobile phone for the first time believing he would hear me better if I yelled. I finally said, without meaning to: "I'm sorry I can't understand your Aussie accent without seeing your lips move."

“You want to win this guy right?” the former chef of Zest asked me four days, and two overcooked legs of lamb, to showtime. “Forget the anchovies, forget the bacon, forget everything. Keep it simple. Fresh mint sauce, rosemary, roast potatoes, and gravy. You can do this. You know how to make head cheese for god's sake."
"I think I'm just too nervous and I'll fuck it up," I was going to cry.

“It’s cute how worked up you get. How about this? My kitchen will prepare everything for you. You just need to pop it in the oven." This was cheating, this was so brilliant.

No one really cooks from scratch anymore, we think we cook, but all we really do is assemble the parts and we call it cooking. I considered his offer. "You sure you want to be with a guy that drives you this crazy?" the chef asked. All the best ones are a little crazy, I thought. But I didn’t want to be crazy and a cheater, so I turned down my way out of roast lamb hell.

The night before the dinner I packed a hand-carried bottle of bourbon from the Kentucky, grey salt shaved from the salt banks of Gemunden (Germany), herb rub from Borough Market (London), a bottle of aged balsamic vinegar bought at auction, and a recently purchased gravy bowl in the shape of a duck.

I took a day off work to get ready for this fated night. I remind myself to take deep breaths as I was getting my hair/nails/makeup done. Just one more stop at the tailors then I’ll head over to his. My phone belled: “Problem. Need to reschedule. Sorry,” texted my beloved. “What!?! My scream silenced all the blow dryers in the blast radius.

I threw the lamb in the freezer, and speed-dialed my girlfriends for a night of consolement. Between glasses of bourbon, I turned up the oven, ditched the sauces, and cooked the most honest meal to ever come out of my kitchen. It was made with tears, disappointment, heartbreak and relief, not crazy psychotic behaviour. And then we feasted.

Ben's Lamb Dinner

There is a reason I have a year old leg of lamb in my freezer. And everytime I open my ice box, it taunts me. I will tell this tale on its one year anniversary, then toss out this frozen object of pain.

As the saying goes, the direct path to a guy's heart is through his stomach. An Aussie guy I had an unhealthy obsession for brought up the idea of throwing a dinner party at his place a year ago. "What should I make for your dinner party?" I eagerly offered my homemaking services. "You mean our dinner party," he countered. I glowed.

We decided on leg of lamb—a classic family-style roast with prewritten gender roles of the man of the house ceremonious carving meat table side. Invites were sent and a date set. Only one problem: I've never made lamb before. I grew up in America where lamb was not a staple, nor industry.

I somehow thought if I could deliver the perfect meal he would magically love me. I drove myself insane crafting the perfect meal; Nights were lost studying cookbooks; I even bought the Jamie Oliver DVD box set. One episode showed butterflied leg of lamb, but in my fantasy dinner party, rather our fantasy dinner party, I imagined carrying out an entire leg of lamb to the table. Arg. Frustrated, I write to Jamie Oliver posting my dilemma. I was surprised his staff came back with a recipe.

I ran this recipe by Richard Ekkebus at the two-Michelin starred Amber. "Well you can't serve an Aussie that. Jamie's a Brit, Aussies do it differently." He proceeded to roll out a recipe for the perfect leg of lamb which involved professional kitchen equipment and lots of anchovies. I'll never be able to recreate this at home.

I buy additional legs for test runs. I set off my smoke detector multiple times smoking and marinating oysters for our starter course. I procured artisanal ice from Antarctica for welcome drinks. This was going to be the dinner party of dinner parties.

On my way to pick up tomatoes I ordered from Sicily the phone rings, it's him, "Hey, how's it going?" "Everything's good, looking forward to our dinner party," I said coolly. "I made a test leg of lamb last night." Shut up! Shut up! Too much information. "Wow, really?” He said. Awkward pause. “When I was a kid my grandmother would roast a leg of lamb, it was one of my favourite memories growing up." Fuck. "She would put-" at that precise moment a roaring city bus crosses my path. "Wait, what did you say?" I said half panicked. He mumbled his grandmother's list of ingredient again but I still couldn't get a clear connection through the city roar. The forces were against me. I loudly asked a third time like someone using a mobile phone for the first time believing he would hear me better if I yelled. I finally said, without meaning to: "I'm sorry I can't understand your Aussie accent unless I see your lips move."

“You want to win this guy right?” my chef friend said four days, and two overcooked legs of lamb, to showtime. “Forget the anchovies, forget the bacon, forget everything. Keep it simple. Fresh mint sauce, rosemary, roast potatoes, and gravy. You can do this. You know how to make head cheese for god's sake."
"I think I'm just too nervous and I'll fuck it up," I was going to cry.

“It’s cute how worked up you get. How about this, my kitchen will prepare everything for you. You just need to pop it in the oven." This was so cheating, but it was so brilliant.

No one really cooks from scratch anymore, we think we cook, but all we really do is assemble the parts and we call it cooking. I considered his offer. "You sure you want to be with a guy that drives you this crazy?" the chef asked. All the best ones are a little crazy, I thought. But I didn’t want to be crazy and a cheater, so I turned down my way out of roast lamb hell.

The night before the dinner I packed a hand-carried bottle of bourbon from the Kentucky, grey salt shaved from the salt banks of Gemunden (Germany), herb rub from Borough Market (London), and a bottle of aged balsamic vinegar bought at auction, and a recently purchased gravy bowl in the shape of a duck.

I took a day off work to get ready for this fated night. I remind myself to take deep breaths as I was getting my hair/nails/makeup done. Just one more stop at the tailors then I’ll head over to his. My phone receives a text from my beloved: Problem. Need to reschedule. Sorry. “What?! My scream silenced all the blow dryers in my blast radius.

I threw the lamb in the freezer, and speed-dialed my girlfriends for a night of consolement. Between glasses of bourbon, I turned up the oven, ditched the sauces and cooked the most honest meal to ever come out of my kitchen. It was made with tears, disappointment, and relief, not crazy psychotic behaviour. And then we feasted.

33

Thirty-three is the largest positive integer that can’t be expressed as a sum of different triangular numbers. It is also the temperature when water boils on the Newton scale. A normal human spine has 33 vertebrae. Jesus was reportedly crucified in 33 A.D., when he was 33, after performing 33 miracles. Thirty-three is the jersey number for basketball players Patrick Ewing, Scottie Pippen and Shaquille O' Neal. It’s also the number of years Manchester City Football Club has gone without a trophy. It’s a significant number in modern numerology. ‘33’s are also known as long playing records, or LPs. Thirty-three is the number of victims that were all killed in the Virginia Tech Massacre in 2007. The United Nations symbol has 33 segments. '33' is a Nigerian brand of beer. In Masonary the 33rd degree is the highest possible degree (thanks Dan Brown). It is the atomic number for arsenic. ‘33’ is one of the symbols of Ku Klux Klan (K is the 11th letter in the alphabet, and it appears three times, 11 x 3= 33, KKK). Thirty-three is the coming of age of hobbits in J. R. R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. And that’s where our story takes us today. A coming of age story about 33.
Having hopped over the thirties wall, and now watching squeamishly how my recently-30 girlfriends splattered over the otherside, was a scary event. And without pause I'm now seeing a repeat, this time to my Schadenfreude, with my guy friends turning 33.
Within the course of two months, I’ve had four separate conversations with close friend-boys about their quests for finding the right girl so they can settle down. They say quest, I say panic because this is my second time watching this film.
When a guy's in heat, I'm not sure if I should stay away or embrace it. I offered my help to my guy friend B, age 33 last June, who spent two hours over dinner talking about how he is looking for the one and how he needs to start popping out kids. He is (sort of) my ex, and naturally I’m sad he is maturing to this now, and not when we were dating. I offered to line up my single girls for him, the top guns, the BLTs (brains, looks and talent), the Anne Hathaway-marriable type. But he was offended by the offer, "I can get girls no problem." So do I just listen or do I offer solutions, I ask you?
When guys panic, they are pretty proactive about it. My friend J, also 33 as of last June, is interviewing potential wives by having exgirlfriends live with him for two weeks at a time to see if they are, again, compatible. Other guy friends are going online, using compatibility sites such as eHarmony to match their personalities, only then to use sites like Date Search to gawk at candidates’ criminal, property, and tax situations. “Guys go through two different processes when they are looking for a girlfriend verses a wife,” said my eligible friend H, who turned 33 in September. “If he hasn’t stumbled on the one already, then by the time he hits 33, he is not fooling around anymore–until he hits his midlife,” he said brushing forward his hair to disguise his receding Jude Law hairline.
I wondered about the factors: hair loss/ wrinkles/turkey neck; pivotal successes in careers; the purchase of a first home (empty of anyone to share his kingdom); the volatility of today’s markets and the uncertainty of whether he can capture a hot girl if he loses his job; pressure from his mother (also older sisters). “Maybe, I’ve dated too many assholes and I’m looking for a nice girl,” H injected.

Over a smokin’ Korean grill at Sorabol, I was having this same conversation with my favourite married couple Andrew and Clara. "Thirty-three is the new 28," Andrew said, age 30. "It used to be that guys thought they had to be married by 30, so at 28, he starts to panic. But that bar got pushed, and now the acceptable age to get married is 35, therefore 33—panic.” He has a way of making everything clear. “Also, after a certain age you become known as the 'old guy'. None of us want to be in that position and single."
"Are you thinking about marriage Angie?" Clara asked.
"Pushing 30 I was,” I said. “Post 30, I'm not as excited over the prospect. But I kind of want to get my first marriage over with." I joke, but there is truth to my word.
To push for commitment at 30, I know well now, is based on panic, and not a sensible time to make a milestone decision. Once 30 comes and goes, the panic subsides (well, for me), and I would advise girlfriends to be cautious with those months leading up to 30. Don't make any rash decisions when you have no idea what force is driving you. Best to make the most important decision you’ll make in this life time, choosing a partner, when you are sober.
So I'm going to wait, just a little bit longer until I can make rash, grown-up decisions. Because, though jaded as I am, I do only want to walk down the aisle once.