Romantically Challenged

by Sami Lukis

  Seriously, buddy? Go rent a hooker. What kind of fuckbucket thinks splashing a hundred bucks in a girl’s face will make her do whatever he wants? I later found out from the maitre d’ that they were a group of lawyers.

  Alcohol seems to be a common factor when it comes to random men approaching me. The result can sometimes be hideously offensive. But mostly it’s pretty humorous.

  My all-time favourite fan moment occurred when I was presenting the weather for the Today show on location in the small mining town of Cobar in central western New South Wales. We were set up on the balcony of the local Heritage Centre and I was already aware that a bunch of blokes were having a pretty raucous drinking session about a block away at the Grand Hotel – even though it was only 7 a.m. The local tour guide told us they were probably a group of miners grabbing a cold one (or six) on their way home from the night shift. Well, the boys must have seen the Today show on the TV in the pub. And, bloody hell, mate, throw me against the wall and call me a gecko if those blokes didn’t notice that the weather girl was right there in Cobar, just up the street!

  Which must have been what prompted one of the local lads to poke his head out of the pub just after I finished my weather cross and scream at the top of his lungs, ‘Hey, Sami, get a dingo up ya!’

  I heard it loud and clear. But I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. I can’t say I was familiar with that particular turn of phrase, so I couldn’t work out if it was intended as a compliment or an insult. Or a proposition from a guy who called himself Dingo?

  So I just waved and smiled and gave him the thumbs up. As if random men suggest to me that I shove a wild dog where the sun don’t shine, all the time.

  I received more date requests while I was working on the Today show than at any other time in my life. Someone screaming, ‘Get a dingo up ya’ was certainly the most baffling proposition, but it wasn’t the only one.

  I received mostly letters and emails from viewers, which were sent to Channel Nine. Many of the letters were handwritten, which was a lovely touch, but the way these men presented themselves on paper was often as questionable as the various wooing methods they used.

  It did, however, give me an intriguing and often unsettling insight into what men think women are looking for in a mate. I’ve included some examples below, which we can use as a kind of social experiment to examine the dating psyche of the modern man. They’ve been grouped into sub-categories, according to the various approach methods deployed.

  In an effort to prove just how serious his adoration was, one guy wrote to tell me he’d applied for the number 1800 SAMI LU (1800 726 458) for his business. I kid you not. I don’t know what he was expecting me to do with this information. Or how my name was in any way relevant to his business. I think he fixed air conditioners.

  I have noticed that the number is now disconnected, so either old mate never actually registered it or he cancelled it when he realised we were not going to connect in this lifetime.

  One guy expressed his love for me by painting my image on a massive rock at Port Macquarie. He sent me a photo to prove it. The rock was about the size of a washing machine.

  Anyone is welcome to paint a rock on the southern breakwall of the Hastings River on the mid New South Wales coast, in what has become a public outdoor art gallery. Most of the rocks are dedicated to deceased family members. The ‘Sami’ rock featured a painting of a blonde woman holding a Today show microphone. I could definitely see some resemblance from the neck up, however I looked a lot more like Pamela Anderson from the neck down (#titsonarock).

  One charmer wrote to inform me that I was one of his three wife-approved celebrity shags. He said that while I was only number two on his list (wedged between Natalie Imbruglia at number one and Avril Lavigne at number three), I should feel pretty good about it, because I had firmly held the number two position for the best part of a decade. He must have thought I provided the best chance out of the three of ever actually happening, so he included his phone number and email address and urged me to contact him anytime because, in his words, ‘If it’s my celebrity shag, it wouldn’t be cheating, after all.’

  I was really chuffed when a guy from a band called Carpe Diem wrote to tell me he’d written a song about me, called ‘No Sami’, and he was hoping for an opportunity to perform the ballad on the Today show one morning during my weather cross. I’m not sure why the producers declined his request, considering the song included such profound lyrics as:

  The weather is atrocious but I really don’t care

  ’Cause it’s being presented by the girl with the long blonde hair

  The queen of the isobars is standing right there

  And I’m sure that is where most other men stare

  But there’s no Sami, no Sami

  There’s no Sami Lukis at the weekend.

  Bizarre, right? But in a totally fabulous way!

  The song had three more verses, with equally compelling lyrics. Why it never became a number-one hit is beyond me.

  Many of the guys felt the need to include details of an important personal trait or skill in their letters. I guess they hoped it would make them irresistible, thereby compelling me to accept their date invitation and get in touch. (All are actual excerpts from letters I received.)

  I’ve been on the Footy Show doing Air Guitar.

  My maintenance for my three children has come down to $50 a week. I was worried about the money side of things. I wouldn’t like to let you down.

  I own my own car, a 2002 Nissan Pulsar. I am currently living with my parents again.

  I’m twenty-eight but I act like a five-year-old.

  I am truly handsome because I have always felt if I am to take care of another, I first must take care of myself.

  I am a 36-year-old pro beach bum.

  I am a soccer star and more, having coached about 40–50 schools.

  I’m the smartest man I know. I am the most modest as well and see myself being absolutely made for you.

  I would love to be your boyfriend. I reckon hugs and kisses are more important than sex. I would treat you like a queen with a massage when you got home.

  I can help you rebuild the Ford Falcon which is for sale around the corner from my mum and dad’s house for $5000.*

  In what was easily the least effective approach method, one guy wanted to make it very clear that he would be doing me a massive favour if I did in fact choose to accept his invitation. I call it the ‘you snooze, you lose’ reverse psychology charm offensive.

  You’re probably thinking to yourself, stalker, freak etc. Don’t get me wrong, I do have better things to do with my time besides emailing Channel 9 weather presenters.

  Okay, buddy, I’ll remind you that you’re the random who wrote to a TV presenter you’ve never met, asking her out on a date. So it actually does appear quite likely that either you are one chromosome away from being a potato or you don’t have better things to do with your time.

  Some of the suitors wanted to assure me they weren’t stalkers. Like it’s completely normal to write to a woman they’ve only ever seen present the weather on the television and ask her out. Again, actual excerpts:

  I am no strange person or anything. I am an executive for a large company and I am good looking.

  Please don’t be hesitant to write or call because I really am angelic and only want what is best for us both.

  I can’t promise you I’m normal, actually, I’m probably far from it. But I can promise you’ll have a good time. No horror stories.

  A few would-be Wordsworths decided the best way to woo me was to pen a romantic sonnet. And who can resist a little old-school romance? Well, me, it seems. Because I’m assuming the following were all written by fully grown adult men.

  Sami, For Me Too

  In this dream I get a tingle

  From my dream who I hear is single

  Just have to hope it’s not too late

  Before you’re attached and shut the gate

  I’
m searching for my fun, my joy

  Please please Sami, give me a hoy

  The Sami

  My Love, My God, Be True

  Fortunate for Touch, I do thank, and you

  I speak, I know, I trust, Pursue

  You know, Sami, wouldn’t you

  Just a Dream

  You caressed my body the way I love you to

  You kissed my lips, I respond to you

  You said that you loved me and said you were mine

  You smiled at me and said everything is just fine

  But then I awoke and you were unseen

  I was on my own it was just a weird dream

  Okay, I really don’t know what to say about these two, other than they were just . . . unsettling.

  I am your God Sami, and you are my angel. Why am I the man for you? Because I am amazing.

  Dear Sami, I’m not trying to blow you away, I’m trying to breathe you in.

  I was flattered by most of the propositions I received (except for Mr Reverse Psychology and the last two WTFs). And I replied to most, thanking each gentleman and politely declining his request. I’m sure they got over it the moment I left their TV screens.

  However, I think we can conclude from the above that some men are mighty confused about what they think women are looking for in a bloke. Sadly, most of them are way off the mark. Except for the guy who painted my face on a rock. Because if that’s not the ultimate romantic gesture, I don’t know what is.

  * Context required here: I was appearing on a TV commercial for the new Ford Escape at the time. Bless.

  I was once approached by the self-proclaimed ‘millionaire matchmaker’ of Sydney. She heard I was single and she wanted to set me up with some of her cashed-up clients.

  This did not excite me.

  I was seriously offended that this complete stranger assumed I was the type of woman who only wanted a man who was tall, dark and had some. So my initial response was ‘Calm down, honey. I got the skills to pay my own bills!’ But then she explained that some of the men who’d registered with her agency had seen me on the telly and mentioned that they fancied me, so she might as well try to give the customers what they wanted.

  Okay, this might have been total BS from a clever salesperson who was desperately trying to fill some dates for her high-paying customers. But my ego allowed me, in that brief moment, to believe that some of her clients might have been fans. I was working on a high-profile TV show at the time, so I guess it was feasible.

  I was flattered, but I declined the matchmaker’s offer to meet her millionaires. Being associated in any way with an agency that specifically sets women up with rich dudes is just not my style.

  The fact is, I don’t come from a wealthy family. I’ve never taken money from anyone, other than an employer, and I’m proud to say that I’ve worked hard for every single cent I’ve ever earned. The idea that anyone would think I’m someone who goes digging for man-gold is repulsive. Gold diggers are clearly more interested in finding a fabulous lifestyle than they are in finding true love. They don’t care whose means they live off and they don’t care how they get there.

  It’s actually quite shameful how transparent some gold diggers can be in their pursuit of the purse. A buddy of mine once went on three different dinner dates with three different women over the course of a month and he was appalled when each of them questioned the very private matter of his financial situation, before she’d even finished her entrée. The first one asked him straight up, ‘So how much do you earn?’ The second asked, without even batting an eyelid, ‘What are you worth?’ And by the time date number three asked him how much money he had in the bank (oh yes, she did!) he’d heard enough to reply, ‘Nothing, actually. I’m broke.’ And he wasn’t the least bit surprised when she excused herself just after entrée to use the bathroom, and didn’t come back. Yes, this actually happened.

  I’ve never specifically pursued men with deep pockets, but I have found myself in several dating situations, and even a couple of relationships, with them. So, for what it’s worth (see what I did there?), this is what three decades of dating has taught me about dating men with moolah:

  They can quite easily pretend to be loaded to try to impress you, when in fact their luxury lifestyle is being funded by massive debt and incredibly irresponsible loans. If things do get serious, you’ll probably be the one paying all the bills.

  They can be controlling arseholes. They think money gives them power, so don’t be surprised if they end up treating you like a possession.

  Men with serious coin are desperate to own their own plane. Seriously, it’s like an obsession with these guys. They practically give themselves orgasms just thinking about it. The Millionaires for Dummies handbook must rate private jet ownership as one of the ultimate measures of success but, honestly, it’s just a rich dude’s pissing contest.

  Private planes aside, they can actually be super tight.

  Which might be how they got rich in the first place.

  Money doesn’t make a relationship better. Sure, it can certainly make the initial wooing process a little more exciting and glamorous. But if it’s not the right fit, you’ll still be having the same old arguments whether you’re holidaying in a chalet in the Swiss alps or in a tent on Stradbroke Island. Once the shine wears off, even a polished turd will still always be a turd.

  I’m not saying that all wealthy men are like this. But what I can assure you is that no amount of cash will ever guarantee you a lifetime of love and happiness.

  Only one Hollywood celebrity has ever hit on me.

  Ronn Moss.

  I know, right? Who?

  The only celebrity to ever hit on me was the actor who played the original Ridge Forrester on the long-running American daytime soap opera The Bold and the Beautiful. Ronn Moss was on that show for literally decades before they inexplicably replaced him with another actor who looked nothing like the original Ridge and suddenly spoke with a strange foreign accent.

  Ronny was quite the sex symbol back in the day. He’d been voted Hottest Male Star by Soap Digest magazine about a thousand times. But I’d been watching B&B for as long as I could remember, and I always preferred Storm or Thorne (pre-facelift) over Ridge Forrester. Ridge just seemed a little too . . . chiselled. There was something about that unnaturally angular jawline that scared me. That chin could cut glass, I swear.

  To make this story even more tragic, my rendezvous with the one and only Ronn Moss/Ridge Forrester happened while I was co-hosting the TV Week Logies red carpet special for Channel Nine in 2004. (Look, for the purpose of this story, can we all agree to simplify things and refer to him by his character name, Ridge Forrester, rather than his real name? It’s less complicated. And this way, everyone can play along.)

  Hosting the Logies red carpet is no walk in the park. You need to be super focused, with relevant, interesting and funny things to ask the never-ending procession of actors, newsreaders and TV personalities who appear in front of your microphone. I’d just finished chatting with Delta Goodrem and Mark Philippoussis (remember when those crazy lovebirds were an item?) and I was mid-interview with Rove McManus, when I noticed Ridge Forrester waiting patiently nearby with his publicist. My producer politely explained to Ridge’s publicist that he was actually going to be interviewed by my co-host Richard Wilkins and pointed them in Dicky’s direction.

  But they refused to move.

  My producer came back to me and said, ‘You’re up, I’m afraid. Ridge is insisting that you do his interview.’

  Luckily I was able to draw on my embarrassingly extensive knowledge of all things Bold and Beautiful (secretly relieved to know that all my years of watching the show hadn’t been a complete waste of time after all). I managed to throw together a couple of random questions on the spot.

  But it wasn’t good.

  As far as celebrity interviews go, it was one of my all-time worst.

  To be fair, I was a little distracted. I couldn’t help noticing t
hat Ridge Forrester encapsulated pretty much everything that turns me off. Sure, he’s a good looking guy who was in great shape for a fifty-year-old, but he also looked like someone desperately trying not to act his age. He wore sunglasses the entire time, even though the sun had long gone down. His hair was tied back in a try-hard man bun. And he was wearing one of those leather shark-tooth chokers, which look stupid on any guy over the age of twenty-one. Look, I totally respect that some gals get a wide-on for Ridge Forrester. I’m sure he’s been the designated celebrity shag for lots of women over the years. But he just doesn’t do it for me.

  When my interview finished, I could see Nat Bass lined up for my next interview. So I hastily thanked Ridge and quickly refocused on pronouncing the most difficult celebrity surname in the history of Australian celebrities: ‘Bassingthwaighte’. It’s a challenge.

  But when I finished my interview with Nat, I noticed that Ridge was still standing there with his publicist and they were both leering at me. I was pretty sure they were about to demand a redo on my crap interview. I watched his publicist go and talk to my producer again and then my producer came to me and said, ‘Okay. This is a bit weird. The publicist has been instructed by Ridge to tell me to tell you that Ridge thinks you look really stunning in that dress.’

  WTF? Did Ridge Forrester just hit on me? Via his publicist via my producer? Unnecessarily complicated, I know. I have no idea why a two-way conversation had to involve four people. Why didn’t he just tell me he liked my dress when he was speaking to me, like, five minutes ago?