Okay, so my grand plan with this whole online dating thing was that it was going to be this big gigantic social-network-internet-dating-experiment kind of thing, and I would have a variety of different posts that would start out with "Date #1 with Guy #1" and "Date #2 with Guy #4" and "Date #4 with Guy #2" and such and such. In fact, my girlfriends and I even joked that I would end up needing a spreadsheet to keep track of the emails, chats and dates and such. Sort of a mathematized DFL, but without me screwing all of them because that would be kind of trashy.
Has not worked out quite like I planned. Had Date #1 with Guy #1, and he became Guy #1 because he was the first guy who asked me out. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not just going out willy-nilly with anyone, but after emailing and chatting with about five different (maybe more, I can't fucking remember because I had only visualized the spreadsheet at this point) men, none of them had asked me out. Huh???? Okay, why are we emailing and chatting endlessly then? Let's get to the point and go on a damn date. Geez. So Guy #1 asked me out, and well yeah, I said yes. I mean, that's what I'm on this dating site for, right? To meet men that I would not normally meet and to open avenues that I might not travel down in my normal day to day life.
Date #1 with Guy #1. I am intrigued by his personality. This man talks more than I do. Holy shit. But it's all good and like I said, I'm intrigued. So this led to Date #2 with Guy #1. My plan is that I am still going to date other guys, but still... no one is asking me. Okay, come on, fellas, I don't want to have to be the one asking. Chivalry is not dead in my book. Take the lead on this one. Date #2, even more intrigued. We have a lot in common and I'm pretty sure he likes me for me. Hmmmm, strange. He doesn't know me yet, because that's all this can be, is confusion on his part. This led to Date #3 with Guy #1, because I'm even more intrigued and attracted at this point.
The spreadsheet plan has fallen by the wayside because at this point, I'm thinking that I really like this guy, he's very nice to me, still talks as much as I do, and hasn't been scared off by my tales of woe and marital separation and panic attacks. Veeeeeeery interesting. He might get the essence that is Steph.
So this is where I stand right now, and this is why I've been neglecting my blog to death. It's hard to blog and troll around on the internet for freakshows when I'm gabbing on the phone late at night like a little high school girl, or holding hands in the movie theater. I've looked at my blog wistfully, and read a few snarky comments left by my loyal friends and family screaming about needing their blog fix... and I'm thinking, FUCK! Let a girl get laid!
I know I said stay tuned sometime last month, and by God, I meant it. While I've been running around with Guy #1 (and the only guy at this point), I've also been dealing with Mrs. Second Grade Teacher, cheerleading (oh my god will this shit ever end?), The Ex and life in general. My oldest daughter's birthday is coming up this weekend, and I've planned a family dinner with at our favorite Japanese steakhouse with the soon-to-be-ex-laws, my children and one of their little friends, The Ex and his girlfriend. I'm going to start calling her The Girlfriend. She deserves her own special capitalization at this point. So yeah, I'm doing that whole family dinner thing this weekend, because I need to prove to my children that Mommy is okay with all of this shit and whatever Daddy has told them is a bunch of shit. Cue the soundtrack to The Twilight Zone.
Stay tuned, bitches. I will be back.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Stay Tuned
Stay tuned, bitches. This whole online dating thing has me so busy that between work, cheerleading, children and other stuff, I have totally neglected my blog. I'm also way behind on my craigslist trolling, but I really don't know if that should be a priority in my life. Of course it shouldn't be, but somehow it is. I should be able to roll out some good stuff this weekend.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Adventures in Online Dating #5
Day something of this new site, and I finally decided to email this guy back who winked at me. He changed his picture and looks different, familiar. He says he's from the Midlo, so who knows? I might have seen him in the grocery store or something. But it's nagging me, because I know I've run across this man before. I don't forget faces, generally. With my job, you take notice of people a little bit more. Even if it's just in passing, you might file the face away for later. And then, when later comes, I tend to sit around and search through that mental Rolodex, much like the CIA does with all their fancy computer shit, until I find the face and the place.
So I've emailed this guy several times, and at this point, I'm not sure if he's stupid or a drunk, because I thought I was pretty clear on certain things in my profile. In fact, I think I was quite clever in some of my wording. This has been my most sincere and non-snarky profile post, as I'm paying for this one and feel like I should at least be somewhat honest. This guy I'm emailing... not too sure about him. So in the interest of getting feedback (and always providing my own commentary on my own comments), I'll give you my profile blow-by-blow. Keep in mind, I've done this sentence-by-sentence to provide said commentary, but it's actually in paragraph form and all that jazz on this website.
I am a soon-to-be divorcee (that sounds kind of 1950-ish, doesn't it?), and the mother of two awesome children who live with me full time during the school year. This means that I am not available to go hang out in a dive bar or hibachi grill Monday through Thursday nights and every other weekend.
I have a full time career and sometimes over-involve myself in my childrens' activities. And maybe not even on the weekends I have free because my children are really important to me.
Book fairs, school functions, cheerleading, other sports, you name it. This is me providing examples of the fact that I'm not available 24/7 for you to try to hook up with.
I watch a little TV and am getting back into reading. I'm not going to mention my pet project, Thy Blog.
I love Patricia Cornwell, Dan Brown, Tom Clancy and Jackie Collins, and am getting into Clive Cussler. Why can't I make it past the C's in the author alphabet? I also like Michael Crichton, but not enough to list him. You know, my complete inability to get hooked on any other authors that have a last name starting with D through Z bothers me sometimes. Anyway, back to the profile. I also left out that I tend to sneak around my favorite big box bookstore to read erotica and porn for free.
I don't watch a lot of movies, but if I do, I prefer they be action or drama. It took a lot of effort for me to not include the part about hot naked men and heavy mechanized artillery. A LOT OF EFFORT.
If I had time to go to the gym I would, but I love to swim, water ski and snow ski, though I very rarely have time for that. I also don't have the money for most of that stuff and my swimsuit isn't the swimming kind, it's a show-off-the-girls kind.
I'd like to think there's not much I won't try once with the right person! I'm a freak. It's all about reading between the lines, here, fellas.
Musically, I listen to rock, alternative rock, pop, hip-hop, r & b, old school stuff to include old country, but I can't deal with new country. This means that if you watch more than "The Dukes of Hazzard" on CMT, we won't get along very well.
Regarding my dislikes, I am deathly allergic to jogging, olives and the color yellow. I also dislike The Ex and his mother, but felt it best to let that remain unsaid.
Preferably, I would like to meet men who are understanding of the limitations on my time. Here's yet another hint, this one not so subtle.
In fact, I've spent the last week wondering if I even have time to date. And another hint. My time is limited.
But I love men, and well... here I am. But I love men, and well... I need to get laid.
I'd like to get to know someone who is intelligent, articulate and passionate. You must be able to speak proper English to get between these legs.
I have a very big personality and a strange but hilarious sense of humor, and would like to be with someone who can not only understand that, but maybe go toe to toe with me on it. You must take me as I am. I don't think saying I have a big personality feels or sounds quite right, because I feel like men might think that's code for saying I have a big ass, but damn. My personality is big. How else can I describe it?
I sometimes refer to myself as supersonic. :) Because I AM supersonic, bitches.
I'll debate anything and it sometimes deteriorates into trash talking. I will talk mad shit to you about anything.
I don't do a lot of fancy and exotic foods, but am more of a typical Southern girl. I might go to third base or beyond on the first date, but I won't tell anyone other than my 19 bestest girlfriends.
Sweet tea, fried chicken, corn bread, pie, so on and so forth. This means that if you take me out to eat to some nasty ass Vietnamese place, you won't be getting any of the aforementioned sentence.
I drink socially and will not tolerate any drug usage. Because even I have some standards.
Just not my thing. A simple clarification of the above.
I'm not particularly religious, and I don't care if you are, as long as you understand I'm not going to be converted. Can this be any more clear? Especially when I listed myself as Agnostic on my stats, or whatever those little blips of information are called?
Regarding relationships, chemistry, respect and mutual interests are important to me. If I like you (chemistry) and you're intelligent and articulate (which I respect), we can probably get passionate (mutual interests). I'm really proud of crafting two totally separate sentences in two totally different paragraphs that really tie together so fabulously.
Without these things, it's a hard row to hoe. Or there will be NONE.
So... that's me. I'd love to meet someone that may share similar interests to have some good times with. Good times. Note that I did not say share a life together. I did not say embark upon a special journey... blah blah blah. Good times, baby, good times.
And, there we have it. My profile and what I meant. So why is this jackass emailing me about what church do I go to? Ummmm, none, because I consider myself to be an agnostic, have forever and a day (just lied to The Ex about it for years to play nice) and I'm good with it. Is there a church for that? Unitarians, maybe? I don't know. So I sent him a nice little email back that basically said that he must have me mistaken for someone else, because I've stated in my profile that I'm agnostic and don't fucking try to convert me. Actually, as these emails were going back and forth, I think I've stopped on one face and place in my Rolodex in my brain. I think this guy took his kids to the same summer camp as I did. I noticed him because (if this is the same guy, and I'm thinking it might be), he was driving this big ass Hummer and always dressed really nicely. I don't know if I'd want to date someone that drives a Hummer though. Kind of pretentious. All right, all right, all right. It's very pretentious, especially right now.
We'll see. I'm still not so sure about this whole online dating thing.
So I've emailed this guy several times, and at this point, I'm not sure if he's stupid or a drunk, because I thought I was pretty clear on certain things in my profile. In fact, I think I was quite clever in some of my wording. This has been my most sincere and non-snarky profile post, as I'm paying for this one and feel like I should at least be somewhat honest. This guy I'm emailing... not too sure about him. So in the interest of getting feedback (and always providing my own commentary on my own comments), I'll give you my profile blow-by-blow. Keep in mind, I've done this sentence-by-sentence to provide said commentary, but it's actually in paragraph form and all that jazz on this website.
I am a soon-to-be divorcee (that sounds kind of 1950-ish, doesn't it?), and the mother of two awesome children who live with me full time during the school year. This means that I am not available to go hang out in a dive bar or hibachi grill Monday through Thursday nights and every other weekend.
I have a full time career and sometimes over-involve myself in my childrens' activities. And maybe not even on the weekends I have free because my children are really important to me.
Book fairs, school functions, cheerleading, other sports, you name it. This is me providing examples of the fact that I'm not available 24/7 for you to try to hook up with.
I watch a little TV and am getting back into reading. I'm not going to mention my pet project, Thy Blog.
I love Patricia Cornwell, Dan Brown, Tom Clancy and Jackie Collins, and am getting into Clive Cussler. Why can't I make it past the C's in the author alphabet? I also like Michael Crichton, but not enough to list him. You know, my complete inability to get hooked on any other authors that have a last name starting with D through Z bothers me sometimes. Anyway, back to the profile. I also left out that I tend to sneak around my favorite big box bookstore to read erotica and porn for free.
I don't watch a lot of movies, but if I do, I prefer they be action or drama. It took a lot of effort for me to not include the part about hot naked men and heavy mechanized artillery. A LOT OF EFFORT.
If I had time to go to the gym I would, but I love to swim, water ski and snow ski, though I very rarely have time for that. I also don't have the money for most of that stuff and my swimsuit isn't the swimming kind, it's a show-off-the-girls kind.
I'd like to think there's not much I won't try once with the right person! I'm a freak. It's all about reading between the lines, here, fellas.
Musically, I listen to rock, alternative rock, pop, hip-hop, r & b, old school stuff to include old country, but I can't deal with new country. This means that if you watch more than "The Dukes of Hazzard" on CMT, we won't get along very well.
Regarding my dislikes, I am deathly allergic to jogging, olives and the color yellow. I also dislike The Ex and his mother, but felt it best to let that remain unsaid.
Preferably, I would like to meet men who are understanding of the limitations on my time. Here's yet another hint, this one not so subtle.
In fact, I've spent the last week wondering if I even have time to date. And another hint. My time is limited.
But I love men, and well... here I am. But I love men, and well... I need to get laid.
I'd like to get to know someone who is intelligent, articulate and passionate. You must be able to speak proper English to get between these legs.
I have a very big personality and a strange but hilarious sense of humor, and would like to be with someone who can not only understand that, but maybe go toe to toe with me on it. You must take me as I am. I don't think saying I have a big personality feels or sounds quite right, because I feel like men might think that's code for saying I have a big ass, but damn. My personality is big. How else can I describe it?
I sometimes refer to myself as supersonic. :) Because I AM supersonic, bitches.
I'll debate anything and it sometimes deteriorates into trash talking. I will talk mad shit to you about anything.
I don't do a lot of fancy and exotic foods, but am more of a typical Southern girl. I might go to third base or beyond on the first date, but I won't tell anyone other than my 19 bestest girlfriends.
Sweet tea, fried chicken, corn bread, pie, so on and so forth. This means that if you take me out to eat to some nasty ass Vietnamese place, you won't be getting any of the aforementioned sentence.
I drink socially and will not tolerate any drug usage. Because even I have some standards.
Just not my thing. A simple clarification of the above.
I'm not particularly religious, and I don't care if you are, as long as you understand I'm not going to be converted. Can this be any more clear? Especially when I listed myself as Agnostic on my stats, or whatever those little blips of information are called?
Regarding relationships, chemistry, respect and mutual interests are important to me. If I like you (chemistry) and you're intelligent and articulate (which I respect), we can probably get passionate (mutual interests). I'm really proud of crafting two totally separate sentences in two totally different paragraphs that really tie together so fabulously.
Without these things, it's a hard row to hoe. Or there will be NONE.
So... that's me. I'd love to meet someone that may share similar interests to have some good times with. Good times. Note that I did not say share a life together. I did not say embark upon a special journey... blah blah blah. Good times, baby, good times.
And, there we have it. My profile and what I meant. So why is this jackass emailing me about what church do I go to? Ummmm, none, because I consider myself to be an agnostic, have forever and a day (just lied to The Ex about it for years to play nice) and I'm good with it. Is there a church for that? Unitarians, maybe? I don't know. So I sent him a nice little email back that basically said that he must have me mistaken for someone else, because I've stated in my profile that I'm agnostic and don't fucking try to convert me. Actually, as these emails were going back and forth, I think I've stopped on one face and place in my Rolodex in my brain. I think this guy took his kids to the same summer camp as I did. I noticed him because (if this is the same guy, and I'm thinking it might be), he was driving this big ass Hummer and always dressed really nicely. I don't know if I'd want to date someone that drives a Hummer though. Kind of pretentious. All right, all right, all right. It's very pretentious, especially right now.
We'll see. I'm still not so sure about this whole online dating thing.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Bored Out of My Skull
Literally, I'm dying of boredom here. The first free Saturday night I've had in a month or so, and I'm doing a whole lot of nothing. Tried to go to sleep, but was too keyed up from the gallon of sweet tea I just drank, so now I've switched to booze in hopes it'll bring me back down and get me off of this hormonal jag of loneliness and feeling like I really don't want to get into an empty bed tonight. Trolling around on the internet, because I can't seem to bring myself to turn on the TV, or my electronic babysitter as The Ex used to call it. Whatever. That from someone who sat around with a fucking headset on while he played World of Warcraft.
There's no one on facebook I want to chat with, I'm obviously not going to be getting laid tonight, I don't want to read because I forgot the book I'm really digging at work, I haven't met the love of my life and/or hook up of my life on this online dating site, and I'm so bored I signed up for a cougar dating site. What the fuck? All of one page of guys from Richmond on there, and all the women look like Mary Beth Letourneau. If you don't know who that is, google it, bitch. I don't think I've slaughtered the name too much.
My life has come to mean instant gratification. Technology has fucked me up like this. I refused to get a cell phone until I was 29, and that was only at the insistence of The Ex when I was pregnant with the older daughter, because of me driving back and forth to work at night sometimes. And then I refused to give the number out because I didn't want anyone calling me. When I finally started giving the number out, I insisted that no one call me because I didn't want to talk to them. Call me at home, goddammit. And then, when texting started, I refused that. I refused that until about three or four years ago, when I finally figured out this would pre-empt about 58 mindless conversations with The Ex per day that ALL had to end with "I love you." So... that might have been yet another indicator that the marriage was going south. But I still told people not to call me. I'll call YOU when I'm ready to talk.
And then, the separation occurred. My cell phone became my lifeline, along with me pacing around the neighborhood at night talking to my family and friends because The Ex couldn't eavesdrop on me from a block away. Then I got a new phone with a new provider, with my own name, so he couldn't access my phone records. The cell phone really became my lifeline, because I was good to go. Then, I figured out how to get facebook on it. Oh, god, that was then end of me repelling instant gratification. Now, I'm attached to the damn phone. I check that bastard all the time, I carry it around with me, I'm checking facebook, I'm googling myself, all kinds of stupid shit. Now, I give my number out willy-nilly and just tell everyone to call me on my cell. Of course, this is largely due to the fact that when I got my home service hooked up, I never bothered to set up the voice mail and now I don't know how to. So if the school calls, the doctor's office, someone, they'll call my cell because I have absolutely no idea how to set up my voice mail and calling the provider isn't going to be worth the intellectual pain it will cause me.
I've been on this new, paid online dating site for about, oh, I don't know, less than 36 hours and jesus! Why do I attract such fucking goofball men? I mean, I don't think it's my looks because I think I look okay and non-goofbally myself. I never know what men think when they either see me in person or online - no fucking idea. Most of them just kind of look at me in a very surprised way at first, and I never can figure that out. I'm left wondering, is my hair sticking out funny? Is there something on my shirt? Something stuck in my teeth? Why are you looking at me like that? I don't get it. So why am I getting these goofball guys? I've had one dipshit email me, and about 8 wink at me, which I suppose is this websites way of giving you a chance to test the waters before sending an email. If someone winks at me, and I like his profile, I can do one of three things, or two of three things, or any fucking combination, I suppose. I can ignore it, I can respond (with either a wink of my own, or a no thanks response) or I can send an email. I've emailed one guy, and since I refuse pay any more money to upgrade even further, I can't tell if he's read my email or not. I'm not going to stalk his profile to see how long it's been since he's been on, because you can see who has viewed your profile most recently, and I don't think there's any way you can hide that. Because I've looked. I winked at one guy, and haven't gotten a response back on that either. I actually think the winking is kind of gay, but I have some concerns about emailing a whole bunch of men and then getting a whole bunch of responses and I only have time to go out with one of them, what with my career, single parenthood, school activities, second grade homework and cheerleading, not to mention my super fabulous blog. Because what the fuck would I do if I sent out a whole bunch of winks and emails to a whole bunch of hot guys and a whole bunch of them responded? Oh my god, how would I choose? So I'm just kind of creeping along, like some kind of snail, leaving a trail of slime (or vibrator lube) behind me.
I'm annoyed that I can't find any blogs like mine. Long and painfully drawn out posts, but achingly sincere in the most humorous way, with the f-bomb dropped often and with glee. Where are these other women? I'd like to do the blog hook up kind of thing with them, but I refuse to get involved with some other woman blogging about her fantastic recipe for chutney or whatever. I also don't want to hook up with other women blogging about how tearful she became when it was time to cut little Johnny's hair for the first time. I want to hook up with women who are going through a crazy change of life, just want to get laid well and often by a guy who actually knows what all the girl parts are. I want to hook up with some other woman who spends at least 30 minutes out of each day looking at the casual encounters ads on craiglist because that's all the penis she's going to get to see for the day. I want to hook up with some other woman who doing something like this, because maybe this is someone I can learn from, someone who can help me make my blog better. Girls!!!! Where the fuck are you? I can't be alone in this, I just simply can't.
I've got one main homeslice, from back in the day of 4th grade through high school, who has linked me up on his blog, and he gives me awesome feedback. I think his blog is awesome and I'm really flattered that he's hooking me up with posting my shit on other places, but at the end of the day, he's still got more testosterone than estrogen. And by the way, homeslice, your bloggerdom hook ups totally make up for the time in 10th grade when I got so shit-faced drunk at that party and you and another guy kept talking about me eating a greasy ham sandwich out of a dirty ashtray until I puked my spleen out, passed out for a little while and ended up at the nearby men's college and you STOLE MY BEER. Why can't I end up drunk at a men's college now? But anyway, if you know of any like minded women who blog, hook a sister up, please. Pretty please, with cherries on top? [And this would be where I duck my head just a little bit and blink my eyes a whole lot, because that usually gets me what I want, except for me ending up drunk at a men's college tonight].
Oh my god, it's only 11:04pm. I've got one hard lemonade left and three Bud Lights. Honestly, I've been out of the habit of drinking beer for so long I'm not sure what good beer is. During the days of clubbing, I usually stuck with Michelob and Heineken, but are those douchebag beers? And then, when I got married, I stopped drinking beer and most everything else altogether because if I didn't drink it all in one setting, The Ex would think I didn't want it and would drink it for himself, or he would make suggestive comments for the entire duration of me drinking whatever about how he might get the backdoor. Yeah, fuck you. I said no just to be a complete bitch. Anyway, maybe I need to switch to Corona. Need good 36+1 year old, separated and freakishly horny woman, beer recommendations. Y'all read my blog, what's the best beer for my personality, because I really don't think it's Bud Light. Nothing dark and heavy, like Guinness or any of that other shit. I don't need the beer to taste good, I just need the beer to match my personality and super cute hairdo without making me look like a bimbo.
There's no one on facebook I want to chat with, I'm obviously not going to be getting laid tonight, I don't want to read because I forgot the book I'm really digging at work, I haven't met the love of my life and/or hook up of my life on this online dating site, and I'm so bored I signed up for a cougar dating site. What the fuck? All of one page of guys from Richmond on there, and all the women look like Mary Beth Letourneau. If you don't know who that is, google it, bitch. I don't think I've slaughtered the name too much.
My life has come to mean instant gratification. Technology has fucked me up like this. I refused to get a cell phone until I was 29, and that was only at the insistence of The Ex when I was pregnant with the older daughter, because of me driving back and forth to work at night sometimes. And then I refused to give the number out because I didn't want anyone calling me. When I finally started giving the number out, I insisted that no one call me because I didn't want to talk to them. Call me at home, goddammit. And then, when texting started, I refused that. I refused that until about three or four years ago, when I finally figured out this would pre-empt about 58 mindless conversations with The Ex per day that ALL had to end with "I love you." So... that might have been yet another indicator that the marriage was going south. But I still told people not to call me. I'll call YOU when I'm ready to talk.
And then, the separation occurred. My cell phone became my lifeline, along with me pacing around the neighborhood at night talking to my family and friends because The Ex couldn't eavesdrop on me from a block away. Then I got a new phone with a new provider, with my own name, so he couldn't access my phone records. The cell phone really became my lifeline, because I was good to go. Then, I figured out how to get facebook on it. Oh, god, that was then end of me repelling instant gratification. Now, I'm attached to the damn phone. I check that bastard all the time, I carry it around with me, I'm checking facebook, I'm googling myself, all kinds of stupid shit. Now, I give my number out willy-nilly and just tell everyone to call me on my cell. Of course, this is largely due to the fact that when I got my home service hooked up, I never bothered to set up the voice mail and now I don't know how to. So if the school calls, the doctor's office, someone, they'll call my cell because I have absolutely no idea how to set up my voice mail and calling the provider isn't going to be worth the intellectual pain it will cause me.
I've been on this new, paid online dating site for about, oh, I don't know, less than 36 hours and jesus! Why do I attract such fucking goofball men? I mean, I don't think it's my looks because I think I look okay and non-goofbally myself. I never know what men think when they either see me in person or online - no fucking idea. Most of them just kind of look at me in a very surprised way at first, and I never can figure that out. I'm left wondering, is my hair sticking out funny? Is there something on my shirt? Something stuck in my teeth? Why are you looking at me like that? I don't get it. So why am I getting these goofball guys? I've had one dipshit email me, and about 8 wink at me, which I suppose is this websites way of giving you a chance to test the waters before sending an email. If someone winks at me, and I like his profile, I can do one of three things, or two of three things, or any fucking combination, I suppose. I can ignore it, I can respond (with either a wink of my own, or a no thanks response) or I can send an email. I've emailed one guy, and since I refuse pay any more money to upgrade even further, I can't tell if he's read my email or not. I'm not going to stalk his profile to see how long it's been since he's been on, because you can see who has viewed your profile most recently, and I don't think there's any way you can hide that. Because I've looked. I winked at one guy, and haven't gotten a response back on that either. I actually think the winking is kind of gay, but I have some concerns about emailing a whole bunch of men and then getting a whole bunch of responses and I only have time to go out with one of them, what with my career, single parenthood, school activities, second grade homework and cheerleading, not to mention my super fabulous blog. Because what the fuck would I do if I sent out a whole bunch of winks and emails to a whole bunch of hot guys and a whole bunch of them responded? Oh my god, how would I choose? So I'm just kind of creeping along, like some kind of snail, leaving a trail of slime (or vibrator lube) behind me.
I'm annoyed that I can't find any blogs like mine. Long and painfully drawn out posts, but achingly sincere in the most humorous way, with the f-bomb dropped often and with glee. Where are these other women? I'd like to do the blog hook up kind of thing with them, but I refuse to get involved with some other woman blogging about her fantastic recipe for chutney or whatever. I also don't want to hook up with other women blogging about how tearful she became when it was time to cut little Johnny's hair for the first time. I want to hook up with women who are going through a crazy change of life, just want to get laid well and often by a guy who actually knows what all the girl parts are. I want to hook up with some other woman who spends at least 30 minutes out of each day looking at the casual encounters ads on craiglist because that's all the penis she's going to get to see for the day. I want to hook up with some other woman who doing something like this, because maybe this is someone I can learn from, someone who can help me make my blog better. Girls!!!! Where the fuck are you? I can't be alone in this, I just simply can't.
I've got one main homeslice, from back in the day of 4th grade through high school, who has linked me up on his blog, and he gives me awesome feedback. I think his blog is awesome and I'm really flattered that he's hooking me up with posting my shit on other places, but at the end of the day, he's still got more testosterone than estrogen. And by the way, homeslice, your bloggerdom hook ups totally make up for the time in 10th grade when I got so shit-faced drunk at that party and you and another guy kept talking about me eating a greasy ham sandwich out of a dirty ashtray until I puked my spleen out, passed out for a little while and ended up at the nearby men's college and you STOLE MY BEER. Why can't I end up drunk at a men's college now? But anyway, if you know of any like minded women who blog, hook a sister up, please. Pretty please, with cherries on top? [And this would be where I duck my head just a little bit and blink my eyes a whole lot, because that usually gets me what I want, except for me ending up drunk at a men's college tonight].
Oh my god, it's only 11:04pm. I've got one hard lemonade left and three Bud Lights. Honestly, I've been out of the habit of drinking beer for so long I'm not sure what good beer is. During the days of clubbing, I usually stuck with Michelob and Heineken, but are those douchebag beers? And then, when I got married, I stopped drinking beer and most everything else altogether because if I didn't drink it all in one setting, The Ex would think I didn't want it and would drink it for himself, or he would make suggestive comments for the entire duration of me drinking whatever about how he might get the backdoor. Yeah, fuck you. I said no just to be a complete bitch. Anyway, maybe I need to switch to Corona. Need good 36+1 year old, separated and freakishly horny woman, beer recommendations. Y'all read my blog, what's the best beer for my personality, because I really don't think it's Bud Light. Nothing dark and heavy, like Guinness or any of that other shit. I don't need the beer to taste good, I just need the beer to match my personality and super cute hairdo without making me look like a bimbo.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Adventures in Online Dating #4
Hey, guess what?
I changed my mind again. Yeah, about the whole online dating thing. But I upgraded yet again. I hid my profiles on the two free sites, because I think that I should get more than a catfish. Catfish + koi = nothing good in a bad way. Sometimes something + something = nothing good, but in that good dirty kind of way. This wasn't it.
So I got on match.com last night with my fake profile name that isn't really fake, it's just my middle name which no one knows, because I dropped my middle name when I got married and kept my maiden name as my middle name. This was for two reasons: I might have had some unconscious clue that the marriage was going to go south and maybe taking my maiden name back would be easier if it was just my middle name instead. But now I have kids and I don't want to have a different last name from them, at least not right now. The other reason for dropping my maiden middle name is that if I had kept it with my married name, my initials would have been SLT. So my monogram would either sound like a model of a Ford Taurus, or it would sound like someone meant to spell SLuT but forgot the u.
My middle name, or some combination of it is my really anonymous online dating name. I spent hours crafting the right profile, because I think the normal man probably doesn't know how to take my x-rated snark. And, I decided to be somewhat honest. I mean, if I've got to pay for this shit, I should get my money's worth out of being honest. So I was honest, and I'm pleased with that. The only detail I omitted was my smoking. I opted not to even mention it. I won't acknowledge there's such a thing called lying by omission. I figure if I end up going out with someone who doesn't smoke, I can cram about three or four pieces of nicotine gum in the my mouth every so often and they won't be any the wiser. I might try to get some from my mom (cause that shit is more expensive than the damn tobacky) and see what happens if I mix it with Big Red gum. Either nasty as hell or a match made in heaven. Which could be just like the date that I might go on.
I paid my monthly fee, which was the most expensive option, but considering I've been doing this online dating thing for less than two whole weeks and I can't even decide if I want to do this, I probably shouldn't go for the six month commitment. This indecision is killing me. I'm starting to get on my own damn nerves, and that's really something. Not like I don't get on my own nerves periodically, but I usually don't drag it out for this long. Indecision is something that I've trained myself out of, because you can't operate in life like that and it would be the death of my career. I can't be indecisive at work, and I don't think I've ever had that option in my career. Actually, maybe this is just me reverse-compensating for having to do that for 18 years. Maybe this is the first time I've been able to be indecisive about anything and it feels so good (but I just don't realize it yet) that I can't stop being indecisive about this one thing in my life. Nah, that's not it. The real truth to the matter is that I'm retaining water and it's a full moon. My estrogen is way fucked up.
I think what it is is that I know I can't be in a relationship right now, because I'm still putting me together. That, and I don't know what man would put up with me right now because I have no time for anything other than work and my children. Who the hells wants to be involved with someone like that? Furthermore, because The Ex was considerate enough to introduce his girlfriend to the children BEFORE I EVEN MOVED OUT, I feel like the pressure is on me to be extra stable and to make sure that everything I do with them is exactly what the child psychologist recommended. So basically, whomever I end up dating won't be meeting my children any time soon. Like, months and months, because I'm not putting my children through that bullshit. What this means is that this is going to be someone who has to be okay with only seeing me every other weekend and for a random lunch date for the long time being.
I think... I need a friend with benefits. That might be exactly what I need, because I'm not feeling like I'm emotionally at a place to be able to trust yet, to be able to expose myself to an actual person. I mean, damn, that's what my blog is for, and that's somewhat anonymous. Most definitely anonymous to some because I know the people in Lithuania don't know me. So here's the tricky part--I need to troll through all these goddamn profiles and find the hot guys who won't screen me out based solely upon my age. Really, to go off on a complete sidebar, I've determined that I totally don't look my age because smoking doesn't age you. Jogging does. Think of every person you know who jogs religiously and most of them look worn down. Well, that's because they are. Their joints are fucked up, their skin is all wrinkly because they have fat in the wrong places from all that impact making the fat slide around, and they just look old. Yet another reason to not run. I don't run at all, unless a child (namely one of mine) is hurt and bleeding. Blood is a requirement. I don't run for work, and I won't. Fuck 'em. I'll just take a shoe off and chunk it at them because I have a good arm and who wants to get hit with a four inch spike heel? I had some guy email me on this site today and he obviously did not read my profile, which specifically states that I am deathly allergic to jogging, olives and the color yellow. Why this man would even send an email is beyond me, because he has on his profile that he runs more than 100 miles a month. Huuuuuhhhhh????? Whaaaaaat???? Oh my god, why would you do that to yourself? And he looks 51, not 41. Furthermore, 40 is my cut-off. I'm swinging low on my age range, because my cut-on is 30. Oops, he's not the guy who emailed me. He's the guy who made me his favorite. Whaaaaat???? Okay, running will make me look old and my hair won't look super cute, so I don't run. It's also damn near impossible to jog and smoke at the same time. For those who manage to do so, my compliments to that particular skill-set, but you look r.e.t.a.r.d.e.d. Furthermore, I'm not into new age mysticism. Are you fucking kidding me? Hey, jackass, don't get all hot and bothered over the pics, read the goddamn profile. Omg.
Friends with benefits, since that's so much more classy and refined than fuck buddy. That's probably what I need. Hit it and quit it, because I'm all about woman empowerment and women can do that shit, too. So, that's probably what I'll be working on for the next 30 days (I really don't want to pay for this for another whole month), because I've got my game back, feeling slicker than whale shit and I've got my eye on a couple of prospects. We shall see...
I changed my mind again. Yeah, about the whole online dating thing. But I upgraded yet again. I hid my profiles on the two free sites, because I think that I should get more than a catfish. Catfish + koi = nothing good in a bad way. Sometimes something + something = nothing good, but in that good dirty kind of way. This wasn't it.
So I got on match.com last night with my fake profile name that isn't really fake, it's just my middle name which no one knows, because I dropped my middle name when I got married and kept my maiden name as my middle name. This was for two reasons: I might have had some unconscious clue that the marriage was going to go south and maybe taking my maiden name back would be easier if it was just my middle name instead. But now I have kids and I don't want to have a different last name from them, at least not right now. The other reason for dropping my maiden middle name is that if I had kept it with my married name, my initials would have been SLT. So my monogram would either sound like a model of a Ford Taurus, or it would sound like someone meant to spell SLuT but forgot the u.
My middle name, or some combination of it is my really anonymous online dating name. I spent hours crafting the right profile, because I think the normal man probably doesn't know how to take my x-rated snark. And, I decided to be somewhat honest. I mean, if I've got to pay for this shit, I should get my money's worth out of being honest. So I was honest, and I'm pleased with that. The only detail I omitted was my smoking. I opted not to even mention it. I won't acknowledge there's such a thing called lying by omission. I figure if I end up going out with someone who doesn't smoke, I can cram about three or four pieces of nicotine gum in the my mouth every so often and they won't be any the wiser. I might try to get some from my mom (cause that shit is more expensive than the damn tobacky) and see what happens if I mix it with Big Red gum. Either nasty as hell or a match made in heaven. Which could be just like the date that I might go on.
I paid my monthly fee, which was the most expensive option, but considering I've been doing this online dating thing for less than two whole weeks and I can't even decide if I want to do this, I probably shouldn't go for the six month commitment. This indecision is killing me. I'm starting to get on my own damn nerves, and that's really something. Not like I don't get on my own nerves periodically, but I usually don't drag it out for this long. Indecision is something that I've trained myself out of, because you can't operate in life like that and it would be the death of my career. I can't be indecisive at work, and I don't think I've ever had that option in my career. Actually, maybe this is just me reverse-compensating for having to do that for 18 years. Maybe this is the first time I've been able to be indecisive about anything and it feels so good (but I just don't realize it yet) that I can't stop being indecisive about this one thing in my life. Nah, that's not it. The real truth to the matter is that I'm retaining water and it's a full moon. My estrogen is way fucked up.
I think what it is is that I know I can't be in a relationship right now, because I'm still putting me together. That, and I don't know what man would put up with me right now because I have no time for anything other than work and my children. Who the hells wants to be involved with someone like that? Furthermore, because The Ex was considerate enough to introduce his girlfriend to the children BEFORE I EVEN MOVED OUT, I feel like the pressure is on me to be extra stable and to make sure that everything I do with them is exactly what the child psychologist recommended. So basically, whomever I end up dating won't be meeting my children any time soon. Like, months and months, because I'm not putting my children through that bullshit. What this means is that this is going to be someone who has to be okay with only seeing me every other weekend and for a random lunch date for the long time being.
I think... I need a friend with benefits. That might be exactly what I need, because I'm not feeling like I'm emotionally at a place to be able to trust yet, to be able to expose myself to an actual person. I mean, damn, that's what my blog is for, and that's somewhat anonymous. Most definitely anonymous to some because I know the people in Lithuania don't know me. So here's the tricky part--I need to troll through all these goddamn profiles and find the hot guys who won't screen me out based solely upon my age. Really, to go off on a complete sidebar, I've determined that I totally don't look my age because smoking doesn't age you. Jogging does. Think of every person you know who jogs religiously and most of them look worn down. Well, that's because they are. Their joints are fucked up, their skin is all wrinkly because they have fat in the wrong places from all that impact making the fat slide around, and they just look old. Yet another reason to not run. I don't run at all, unless a child (namely one of mine) is hurt and bleeding. Blood is a requirement. I don't run for work, and I won't. Fuck 'em. I'll just take a shoe off and chunk it at them because I have a good arm and who wants to get hit with a four inch spike heel? I had some guy email me on this site today and he obviously did not read my profile, which specifically states that I am deathly allergic to jogging, olives and the color yellow. Why this man would even send an email is beyond me, because he has on his profile that he runs more than 100 miles a month. Huuuuuhhhhh????? Whaaaaaat???? Oh my god, why would you do that to yourself? And he looks 51, not 41. Furthermore, 40 is my cut-off. I'm swinging low on my age range, because my cut-on is 30. Oops, he's not the guy who emailed me. He's the guy who made me his favorite. Whaaaaat???? Okay, running will make me look old and my hair won't look super cute, so I don't run. It's also damn near impossible to jog and smoke at the same time. For those who manage to do so, my compliments to that particular skill-set, but you look r.e.t.a.r.d.e.d. Furthermore, I'm not into new age mysticism. Are you fucking kidding me? Hey, jackass, don't get all hot and bothered over the pics, read the goddamn profile. Omg.
Friends with benefits, since that's so much more classy and refined than fuck buddy. That's probably what I need. Hit it and quit it, because I'm all about woman empowerment and women can do that shit, too. So, that's probably what I'll be working on for the next 30 days (I really don't want to pay for this for another whole month), because I've got my game back, feeling slicker than whale shit and I've got my eye on a couple of prospects. We shall see...
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
It's No Wonder I Don't Have Time to Date
I changed my mind yet again about the whole dating thing. I hid both of my profiles on both of those sites last night. Obviously, I'm not ready for this. Every other day I change my mind about the whole thing and I'm like, hell yeah, I can do this. And then, 11.8539 hours later, I'm like, what the fuck was I thinking? I don't have time for this bullshit. This has been and will be my schedule since this past Saturday into the near future.
Saturday - Football game at 9:00am, which means we are supposed to be on the field at 8:30. But I stayed up til 2:00am chatting on the computer, so I was still trying to pimp my curls and stuff out at 8:30 that morning because I was running late. And then I had to stop for a super-sized Coke on the way there. Arrived at the field at 9:05 with the children, snacks for the younger daughter's cheerleading team, bookbag with older daughter's playdate birthday party clothes in it, folding chair and also a bacon biscuit. I didn't even care at this point, because I was exhausted in that exhausted kind of way that makes you feel slightly still drunk and yet hungover at the same time. Yelled at the cheerleaders to be louder and ate my bacon biscuit. Yelled so loud even some of the football coaches came to attention. Stayed through older daughter's game, chatted with her teacher from last year, glared at The Ex and sent older daughter off with her little friend for the playdate birthday party. I brought the younger daughter home and then promptly took her to my mother's to spend the night because I had a camping-beer drinking kind of thing to go to. Came home, and tried to take a nap, but got sucked into texting and then blew off the camping-beer drinking kind of thing because I really just didn't want to go and run into my emotional cancer. You never know who might show up at these things.
Sunday - Slept in and then went to my mom's to get the children, who at that point were acting like they had smoked a whole lot of crack because my mother encourages bad behavior. But since she babysits pretty much whenever I need it, I have to just go with it. Rush home and get everyone squared away for cheerleading pictures. We go rushing off to cheerleading pictures and I call The Ex to see if he's going to come and purchase his own pictures. Nope, he's got something else to do and can I just purchase picture packs for him and he'll pay me back. No, motherfucker, I can't. Too bad for you. Have cheerleading practice after the pictures and these girls are NOT going to be ready for the exhibition next week. I don't even know if I care at this point, I'm so burned out on cheerleading. Rush home from cheerleading to do weekend homework and Monday homework because it's elementary school skate night and Mommy has to go to skate night. Clean the house and discover the cat has peed on the carpet in my bedroom. Apparently this is one of those pets that gets randomly pissed off and shares it on the carpet.
Monday - Oh my god, I made it to work on time. Rush out of work, get the children so we can rush home, eat dinner and get to skate night. Oh, hell, the older daughter got in trouble at school today. She apparently found the one child in her class with the last name of Lassiter and made it a point to explain to him that the word ass is in his last name. So she had to write a letter to the teacher explaining what she did was wrong and that she told her mom about it. I texted The Ex and asked him to call to discuss the matter with her. Oh, he's busy and can't call, he texts back. Uh, can you make a fucking exception? No, he'll call later. Dick. Make her write the letter and just for good measure, make her write another letter to her classmate apologizing for this. Discuss with her that she needs to start minding her own business and I am secretly relieved that the other child's last name is not Dickerson. But all this fucking letter writing means that we're running late for skate night, dammit. I'm not paying money for me to skate for one hour, so I stand around and watch. I almost died when they played the Hokie-Pokie, because this is how I broke my wrist two years ago. I was showing off for my daughter at a skating birthday party, and it was not a pretty fall. I imagine that to someone on the edge of the rink, it probably looked like someone had just flung a dead body out onto the skating rink, because that's the force with which I hit the floor.
Tuesday - I cancelled my training class because fuck it, I don't need to know that shit. I've got my training hours in for the year. Text the older daughter's cheerleading coach and FUCK! We've got cheerleading practice tonight for her. I am so sick of cheerleading practice I don't even know what to do. Rush out of work, get the children, rush home, take off those itchy pantyhose and cram dinner down the children's throats, and off to cheerleading practice. Rush home for homework.
Wednesday - Rush around in the morning trying to pack lunches, pack the older daughter's cheerleadingbookbags and get myself squared away. Get to daycare, try to draw Mr. So-and-So into some bullshit conversation about something. Because I've seen his profile on one of those dating websites and I know he's seen mine, because he hasn't figured out how to hide that he's looking at someones profile like I have. Damn, too many kids running around. Get to work; crazy day there. Decide to cancel younger daughter's cheerleading practice at the last minute as only one coach will be there and one coach can't teach the dance routine. Rush to pick up younger daughter and find out that older daughter dropped the f-bomb on another child that morning. Are you fucking kidding me? I'm blaming this on her father. Text The Ex to tell him, he says he'll call to talk to her later. It's almost 11:00pm and he hasn't called yet. Dick. Rush to McDonald's to get the younger daughter dinner and rush off to the football game to watch the older daughter cheer. Thank god for the older daughter's cheer coach picking her up this afternoon, feeding her dinner, getting her changed and getting her to the game, otherwise she would have been LATE. Oh my god, we finally found a team we could beat. They must really suck. Stand around chit-chatting with the divorced dad who does the concession stand with The Ex and am pleasantly pleased that the moisture and football coach testosterone in the air only accentuates my curls. Why didn't I go curly years ago? It's late and my hair still looks HOT AS SHIT. I rock heels and curls. At the football game, no less. Rush home right after the football game to get homework done and address the f-bomb. Spank because I believe in corporal punishment for severe offenses and this was a severe offense. It's not against the law, and those seven licks she got (one for each year of her life) were pretty tame to the point I was trying not to giggle. But she knows this is the punishment and I know that Mommy must follow through.
Thursday - Work for me, school for the children, cheerleading practice for all of us, homework for some of us. The older daughter has a science test on Friday, so I'll be doing a review of the worksheet with her while I'm driving us all around, since that's really a safe way to drive.
Friday - The Ex's weekend begins, thank god, and I might get my nails done. Or I might not. All depends, and on what I'm not saying.
Saturday - Cheerleading on Saturday morning, helping my mother's husband do a catering thing in the afternoon. I insisted that I be the drink person because I'm pretty sure my sparkling personality and super cute hairdo can draw some drunk motherfuckers in to buy copious amounts of food at this wine festival he's catering, and because a hair net makes me look not-so-hot. Saturday night is up in the air. I feel some TV time coming on. All depends. The Ex will be running around willy-nilly dropping both children off at various birthday parties. I don't feel sorry for him. I will probably work on the older daughter's pumpkin project on this day, too, because yes, I do some of her projects for her.
Sunday - Older daughter's cheerleading competition at 10 something in the morning, but The Ex needs to have her at the competition site at 8:15. That sucks for him. I plan on rolling in at about 9 something. Cheerleading practice at 4-ish, let's hope these girls show up because they have to know this dance routine. Sunday night we start all over.
Monday - I work late at work, so my mother will pick up the children, bring them home and instead of feeding them dinner and doing homework in an orderly fashion, she will let them smoke crack. Not really, but that's what it seems like every Monday night that I have to work late.
Tuesday - Cheerleading practice for the younger daughter. Last night to prepare for her exhibition. This is also the day I need to have 25 fall-themed plates and napkins in to the older daughter's teacher for their fall party.
Wednesday - Younger daughter's cheerleading exhibition that night. Did I mention I'm over cheerleading?
Thursday - There is no way we're having cheerleading practice, simply no way. I'll kill myself.
Friday - Rush around and finish off the Halloween costumes. The older daughter is going to be a cowgirl and the younger daughter is going to be a ballerina witch.
Saturday - I have a wedding party kind of thing to go to. I'm going alone because I'm hoping some hot single guy will be there. The children have an end of cheerleading season party, and I've arranged to have The Ex and his girlfriend go, because that will make him the fucking hero. I need to chip in the cake, though, and that means I will need to have remembered to pre-order the damn thing before Wednesday.
Sunday - My busiest workday of the year - Halloween. I'm not saying why. Get the children squared away, off to The Ex's for trick-or-treating, and that will make him the fucking hero because Mommy has to work on Halloween. Whatever, I've taken the last five Halloweens off and it's my turn to get busy out there. The children are spending the night with him, so he'll really be the hero. I'm excited about being alone on a Sunday night after work. Mad Men.
The Monday after that - Teacher workday, parent-teacher conferences and the older daughter's annual eye doctor appointment, which means I am taking the day off. I am not looking forward to these conferences because guess who is going to be there? Yep, dickface. And he's going to sit there and act all concerned and involved and like the father of the year that I know he's not. Did I mention it's now 11:13pm and he still never called to discuss the whole f-bomb thing? It's at times like I know the parent-teacher conference that I want to look at him, or the teacher, and explain that one of the benefits to me leaving him is never having to look at his small penis again.
Tuesday - Another teacher workday, so unless I want to pay extra money to Mr. So-and-So, I need to find someone to watch the children that day. Fabulous. Maybe I can get the parents of Mr. Small Penis to watch them.
I could go on and on, but my calendar is in the car and does it really matter? It's no wonder I don't have time to date.
Saturday - Football game at 9:00am, which means we are supposed to be on the field at 8:30. But I stayed up til 2:00am chatting on the computer, so I was still trying to pimp my curls and stuff out at 8:30 that morning because I was running late. And then I had to stop for a super-sized Coke on the way there. Arrived at the field at 9:05 with the children, snacks for the younger daughter's cheerleading team, bookbag with older daughter's playdate birthday party clothes in it, folding chair and also a bacon biscuit. I didn't even care at this point, because I was exhausted in that exhausted kind of way that makes you feel slightly still drunk and yet hungover at the same time. Yelled at the cheerleaders to be louder and ate my bacon biscuit. Yelled so loud even some of the football coaches came to attention. Stayed through older daughter's game, chatted with her teacher from last year, glared at The Ex and sent older daughter off with her little friend for the playdate birthday party. I brought the younger daughter home and then promptly took her to my mother's to spend the night because I had a camping-beer drinking kind of thing to go to. Came home, and tried to take a nap, but got sucked into texting and then blew off the camping-beer drinking kind of thing because I really just didn't want to go and run into my emotional cancer. You never know who might show up at these things.
Sunday - Slept in and then went to my mom's to get the children, who at that point were acting like they had smoked a whole lot of crack because my mother encourages bad behavior. But since she babysits pretty much whenever I need it, I have to just go with it. Rush home and get everyone squared away for cheerleading pictures. We go rushing off to cheerleading pictures and I call The Ex to see if he's going to come and purchase his own pictures. Nope, he's got something else to do and can I just purchase picture packs for him and he'll pay me back. No, motherfucker, I can't. Too bad for you. Have cheerleading practice after the pictures and these girls are NOT going to be ready for the exhibition next week. I don't even know if I care at this point, I'm so burned out on cheerleading. Rush home from cheerleading to do weekend homework and Monday homework because it's elementary school skate night and Mommy has to go to skate night. Clean the house and discover the cat has peed on the carpet in my bedroom. Apparently this is one of those pets that gets randomly pissed off and shares it on the carpet.
Monday - Oh my god, I made it to work on time. Rush out of work, get the children so we can rush home, eat dinner and get to skate night. Oh, hell, the older daughter got in trouble at school today. She apparently found the one child in her class with the last name of Lassiter and made it a point to explain to him that the word ass is in his last name. So she had to write a letter to the teacher explaining what she did was wrong and that she told her mom about it. I texted The Ex and asked him to call to discuss the matter with her. Oh, he's busy and can't call, he texts back. Uh, can you make a fucking exception? No, he'll call later. Dick. Make her write the letter and just for good measure, make her write another letter to her classmate apologizing for this. Discuss with her that she needs to start minding her own business and I am secretly relieved that the other child's last name is not Dickerson. But all this fucking letter writing means that we're running late for skate night, dammit. I'm not paying money for me to skate for one hour, so I stand around and watch. I almost died when they played the Hokie-Pokie, because this is how I broke my wrist two years ago. I was showing off for my daughter at a skating birthday party, and it was not a pretty fall. I imagine that to someone on the edge of the rink, it probably looked like someone had just flung a dead body out onto the skating rink, because that's the force with which I hit the floor.
Tuesday - I cancelled my training class because fuck it, I don't need to know that shit. I've got my training hours in for the year. Text the older daughter's cheerleading coach and FUCK! We've got cheerleading practice tonight for her. I am so sick of cheerleading practice I don't even know what to do. Rush out of work, get the children, rush home, take off those itchy pantyhose and cram dinner down the children's throats, and off to cheerleading practice. Rush home for homework.
Wednesday - Rush around in the morning trying to pack lunches, pack the older daughter's cheerleadingbookbags and get myself squared away. Get to daycare, try to draw Mr. So-and-So into some bullshit conversation about something. Because I've seen his profile on one of those dating websites and I know he's seen mine, because he hasn't figured out how to hide that he's looking at someones profile like I have. Damn, too many kids running around. Get to work; crazy day there. Decide to cancel younger daughter's cheerleading practice at the last minute as only one coach will be there and one coach can't teach the dance routine. Rush to pick up younger daughter and find out that older daughter dropped the f-bomb on another child that morning. Are you fucking kidding me? I'm blaming this on her father. Text The Ex to tell him, he says he'll call to talk to her later. It's almost 11:00pm and he hasn't called yet. Dick. Rush to McDonald's to get the younger daughter dinner and rush off to the football game to watch the older daughter cheer. Thank god for the older daughter's cheer coach picking her up this afternoon, feeding her dinner, getting her changed and getting her to the game, otherwise she would have been LATE. Oh my god, we finally found a team we could beat. They must really suck. Stand around chit-chatting with the divorced dad who does the concession stand with The Ex and am pleasantly pleased that the moisture and football coach testosterone in the air only accentuates my curls. Why didn't I go curly years ago? It's late and my hair still looks HOT AS SHIT. I rock heels and curls. At the football game, no less. Rush home right after the football game to get homework done and address the f-bomb. Spank because I believe in corporal punishment for severe offenses and this was a severe offense. It's not against the law, and those seven licks she got (one for each year of her life) were pretty tame to the point I was trying not to giggle. But she knows this is the punishment and I know that Mommy must follow through.
Thursday - Work for me, school for the children, cheerleading practice for all of us, homework for some of us. The older daughter has a science test on Friday, so I'll be doing a review of the worksheet with her while I'm driving us all around, since that's really a safe way to drive.
Friday - The Ex's weekend begins, thank god, and I might get my nails done. Or I might not. All depends, and on what I'm not saying.
Saturday - Cheerleading on Saturday morning, helping my mother's husband do a catering thing in the afternoon. I insisted that I be the drink person because I'm pretty sure my sparkling personality and super cute hairdo can draw some drunk motherfuckers in to buy copious amounts of food at this wine festival he's catering, and because a hair net makes me look not-so-hot. Saturday night is up in the air. I feel some TV time coming on. All depends. The Ex will be running around willy-nilly dropping both children off at various birthday parties. I don't feel sorry for him. I will probably work on the older daughter's pumpkin project on this day, too, because yes, I do some of her projects for her.
Sunday - Older daughter's cheerleading competition at 10 something in the morning, but The Ex needs to have her at the competition site at 8:15. That sucks for him. I plan on rolling in at about 9 something. Cheerleading practice at 4-ish, let's hope these girls show up because they have to know this dance routine. Sunday night we start all over.
Monday - I work late at work, so my mother will pick up the children, bring them home and instead of feeding them dinner and doing homework in an orderly fashion, she will let them smoke crack. Not really, but that's what it seems like every Monday night that I have to work late.
Tuesday - Cheerleading practice for the younger daughter. Last night to prepare for her exhibition. This is also the day I need to have 25 fall-themed plates and napkins in to the older daughter's teacher for their fall party.
Wednesday - Younger daughter's cheerleading exhibition that night. Did I mention I'm over cheerleading?
Thursday - There is no way we're having cheerleading practice, simply no way. I'll kill myself.
Friday - Rush around and finish off the Halloween costumes. The older daughter is going to be a cowgirl and the younger daughter is going to be a ballerina witch.
Saturday - I have a wedding party kind of thing to go to. I'm going alone because I'm hoping some hot single guy will be there. The children have an end of cheerleading season party, and I've arranged to have The Ex and his girlfriend go, because that will make him the fucking hero. I need to chip in the cake, though, and that means I will need to have remembered to pre-order the damn thing before Wednesday.
Sunday - My busiest workday of the year - Halloween. I'm not saying why. Get the children squared away, off to The Ex's for trick-or-treating, and that will make him the fucking hero because Mommy has to work on Halloween. Whatever, I've taken the last five Halloweens off and it's my turn to get busy out there. The children are spending the night with him, so he'll really be the hero. I'm excited about being alone on a Sunday night after work. Mad Men.
The Monday after that - Teacher workday, parent-teacher conferences and the older daughter's annual eye doctor appointment, which means I am taking the day off. I am not looking forward to these conferences because guess who is going to be there? Yep, dickface. And he's going to sit there and act all concerned and involved and like the father of the year that I know he's not. Did I mention it's now 11:13pm and he still never called to discuss the whole f-bomb thing? It's at times like I know the parent-teacher conference that I want to look at him, or the teacher, and explain that one of the benefits to me leaving him is never having to look at his small penis again.
Tuesday - Another teacher workday, so unless I want to pay extra money to Mr. So-and-So, I need to find someone to watch the children that day. Fabulous. Maybe I can get the parents of Mr. Small Penis to watch them.
I could go on and on, but my calendar is in the car and does it really matter? It's no wonder I don't have time to date.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Adventures in Online Dating #3
So I'm not done with the online dating thing. I changed my mind yet again. What really happened is that I was attracting a lot of bottom feeders and I got freaked out. I was getting an insane amount of emails, guys liking me, guys wanting to hook up, and it was too much. I haven't had this much attention since the last time I walked through a chow hall in prison. So I just needed to crawl back into myself and try to figure out WHY ARE ALL OF THESE UGLY MOTHERFUCKERS GETTING IN TOUCH WITH ME?????
Like I said, bottom feeders. These dudes are u.g.l.y. And yes, I am a shallow, shallow bitch when it comes to looks. I'm sorry, but I don't date ugly guys. I've got that +/-2 thing going on. No one under a 5, no one over a 9. And if I have a choice between an 8 and 5, well, guess which one I'm going with? And no, this isn't part of me raising my standards, because I've always been shallow like this. So if you're reading this, and we've ever dated, consider yourself lucky. Not many make the cut, despite all my shit talking. I'm raising my standards in other areas, but I'm good with what I like in the way of appearances.
I don't know about a whole lot about fishing, other than the best nightcrawlers come from a pig pen, and that actually having to touch one makes me scream, but if I had to classify myself as a fish, it would be a top feeder. I just looked that up on Wikipedia, and there is no such thing, but I'm going to make it a thing. We'll call a top feeder the exact opposite of a bottom feeder. So I don't know what kind of fish eat off the top, or even float around up there, but if I had to pick one that I would classify as a top feeder, it would be a koi. I don't know anything about koi for real, other than what I see at the large public park in the city with fancy Japanese and Italian gardens. But they have tons of koi, and they seem very pretty and quite intelligent. That's definitely me. I'm a koi. And I think that as a koi, I would not mix well with a catfish or even a sea cucumber, which sounds kind of dirty.
But that's what I'm getting. Catfish. And other bottom feeders. And I don't want catfish. I want other pretty fish that float around near the top and will take me over to the side of the pond where the children throw their goldfish crackers in, and I want that pretty koi to catch goldfish for me and whisper stuff about what we'll do in the deep part of the pond later. So I kind of freaked out, and hid my profile, and then went to another site that a faithful reader had pointed me to (shout out!) and got registered with them. And was a little more selective in trying to describe what I want. In fact, here's a blurb from my profile: "I would prefer to get to know men who are college educated, professionally employed, have children, are taller than me, have a good sense of humor, clean cut (a little stubble = good; a mountain man beard = not good) and a little cocky. I'm a little shallow about looks, but at least I'm woman enough to admit it. I'd also prefer that you live in the metro Richmond area." Yeah, that's actually on my profile. I'm trying to weed through the bottom feeders. I mean, is this so fucking hard to find????
I must have overdone it, because my inbox is seeing the same amount of action as some of my girl parts, because nothing is happening. I open my inbox and hear *crickets*. Nothing. I will say, though, there are about 100,000 less users on this site than the previous one, so I've eliminated a bunch of guys, maybe 50 to 60k of them? And the other thing is that this website actually matches people based upon their personalities--well, kind of--so I've got guys I'm a good match with, but they are not my type physically. I'm sorry, I'm not going to go out with someone who fucking looks like Ted Kaczynski. Or John Boy. Or Mr. T. Or a redhead. Or a liberal. And no, I can't go outside of the box on this one. Sorry. Just won't do it.
As for these ugly guys, well, I don't have to be nice and answer all of these emails. I'll ignore that some of these guys have emailed me more than once. Okay, if I have responded in a day or two, I'm probably not. Move the fuck on. If I've seen you on craigslist, or a whole other new website I just found out about that's like craigslist but with video chat, I won't be getting back with you. Ever. And thanks for using the same pics on all of these sites, it helps me to weed you bottom feeders out.
The other issue that I have is that I realized tonight I don't have time for this shit. I don't have time to date. My weekends are booked up through the beginning to middle of November, and my weeknights are not free at all, what with the children and homework and school activities and The Ex bringing them back early so he can go and do whatever the fuck he does, so I might possibly be able to pencil someone in here or there. If they're hot, and talk mad game, I might totally erase a camping thing like I did this past weekend and Sharpie you in. But that doesn't seem to be the norm here. Where can I find the hot, educated and employed guy website?
Like I said, bottom feeders. These dudes are u.g.l.y. And yes, I am a shallow, shallow bitch when it comes to looks. I'm sorry, but I don't date ugly guys. I've got that +/-2 thing going on. No one under a 5, no one over a 9. And if I have a choice between an 8 and 5, well, guess which one I'm going with? And no, this isn't part of me raising my standards, because I've always been shallow like this. So if you're reading this, and we've ever dated, consider yourself lucky. Not many make the cut, despite all my shit talking. I'm raising my standards in other areas, but I'm good with what I like in the way of appearances.
I don't know about a whole lot about fishing, other than the best nightcrawlers come from a pig pen, and that actually having to touch one makes me scream, but if I had to classify myself as a fish, it would be a top feeder. I just looked that up on Wikipedia, and there is no such thing, but I'm going to make it a thing. We'll call a top feeder the exact opposite of a bottom feeder. So I don't know what kind of fish eat off the top, or even float around up there, but if I had to pick one that I would classify as a top feeder, it would be a koi. I don't know anything about koi for real, other than what I see at the large public park in the city with fancy Japanese and Italian gardens. But they have tons of koi, and they seem very pretty and quite intelligent. That's definitely me. I'm a koi. And I think that as a koi, I would not mix well with a catfish or even a sea cucumber, which sounds kind of dirty.
But that's what I'm getting. Catfish. And other bottom feeders. And I don't want catfish. I want other pretty fish that float around near the top and will take me over to the side of the pond where the children throw their goldfish crackers in, and I want that pretty koi to catch goldfish for me and whisper stuff about what we'll do in the deep part of the pond later. So I kind of freaked out, and hid my profile, and then went to another site that a faithful reader had pointed me to (shout out!) and got registered with them. And was a little more selective in trying to describe what I want. In fact, here's a blurb from my profile: "I would prefer to get to know men who are college educated, professionally employed, have children, are taller than me, have a good sense of humor, clean cut (a little stubble = good; a mountain man beard = not good) and a little cocky. I'm a little shallow about looks, but at least I'm woman enough to admit it. I'd also prefer that you live in the metro Richmond area." Yeah, that's actually on my profile. I'm trying to weed through the bottom feeders. I mean, is this so fucking hard to find????
I must have overdone it, because my inbox is seeing the same amount of action as some of my girl parts, because nothing is happening. I open my inbox and hear *crickets*. Nothing. I will say, though, there are about 100,000 less users on this site than the previous one, so I've eliminated a bunch of guys, maybe 50 to 60k of them? And the other thing is that this website actually matches people based upon their personalities--well, kind of--so I've got guys I'm a good match with, but they are not my type physically. I'm sorry, I'm not going to go out with someone who fucking looks like Ted Kaczynski. Or John Boy. Or Mr. T. Or a redhead. Or a liberal. And no, I can't go outside of the box on this one. Sorry. Just won't do it.
As for these ugly guys, well, I don't have to be nice and answer all of these emails. I'll ignore that some of these guys have emailed me more than once. Okay, if I have responded in a day or two, I'm probably not. Move the fuck on. If I've seen you on craigslist, or a whole other new website I just found out about that's like craigslist but with video chat, I won't be getting back with you. Ever. And thanks for using the same pics on all of these sites, it helps me to weed you bottom feeders out.
The other issue that I have is that I realized tonight I don't have time for this shit. I don't have time to date. My weekends are booked up through the beginning to middle of November, and my weeknights are not free at all, what with the children and homework and school activities and The Ex bringing them back early so he can go and do whatever the fuck he does, so I might possibly be able to pencil someone in here or there. If they're hot, and talk mad game, I might totally erase a camping thing like I did this past weekend and Sharpie you in. But that doesn't seem to be the norm here. Where can I find the hot, educated and employed guy website?
Monday, October 18, 2010
Stay Tuned
Okay, there's some good shit on the horizon for my readers, all three or four of you blessed souls who keep coming back. This will be to the tune of "I Changed My Mind Yet Again About Online Dating", cheerleading updates, skate night, children stuff, how many degrees of separation I think should exist in the world between me and the men I date and why this is probably super dumb, and my fabulous girlfriend who is currently at a conference full of men, working on getting me a hook up. I'm saving those texts for your reading enjoyment.
As for right now, I'm too tired to write anything because I've been burning my time up trolling around on the internet and perfecting my anxiety to do anything else.
As for right now, I'm too tired to write anything because I've been burning my time up trolling around on the internet and perfecting my anxiety to do anything else.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Adventures in Online Dating #2
Sometimes in life, things don't turn out right. For some reason or the other, there is a failure, a lapse, a moment in time that either wasn't meant to be or didn't happen altogether. Or maybe it was a moment in time that happened, but it never should have. We know it when it happens, and we might even see it coming, but we can't stop it from happening. We're so desperate for something to happen that we'll make anything happen.
I feel like my life is one big blob of all of the above, things that didn't happen, never should have happened, or were inevitable from the beginning. It's this train of stuff I can't seem to get off, thus making me feel almost like a trainwreck in the making. I can't seem to break out of this destructive cycle, and I can't seem to make the right things happen. It's very discouraging sometimes.
I'm not ready for this whole dating thing. I'm probably not emotionally ready to get laid, although I'd like to think differently. I thought I might possibly be ready to stick my big toe back in the gene pool, but I'm not. I've collected about 17 guys on this website that want to meet me, plus the other ten or so who emailed me and I don't want to meet any of them. They're mostly unattractive (high physical standards are a bitch), uneducated (high educational standards are a bitch), probably have issues worse than mine (yes, high emotional standards are a bitch), and they may not be looking for what they say they are looking for (high ethical standards are a bitch). This gene pool is murky, filled with slime that will ooze between my toes and make me scream like a little bitch, and it has that ever-so-slight smell of algae and decaying vegetation. I thought it would be crystal clear, like the waters down in the Caribbean, the kind of water that's warm and inviting and makes you feel good. But this gene pool isn't like that. I'm not ready for that shit.
The real problem here is that I'm caught between this feeling that maybe I should just hang back, and wait and see what happens, which is directly oppositional to my need to reach out and grab life by the balls. I'm stuck somewhere between the two and not quite sure which is the route for me. A bad decision could await me at either turn.
And so tonight, I hid my profile on this stupid online dating website, and I've crawled back into myself to just keep working on me.
I feel like my life is one big blob of all of the above, things that didn't happen, never should have happened, or were inevitable from the beginning. It's this train of stuff I can't seem to get off, thus making me feel almost like a trainwreck in the making. I can't seem to break out of this destructive cycle, and I can't seem to make the right things happen. It's very discouraging sometimes.
I'm not ready for this whole dating thing. I'm probably not emotionally ready to get laid, although I'd like to think differently. I thought I might possibly be ready to stick my big toe back in the gene pool, but I'm not. I've collected about 17 guys on this website that want to meet me, plus the other ten or so who emailed me and I don't want to meet any of them. They're mostly unattractive (high physical standards are a bitch), uneducated (high educational standards are a bitch), probably have issues worse than mine (yes, high emotional standards are a bitch), and they may not be looking for what they say they are looking for (high ethical standards are a bitch). This gene pool is murky, filled with slime that will ooze between my toes and make me scream like a little bitch, and it has that ever-so-slight smell of algae and decaying vegetation. I thought it would be crystal clear, like the waters down in the Caribbean, the kind of water that's warm and inviting and makes you feel good. But this gene pool isn't like that. I'm not ready for that shit.
The real problem here is that I'm caught between this feeling that maybe I should just hang back, and wait and see what happens, which is directly oppositional to my need to reach out and grab life by the balls. I'm stuck somewhere between the two and not quite sure which is the route for me. A bad decision could await me at either turn.
And so tonight, I hid my profile on this stupid online dating website, and I've crawled back into myself to just keep working on me.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Adventures in Online Dating #1
I'll have to number these, because I'm sure there will be way more than one post. I got all signed up for this dating website on Wednesday night, and the race was on. No, seriously, it wasn't. I just figured I would see what happened. By Thursday at noon, seven men had selected me as someone they want to meet, one kind of weird looking guy had selected me as his favorite and I had an email from a whole different man. Good god. Is this how this works, I was asking myself. I felt a little fresh meat-ish in the city jail.
Last night, I was farting around online, and of course they have a chat capability, because everyone does these days. Yo' site ain't shit wif no chat, baby! But I wasn't really looking to chat, but couldn't figure out how to turn the chat option off. The first guy who selected me as a favorite, and that is so WEIRD because how the fuck I am his favorite?????, anyway, he wanted to chat me up. So we chatted for a few, and then he asked what type of men I like. I wanted to say, not your type, but why be a rude bitch so early on into the game? I gave him my answer, tried to be somewhat vague and three minutes later he had a snarky comment about it. Okay, dickhead, don't get angry that you're not that type. It's cool, just move the fuck on. I think this guy has some insecurity issues. Lucky for me, I was married to someone like that and I can smell that shit a mile away. And he wasn't my type.
And then, another guy wanted to chat. No picture. Uh oh. He did have a better personality than the first guy, but still no picture. Uh oh. And he didn't want to post one up. I thought to myself, okay, you need to go away now because I am a shallow bitch when it comes to looks. I figure that on a scale of one to ten, ten being the best, I'm about a seven. Maybe an eight on a good hair and ass day. But I won't date anyone that I rate to be below me or above me by more than two. So if I'm a seven, I won't go lower than five and higher than nine. It just messes up the natural order of things, and that's about as mathematical as I can get, although I wish I could work some probability and statistics in there regarding getting laid and so forth. Anyway, my rating scale is totally subjective to me, and I never ask the man what he would rate himself at, or what he would rate me at, because that's an argument looking for a beginning. This just only happens in my head. Suffice it to say, I won't date someone freakishly better looking than me (a ten) because I'll wonder how much longer until I get thrown to the side for a better looking woman, and I won't go lower than a five because I just won't get involved with ugly men. Can't do, won't do it. There are ugly women out there for that.
What I am glad of is that I've spent so much time trolling around on craigslist, because there's some crossover here. I know the craigslist guys on this site and can avoid them like the plague. I also know who has given some women sexually transmitted diseases (thanks for the warnings, girls, but you need to have him wrap.that.junk.up) and can steer clear of them, as well. What I can't do is identify the penis pics on craigslist to some of these men. Hmmm, that's a shame because there's probably some crossover there, too. I wonder what Cockzilla looks like from the torso up?
As of right now, I've collected about five emails and eleven men who want to meet me, plus the two guys who have me listed as a favorite. Regarding the eleven men who want to meet me, well, thanks, fellas, but I don't really want to meet any of you. As for the other guy who added me as a favorite, we chatted last night and he finally emailed me a teensy-tinsy thumbnail pic. Not my type. Nice personality, but from what I could see from squinting and pressing my nose onto the computer monitor, he's about a three. So not for me. I've determined that ultimately, this is not the dating website for me, but the one I want to join doesn't allow anyone who isn't legally divorced and they've got all kinds of legalese stuff on their website about suing for Fraud if they find out you've lied. So this website I'm on now, and I'll call this my warm-up website. As soon as I'm legally without a dickhead, I can join this other site and I should be ready to roll.
Here are the emails and my commentary, because I know that's why you keep reading. My fabulous commentary.
Email #1 - Hello. How are you doing today? Oh, fuck. This guy looks like a toad. He's 5'5" and likes Nickelback. Need I say more? Overall rating: 2
Email #2 - Hey you sound fun and genuine :) plus you wear heels yumm lol read my page and get in touch if interested in getting to know each other. He works in home health, not as literate as I would prefer, and says he's a romantic, touchy-feely guy. That means needy. Maybe I should take that little blurb out of my profile about wearing heels. Overall rating: 3
Email #3 - hi, how are you doing ?
do you believe in love at first sight?what about love at first email?
What guy uses emoticons? Gay. And no, I don't believe in love at first email, so I won't be emailing you back. Thin lips and has a really corny joke on his profile. Overall rating: 3
Email #4 - Nice Profile and picture, check my profile out if you like hope to hear from ya What this guy has going for him is that he looks like LLCool J. But I'm still not trying to make that sociological statement of dating someone who isn't white. I've done it, and quite frankly, it's not worth the bullshit you have to deal with. Call me a chickenshit, but whatever. Overall rating: 7
Email #5 - How are you? HOLY FUCK this guy is hot. And he's only 30! Yes! I feel good about being 36 + 1!!!!! And, bonus, he's my type of guy! We're emailing right now. I'd rather be chatting with him, but I can't figure out how to chat with just him and block all the other dipwads. Overall rating: 8
All in all, not a complete washout. Stay tuned, motherfuckers.
Last night, I was farting around online, and of course they have a chat capability, because everyone does these days. Yo' site ain't shit wif no chat, baby! But I wasn't really looking to chat, but couldn't figure out how to turn the chat option off. The first guy who selected me as a favorite, and that is so WEIRD because how the fuck I am his favorite?????, anyway, he wanted to chat me up. So we chatted for a few, and then he asked what type of men I like. I wanted to say, not your type, but why be a rude bitch so early on into the game? I gave him my answer, tried to be somewhat vague and three minutes later he had a snarky comment about it. Okay, dickhead, don't get angry that you're not that type. It's cool, just move the fuck on. I think this guy has some insecurity issues. Lucky for me, I was married to someone like that and I can smell that shit a mile away. And he wasn't my type.
And then, another guy wanted to chat. No picture. Uh oh. He did have a better personality than the first guy, but still no picture. Uh oh. And he didn't want to post one up. I thought to myself, okay, you need to go away now because I am a shallow bitch when it comes to looks. I figure that on a scale of one to ten, ten being the best, I'm about a seven. Maybe an eight on a good hair and ass day. But I won't date anyone that I rate to be below me or above me by more than two. So if I'm a seven, I won't go lower than five and higher than nine. It just messes up the natural order of things, and that's about as mathematical as I can get, although I wish I could work some probability and statistics in there regarding getting laid and so forth. Anyway, my rating scale is totally subjective to me, and I never ask the man what he would rate himself at, or what he would rate me at, because that's an argument looking for a beginning. This just only happens in my head. Suffice it to say, I won't date someone freakishly better looking than me (a ten) because I'll wonder how much longer until I get thrown to the side for a better looking woman, and I won't go lower than a five because I just won't get involved with ugly men. Can't do, won't do it. There are ugly women out there for that.
What I am glad of is that I've spent so much time trolling around on craigslist, because there's some crossover here. I know the craigslist guys on this site and can avoid them like the plague. I also know who has given some women sexually transmitted diseases (thanks for the warnings, girls, but you need to have him wrap.that.junk.up) and can steer clear of them, as well. What I can't do is identify the penis pics on craigslist to some of these men. Hmmm, that's a shame because there's probably some crossover there, too. I wonder what Cockzilla looks like from the torso up?
As of right now, I've collected about five emails and eleven men who want to meet me, plus the two guys who have me listed as a favorite. Regarding the eleven men who want to meet me, well, thanks, fellas, but I don't really want to meet any of you. As for the other guy who added me as a favorite, we chatted last night and he finally emailed me a teensy-tinsy thumbnail pic. Not my type. Nice personality, but from what I could see from squinting and pressing my nose onto the computer monitor, he's about a three. So not for me. I've determined that ultimately, this is not the dating website for me, but the one I want to join doesn't allow anyone who isn't legally divorced and they've got all kinds of legalese stuff on their website about suing for Fraud if they find out you've lied. So this website I'm on now, and I'll call this my warm-up website. As soon as I'm legally without a dickhead, I can join this other site and I should be ready to roll.
Here are the emails and my commentary, because I know that's why you keep reading. My fabulous commentary.
Email #1 - Hello. How are you doing today? Oh, fuck. This guy looks like a toad. He's 5'5" and likes Nickelback. Need I say more? Overall rating: 2
Email #2 - Hey you sound fun and genuine :) plus you wear heels yumm lol read my page and get in touch if interested in getting to know each other. He works in home health, not as literate as I would prefer, and says he's a romantic, touchy-feely guy. That means needy. Maybe I should take that little blurb out of my profile about wearing heels. Overall rating: 3
Email #3 - hi, how are you doing ?
do you believe in love at first sight?what about love at first email? What guy uses emoticons? Gay. And no, I don't believe in love at first email, so I won't be emailing you back. Thin lips and has a really corny joke on his profile. Overall rating: 3Email #4 - Nice Profile and picture, check my profile out if you like hope to hear from ya What this guy has going for him is that he looks like LLCool J. But I'm still not trying to make that sociological statement of dating someone who isn't white. I've done it, and quite frankly, it's not worth the bullshit you have to deal with. Call me a chickenshit, but whatever. Overall rating: 7
Email #5 - How are you? HOLY FUCK this guy is hot. And he's only 30! Yes! I feel good about being 36 + 1!!!!! And, bonus, he's my type of guy! We're emailing right now. I'd rather be chatting with him, but I can't figure out how to chat with just him and block all the other dipwads. Overall rating: 8
All in all, not a complete washout. Stay tuned, motherfuckers.
Freakshow of the Day
This is a good one. Thank god for men who have some creativity.
Well today is Thursday, but I am nevertheless still feeling religious. I have started my own church in which I spend time on my knees paying homage to your panties as well as what hides behind them. This is somewhat of a non-traditional church service as you might imagine, but the good news is no plate is passed so you won't be required to leave a donation and I guarantee that at the end of the service, you will have communicated to the Lord the fact that you are coming. My preference is for parishioners who are HWP and also older than 30. I will provide the chapel and this church will be available all this week for those women who weren't able to attend mass on Sunday
Nice. That's all I have to say, which is really unusual. Actually, that's not all I have to say. His sentences are well formed, the message is communicated in a very succinct manner, but yet still descriptive, especially regarding the message that will be delivered unto the Lord. No misspellings, no textese, no foul language. This guy is stepping up the craigslist game. I am suspicious that one of my readers may have posted this, just to see if I'm up on my game. Nevertheless, I nominated it for best-of-craigslist. Every now and then, I'll find something absolutely awesome that deserves a nomination, but I never see them on the best-of. I don't know how many nominations you have to get to make it on the best-of list, because I've seen some absolute tripe on there that I don't think is that funny. Did I ever mention I made the best-of-craigslist one time? It was fucking awesome. That might have been what really got my writing jump started. I'll do the old cut-and-paste on here sometime just for shits and giggles. It's about my co-workers, who could also be your co-workers. I just went back and re-read over the whole thing and I'm pleased that my writing style is still pretty much the same. Yes, bitches, still on my game! But the best-of thing always makes me wonder how many nominations you have to get to be on the best-of list. Exactly how many people liked my shit? Right now, it's all about my ego. I've never posted anything on craigslist since, other than some stuff I was selling. I figured I had gone right to the Superbowl after my first scrimmage game. Why try to top it?
I've had to lay off of craigslist for the last two days, because I've been busy trolling around on dating websites, so I had some catching up to do. It didn't quite qualify for the trifecta, but honorable mention to the guy who wants to share genital warts (gag) and the other guy who calls himself Cockzilla. Only the second guy posted pictures, and I'd have to agree with his assessment.
Well today is Thursday, but I am nevertheless still feeling religious. I have started my own church in which I spend time on my knees paying homage to your panties as well as what hides behind them. This is somewhat of a non-traditional church service as you might imagine, but the good news is no plate is passed so you won't be required to leave a donation and I guarantee that at the end of the service, you will have communicated to the Lord the fact that you are coming. My preference is for parishioners who are HWP and also older than 30. I will provide the chapel and this church will be available all this week for those women who weren't able to attend mass on Sunday
Nice. That's all I have to say, which is really unusual. Actually, that's not all I have to say. His sentences are well formed, the message is communicated in a very succinct manner, but yet still descriptive, especially regarding the message that will be delivered unto the Lord. No misspellings, no textese, no foul language. This guy is stepping up the craigslist game. I am suspicious that one of my readers may have posted this, just to see if I'm up on my game. Nevertheless, I nominated it for best-of-craigslist. Every now and then, I'll find something absolutely awesome that deserves a nomination, but I never see them on the best-of. I don't know how many nominations you have to get to make it on the best-of list, because I've seen some absolute tripe on there that I don't think is that funny. Did I ever mention I made the best-of-craigslist one time? It was fucking awesome. That might have been what really got my writing jump started. I'll do the old cut-and-paste on here sometime just for shits and giggles. It's about my co-workers, who could also be your co-workers. I just went back and re-read over the whole thing and I'm pleased that my writing style is still pretty much the same. Yes, bitches, still on my game! But the best-of thing always makes me wonder how many nominations you have to get to be on the best-of list. Exactly how many people liked my shit? Right now, it's all about my ego. I've never posted anything on craigslist since, other than some stuff I was selling. I figured I had gone right to the Superbowl after my first scrimmage game. Why try to top it?
I've had to lay off of craigslist for the last two days, because I've been busy trolling around on dating websites, so I had some catching up to do. It didn't quite qualify for the trifecta, but honorable mention to the guy who wants to share genital warts (gag) and the other guy who calls himself Cockzilla. Only the second guy posted pictures, and I'd have to agree with his assessment.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
So I Just...
Joined a dating website? I really just want to look for free, but you can only look but for so long before they require you to join. Jackasses. So I joined without giving it much thought or agonizing over it for days and weeks and months like I typically do. But this is the new Steph, I suppose.
Interestingly enough, I found out after I entered all of my information, this site will only match me with men who make the same amount or more money than me, and will match me with men who are only taller than me. I wonder if the men get a message that they only match women shorter than them who make equal or less money? But, I don't want to hang out with someone who is 5'4". Or 5'5" for that matter. Only men in the 5'8" and up range. And of course my profile message wasn't that different from my blog, except clean, but still kind of snarky. So we'll see who Steph gets matched up with.
Everything happens for a reason, the way it's supposed to. I keep falling back on that, and I keep telling myself that all of this shit in my life has happened to make me the person I am now. It may not have all been fun and games, but it's all part of who I am, the person I will be, and I'm good with that.
Actually, as I write this I'm flipping back and forth between this and the dating website, and HOLY SHIT! Mr. So-and-So from the children's daycare, yep, the one I was trying to talk a little shit to this weekend before I got cockblocked by lemon drops is one of my matches! Uh oh, but you can see who has viewed your profile. Can't hide that shit like you can on facebook. I guess I need to space out my trolling on this site, or I'll end up looking like some kind of crazy stalker.
I'm not initiating contact with any of these men. I'll just wait and see what comes to me. But if nothing else, this should make for some interesting blog posts.
Interestingly enough, I found out after I entered all of my information, this site will only match me with men who make the same amount or more money than me, and will match me with men who are only taller than me. I wonder if the men get a message that they only match women shorter than them who make equal or less money? But, I don't want to hang out with someone who is 5'4". Or 5'5" for that matter. Only men in the 5'8" and up range. And of course my profile message wasn't that different from my blog, except clean, but still kind of snarky. So we'll see who Steph gets matched up with.
Everything happens for a reason, the way it's supposed to. I keep falling back on that, and I keep telling myself that all of this shit in my life has happened to make me the person I am now. It may not have all been fun and games, but it's all part of who I am, the person I will be, and I'm good with that.
Actually, as I write this I'm flipping back and forth between this and the dating website, and HOLY SHIT! Mr. So-and-So from the children's daycare, yep, the one I was trying to talk a little shit to this weekend before I got cockblocked by lemon drops is one of my matches! Uh oh, but you can see who has viewed your profile. Can't hide that shit like you can on facebook. I guess I need to space out my trolling on this site, or I'll end up looking like some kind of crazy stalker.
I'm not initiating contact with any of these men. I'll just wait and see what comes to me. But if nothing else, this should make for some interesting blog posts.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
A Whole New Place For Me To Troll Around On
Ohhhhh, yes. I totally forgot that I signed up for match.com a few years ago for a work thing, and saved the email with the username and password. In fact, I signed up for hi5, tagged, meetmeinthebar, and a few others. Yes, bitches! I can look at the profiles now! Hahahahahaha! I am no longer restricted to craigslist. I am victorious!
So for my match.com search results for tonight, I've plugged in that I want to meet men between the ages of 32 - 42 (give or take five, right?) within 15 miles from my zip code; at least 5'6" because I'm a picky bitch and don't want to date a midget; I have screened out slender, heavyset and stocky builds, well, because what I like is the opposite of all three of those; and white guys only. Not that I have a problem dating other races, I'm just too fucking old to want to make a statement at this point in my life. Oh, and they have to be divorced. So here we go... hit the search button...
166 men out there meet my bare minimum criteria. I'll just comment on a few, because commenting on 166 mens profiles would annoy even me.
Guy #1 - 41 with salt-and-pepper hair. Um, not into guys that young that look that old. And he's a private investigator. Oh, fuck no.
Guy #2 - 34 and says his apartment smells of rich mahogany. Skinny, overgrown goatee (haven't those gone out yet?) and teeth are a little sketchy. But his friend in one of his pics is really cute.
Guy #3 - 39 and he's an attorney. Instant rule out. But I'll add that he's multilingual, looking for a slender woman (definitely not me, unless he's like most men and doesn't really grasp what women sizes are) and plays canasta. And he looks like David Hasselhoff.
Guy #4 - 39 and he looks like The Ex. Hell no. Can't do that again.
Guy #5 - 36, blond with an overgrown goatee. No kids and the highest level of education he picked for his dates was associates degree. Well, you've aimed too low for me.
Guy #6 - 33 and in the Coast Guard. Nuff said. Nope. Uniforms are hot, except for the janitorial kind and the Coast Guard. Sorry.
Guy #7 - 37 and he says he only wears Nautica. He looks gay.
Guy #8 - 33 and has this crazy overgrown hair thing growing down from his chin in one pic. Otherwise cute, but looking for women within a 75 mile radius of his rural county? What, have you gone through everyone else in your county and all the contiguous counties? Also looks like a redneck. He says life=high cost of living. Huh?
Guy #9 - 36 year old with a Jay Leno chin. He's checked every option available for his dates. I interpret this in one way - desperate. So no thanks to you or your chin, buddy.
Okay, I could go on and on, because I have 156 men left, but I'll space it out some. This could be fun!
So for my match.com search results for tonight, I've plugged in that I want to meet men between the ages of 32 - 42 (give or take five, right?) within 15 miles from my zip code; at least 5'6" because I'm a picky bitch and don't want to date a midget; I have screened out slender, heavyset and stocky builds, well, because what I like is the opposite of all three of those; and white guys only. Not that I have a problem dating other races, I'm just too fucking old to want to make a statement at this point in my life. Oh, and they have to be divorced. So here we go... hit the search button...
166 men out there meet my bare minimum criteria. I'll just comment on a few, because commenting on 166 mens profiles would annoy even me.
Guy #1 - 41 with salt-and-pepper hair. Um, not into guys that young that look that old. And he's a private investigator. Oh, fuck no.
Guy #2 - 34 and says his apartment smells of rich mahogany. Skinny, overgrown goatee (haven't those gone out yet?) and teeth are a little sketchy. But his friend in one of his pics is really cute.
Guy #3 - 39 and he's an attorney. Instant rule out. But I'll add that he's multilingual, looking for a slender woman (definitely not me, unless he's like most men and doesn't really grasp what women sizes are) and plays canasta. And he looks like David Hasselhoff.
Guy #4 - 39 and he looks like The Ex. Hell no. Can't do that again.
Guy #5 - 36, blond with an overgrown goatee. No kids and the highest level of education he picked for his dates was associates degree. Well, you've aimed too low for me.
Guy #6 - 33 and in the Coast Guard. Nuff said. Nope. Uniforms are hot, except for the janitorial kind and the Coast Guard. Sorry.
Guy #7 - 37 and he says he only wears Nautica. He looks gay.
Guy #8 - 33 and has this crazy overgrown hair thing growing down from his chin in one pic. Otherwise cute, but looking for women within a 75 mile radius of his rural county? What, have you gone through everyone else in your county and all the contiguous counties? Also looks like a redneck. He says life=high cost of living. Huh?
Guy #9 - 36 year old with a Jay Leno chin. He's checked every option available for his dates. I interpret this in one way - desperate. So no thanks to you or your chin, buddy.
Okay, I could go on and on, because I have 156 men left, but I'll space it out some. This could be fun!
Freakshow of the Day
Ahhhh, love gone bad.
Ladies.. This is my Xboyfriend [insert poor guy's name here].. He has a Little Baby Dick.. and He still thinks he is a stud!!! I thought i was stepping up, and being a better person by over looking his short cummings.!. Until i found out he was trying to find another Woman on the side..as he answered a friend of mines CL Personal post!! He confessed everything (unbeknowing to him!) and contintued to insit on meeting her and even sent her these pictures, stating he was quite the 'stud"! ..... I know it sounds too funny, but it hurts too!! So i decided to share.. or rather expose! Ladies Please Enjoy a Laugh on him and his 4 inch errection!! Ladies Lets stick together.. Call the little Dick, and laugh at his shortcummings and let him know everyone in town knows!!Have some fun, scare him abit.. We need to call out these perverted pindick cheaters.. and let our fellow Sisters know whats up! So PLEASE Ring him anytime, and don't be shy, no holding back ;) Feel free to mention his premature ejaculation issues..lol his cell star 67 blocks caller id [insert phone number here]. Thanks and have a wonderful evening! ps. Please FORWARD this email on to Everyone!
The four pictures attached to this posting were moderately embarrassing, especially because the guy was taking himself so seriously. A young Fabio, if you will. Honestly, is there anything more painful than this for the guy? It's not that painful to the girl, other than having to admit to her friends that she was dating someone who had a junior sized tool. Having to admit this is then immediately followed by, "But, he was so nice... " or "But, he could do other things really well..." or "But I didn't really mind. That much..."
The real problem here is the propensity of people to take nekkid pictures of themselves. And videos. When I was growing up, back in the day before digital cameras and stuff, the only nekkid pictures that would be taken would be with a Polaroid. And when you were digging through your parent's bedside table, being nosy, trying to see if they really did smoke pot late at night like the cool parents on Poltergeist, and saw one of those pictures... You immediately knew that your eyeballs had just melted into the back of your skull and life would never be the same.
That actually didn't happen to me, because we didn't have a Polaroid, but I knew other kids who did have that happen, and of course, it kind of served them right for snooping in their parents' shit. And let that be a lesson to all of us that if we can't handle what we might find, then don't go looking for it to begin with. As for the nekkid pics, I didn't understand it then, and I don't understand it now. I mean, why take nekkid pictures of each other if you're RIGHT THERE? What's the pic going to do that you can't when you're laying right next to that person in bed every day? Or every so often? I kind of understand if your guy or gal isn't around, like in the military or prison or something (is there much difference? Six to eight years, either way.) But really, why do this?
I've never allowed any such pictures or videos to be taken of me, and I never will. For one, you never know when you'll end up getting divorced. Or when you'll end up trying to hook up with your girlfriend's girlfriend on craigslist. And secondly, I'm so awesome that the sheer image of me will be burned into your brain forever and a picture won't do it justice. Or something like that, but that's really just me talking shit. Plus, my stretch marks will never, ever see the light of a camera.
Ladies.. This is my Xboyfriend [insert poor guy's name here].. He has a Little Baby Dick.. and He still thinks he is a stud!!! I thought i was stepping up, and being a better person by over looking his short cummings.!. Until i found out he was trying to find another Woman on the side..as he answered a friend of mines CL Personal post!! He confessed everything (unbeknowing to him!) and contintued to insit on meeting her and even sent her these pictures, stating he was quite the 'stud"! ..... I know it sounds too funny, but it hurts too!! So i decided to share.. or rather expose! Ladies Please Enjoy a Laugh on him and his 4 inch errection!! Ladies Lets stick together.. Call the little Dick, and laugh at his shortcummings and let him know everyone in town knows!!Have some fun, scare him abit.. We need to call out these perverted pindick cheaters.. and let our fellow Sisters know whats up! So PLEASE Ring him anytime, and don't be shy, no holding back ;) Feel free to mention his premature ejaculation issues..lol his cell star 67 blocks caller id [insert phone number here]. Thanks and have a wonderful evening! ps. Please FORWARD this email on to Everyone!
The four pictures attached to this posting were moderately embarrassing, especially because the guy was taking himself so seriously. A young Fabio, if you will. Honestly, is there anything more painful than this for the guy? It's not that painful to the girl, other than having to admit to her friends that she was dating someone who had a junior sized tool. Having to admit this is then immediately followed by, "But, he was so nice... " or "But, he could do other things really well..." or "But I didn't really mind. That much..."
The real problem here is the propensity of people to take nekkid pictures of themselves. And videos. When I was growing up, back in the day before digital cameras and stuff, the only nekkid pictures that would be taken would be with a Polaroid. And when you were digging through your parent's bedside table, being nosy, trying to see if they really did smoke pot late at night like the cool parents on Poltergeist, and saw one of those pictures... You immediately knew that your eyeballs had just melted into the back of your skull and life would never be the same.
That actually didn't happen to me, because we didn't have a Polaroid, but I knew other kids who did have that happen, and of course, it kind of served them right for snooping in their parents' shit. And let that be a lesson to all of us that if we can't handle what we might find, then don't go looking for it to begin with. As for the nekkid pics, I didn't understand it then, and I don't understand it now. I mean, why take nekkid pictures of each other if you're RIGHT THERE? What's the pic going to do that you can't when you're laying right next to that person in bed every day? Or every so often? I kind of understand if your guy or gal isn't around, like in the military or prison or something (is there much difference? Six to eight years, either way.) But really, why do this?
I've never allowed any such pictures or videos to be taken of me, and I never will. For one, you never know when you'll end up getting divorced. Or when you'll end up trying to hook up with your girlfriend's girlfriend on craigslist. And secondly, I'm so awesome that the sheer image of me will be burned into your brain forever and a picture won't do it justice. Or something like that, but that's really just me talking shit. Plus, my stretch marks will never, ever see the light of a camera.
The Other Collagen
Somehow tonight whilst trolling around on the internet, I stumbled across what has to be the most unbelievable thing I've seen all day on the internet. I spend a fair amount of my time trolling around out there, so I've seen some dumb shit. Like the Neo Nazi who posted a personal ad on craigslist tonight. He didn't specify that he was a Neo Nazi, but the four pics of men with the Heil pose kind of gave it away. Which makes me wonder if there's some kind of Neo Nazi compound up there in the Northern Neck somewhere. And really, I don't have the time to be writing this tonight, because I've got other shit I could be doing (not a man, unfortunately though, because I would.blow.this.off.for.some.dick) but I've discovered that if it's in my head, I need to go ahead and roll with it or I'll lose it. This has happened to me at work, especially, because I can't blog at work--good call, agency--when I'll be thinking about a great blog topic, I've got several paragraphs written in my head; it's profound, it's humorous, it's good, and then I actually have to do work and by the time I get home, do dinner, run to cheerleading practice, run back home, do hateful ass second grade homework, get the kids in bed, look at craigslist, blah blah blah, it's gone. Poof! Just gone. So I have to go with it right then.
Okay, so the thing tonight. The G-Shot. Yeah, a shot of collagen right in the g-spot. I am amazed, and even more amazed that I've looked at the g-spot article on wikipedia multiple times and haven't gotten the link to the G-Shot website. Step the game up, Wikipedia! Damn. I count on you for all of my incredibly accurate information, especially since I've decided to forego the news and stuff. I think this is supposed to be the female version of Viagra. Maybe. Basically, you get a shot of collagen in your g-spot, swells the g-spot up, which means that a man with junk the size of his pinkie finger could hit it, and bam! You are good to go. And, like the collagen that goes right in your other lips (up top), this lasts for about four months.
Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? I don't even want to know how much this costs, because this must be a complete waste of money. The only benefit to this is that when your g-spot gets all filled up with collagen, no one will notice that it can't smile right any more. Jesus Christ, women will pay for anything. Anything. Is nothing sacred anymore? Okay, from head to toe, here's all the stuff we'll do. A maintenance list, if you will.
1. Hair coloring - I can talk shit about this because I'm not there yet. Give me another few years, and hello, Clairol.
2. Wax/sugar/tweeze/thread/color the eyebrows - hurts like hell when you first start. Worst mistake a woman can do is shave them. Coloring the eyebrows is good if you are able to afford it and need to make sure it looks like the drapes match the carpet (which it usually doesn't). Don't get that stuff in your eyes or you might go blind.
3. Colored contact lenses - for when you want your eyes to match your purse.
4. Eyelash coloring - no shit, you can dye your eyelashes. A continuation of the drapes and carpet perpetration. Don't get that stuff in your eyes or you might go blind.
5. Cheek implants - so you can look like Joan Rivers.
6. Dental work - this is really too much to cover.
7. Chin implants - these go a long way to getting rid of that recessive chin a la the wife in American Gothic. You know, the famous painting of the guy holding the pitchfork? No, not the picture of Anton LaVey, the other one that you learned about in school. Maybe. Depending on where you went to school.
8. Other assorted facial plastic surgery - including botox and other stuff you can get shot into your face that prevents you from being able to have expressions.
8. Neck plastic surgery - I know there is some kind of technical word for this, but I'll just call it de-jowling. Removing the hanging skin that collects on women's necks as we get older.
9. Acrylic/Gel/Satin nails - okay, I do this. French manicure. And it looks hot.
10. Regular manicure stuff - I don't do this because I can rub lotion on my hands myself just fine, thanks.
11. Bingo wing removal - another technical term I don't know. This is the removal of the fat that hangs under a woman's arms and gets longer and hangier with age. Hence, bingo wings.
12. Breast implants and lifts - because life is better with a C or D cup, right? Because life is better with a C or D cup that doesn't hang, right? Actually not, because I have a nice set of C cups, down from D cups due to my weight loss, and my girls got big enough at one point in time that I was pretty self-conscious of them. Helloooo, my face is up here.
13. Rib removal - yes, take out an extra rib so that you will be even more anorexic looking. Everyone wants to be a size -4. Uh, not me and those women look nasty. God, eat a taco or ten.
14. Liposuction/tummy tuck - okay, I've actually thought about this one. Stretch marks are a bitch, and I know it's not just in my mind.
15. Pube removal - shave, wax, electrolysis. This means you will need to maintain it once a week or more, once a month, or never. Respectively.
16. Vajazzling - I think I've already discussed this to death. You get it.
17. The G-Shot - for women who are so uptight they can't get over that speed bump in their minds. Or they have husbands who don't know what the fuck they're doing. Or a little bit of both. Just to be a complete cunt (oh my god, did I use that word?) I try to seek these women out and engineer a conversation with them about how fabulously multi-orgasmic I am. Seriously. I do this. The conversation and the other thing.
18. Liposuction on the thighs - I think this is pretty self-explanatory.
19. Spider vein and varicose vein eradication - sounds kind of like termite control, doesn't it? I'm not there yet for this, either.
20. Other assorted hair removal on the legs, pits, back, whatever - same methods as previously mentioned. And Nair, because every woman should chemically melt hair off of their bodies at least once in their lives. Don't get that stuff in your eyes or you might go blind.
21. Pedicures - because I'm convinced that manicured toes look better than non-manicured toes propped up on someone's shoulders.
22. Other stuff that I don't know the real name of - getting your shit tightened up and claiming it's "bladder repair". Yeah, right. Nice way to cover it up for the insurance company. I had a girlfriend do this. Rest easy, men, they really can throw an extra stitch or four up in there. Oh yeah, and colon cleansing and stuff that makes you crap out most of the molecules of your body, including your brain.
23. Massages - a legitimate way to get fondled by a complete stranger and pay for it. I've done this, too. I was quite annoyed that he didn't look like Brad Pitt.
24. Spray tans - okay, I did this once. It was cheesy. You stand there bare-assed naked while some woman spray paints you orange with an airbrush gun, or whatever it's called.
25. Hair and eyelash extensions - oops, I forgot about them. What a waste of money.
26. Ass implants - so you can have a big old bubble butt. To save money, my suggestions would be to either eat a lot of fried chicken or hit the StairMaster. The first option seems like so much more fun.
I'm sure this isn't the whole list, but these are our options. Good grief. Plus makeup, hair care products, jewelry, clothing, shoes, purses, belts, key chains, birth control, monogram stickers for our cars, pole dancing lessons, personal trainers, yoga mats, diet pills, this list just goes on and on. It's no wonder men think we're so high maintenance. Because we are, and they love it.
Okay, so the thing tonight. The G-Shot. Yeah, a shot of collagen right in the g-spot. I am amazed, and even more amazed that I've looked at the g-spot article on wikipedia multiple times and haven't gotten the link to the G-Shot website. Step the game up, Wikipedia! Damn. I count on you for all of my incredibly accurate information, especially since I've decided to forego the news and stuff. I think this is supposed to be the female version of Viagra. Maybe. Basically, you get a shot of collagen in your g-spot, swells the g-spot up, which means that a man with junk the size of his pinkie finger could hit it, and bam! You are good to go. And, like the collagen that goes right in your other lips (up top), this lasts for about four months.
Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? I don't even want to know how much this costs, because this must be a complete waste of money. The only benefit to this is that when your g-spot gets all filled up with collagen, no one will notice that it can't smile right any more. Jesus Christ, women will pay for anything. Anything. Is nothing sacred anymore? Okay, from head to toe, here's all the stuff we'll do. A maintenance list, if you will.
1. Hair coloring - I can talk shit about this because I'm not there yet. Give me another few years, and hello, Clairol.
2. Wax/sugar/tweeze/thread/color the eyebrows - hurts like hell when you first start. Worst mistake a woman can do is shave them. Coloring the eyebrows is good if you are able to afford it and need to make sure it looks like the drapes match the carpet (which it usually doesn't). Don't get that stuff in your eyes or you might go blind.
3. Colored contact lenses - for when you want your eyes to match your purse.
4. Eyelash coloring - no shit, you can dye your eyelashes. A continuation of the drapes and carpet perpetration. Don't get that stuff in your eyes or you might go blind.
5. Cheek implants - so you can look like Joan Rivers.
6. Dental work - this is really too much to cover.
7. Chin implants - these go a long way to getting rid of that recessive chin a la the wife in American Gothic. You know, the famous painting of the guy holding the pitchfork? No, not the picture of Anton LaVey, the other one that you learned about in school. Maybe. Depending on where you went to school.
8. Other assorted facial plastic surgery - including botox and other stuff you can get shot into your face that prevents you from being able to have expressions.
8. Neck plastic surgery - I know there is some kind of technical word for this, but I'll just call it de-jowling. Removing the hanging skin that collects on women's necks as we get older.
9. Acrylic/Gel/Satin nails - okay, I do this. French manicure. And it looks hot.
10. Regular manicure stuff - I don't do this because I can rub lotion on my hands myself just fine, thanks.
11. Bingo wing removal - another technical term I don't know. This is the removal of the fat that hangs under a woman's arms and gets longer and hangier with age. Hence, bingo wings.
12. Breast implants and lifts - because life is better with a C or D cup, right? Because life is better with a C or D cup that doesn't hang, right? Actually not, because I have a nice set of C cups, down from D cups due to my weight loss, and my girls got big enough at one point in time that I was pretty self-conscious of them. Helloooo, my face is up here.
13. Rib removal - yes, take out an extra rib so that you will be even more anorexic looking. Everyone wants to be a size -4. Uh, not me and those women look nasty. God, eat a taco or ten.
14. Liposuction/tummy tuck - okay, I've actually thought about this one. Stretch marks are a bitch, and I know it's not just in my mind.
15. Pube removal - shave, wax, electrolysis. This means you will need to maintain it once a week or more, once a month, or never. Respectively.
16. Vajazzling - I think I've already discussed this to death. You get it.
17. The G-Shot - for women who are so uptight they can't get over that speed bump in their minds. Or they have husbands who don't know what the fuck they're doing. Or a little bit of both. Just to be a complete cunt (oh my god, did I use that word?) I try to seek these women out and engineer a conversation with them about how fabulously multi-orgasmic I am. Seriously. I do this. The conversation and the other thing.
18. Liposuction on the thighs - I think this is pretty self-explanatory.
19. Spider vein and varicose vein eradication - sounds kind of like termite control, doesn't it? I'm not there yet for this, either.
20. Other assorted hair removal on the legs, pits, back, whatever - same methods as previously mentioned. And Nair, because every woman should chemically melt hair off of their bodies at least once in their lives. Don't get that stuff in your eyes or you might go blind.
21. Pedicures - because I'm convinced that manicured toes look better than non-manicured toes propped up on someone's shoulders.
22. Other stuff that I don't know the real name of - getting your shit tightened up and claiming it's "bladder repair". Yeah, right. Nice way to cover it up for the insurance company. I had a girlfriend do this. Rest easy, men, they really can throw an extra stitch or four up in there. Oh yeah, and colon cleansing and stuff that makes you crap out most of the molecules of your body, including your brain.
23. Massages - a legitimate way to get fondled by a complete stranger and pay for it. I've done this, too. I was quite annoyed that he didn't look like Brad Pitt.
24. Spray tans - okay, I did this once. It was cheesy. You stand there bare-assed naked while some woman spray paints you orange with an airbrush gun, or whatever it's called.
25. Hair and eyelash extensions - oops, I forgot about them. What a waste of money.
26. Ass implants - so you can have a big old bubble butt. To save money, my suggestions would be to either eat a lot of fried chicken or hit the StairMaster. The first option seems like so much more fun.
I'm sure this isn't the whole list, but these are our options. Good grief. Plus makeup, hair care products, jewelry, clothing, shoes, purses, belts, key chains, birth control, monogram stickers for our cars, pole dancing lessons, personal trainers, yoga mats, diet pills, this list just goes on and on. It's no wonder men think we're so high maintenance. Because we are, and they love it.
Monday, October 11, 2010
If My Blog Was A Vag
I think my title is grammatically correct, but for some reason I keep thinking "If My Blog Were A Vag" sounds grammatically correct, too. Except blog is singular, and were is plural, and they shouldn't mix. At least, I don't think so. Not so sure about vag, because that's a pretty new word, but I think that the plural of vag would be vages? Like pubes? But blog is also one of those newfangled words that is singular, but could also kind of be plural, so it falls in that big gray singular-plural area or grammar that I can't navigate very well. I'm going with the singular-singular agreement, or whatever it's called.
I've been perusing the blog world for the past day or so, in between obsessively checking facebook and looking at junk on craigslist. Literally, junk. Man junk. So I haven't been able to look at that many blogs, but what I've noticed is that I'm missing pictures and some super-hip background or layout or something. I've also noticed that my posts seem to be longer than the average. By a lot. I also think my writing is better that a fair amount of what I've seen, and I'm fascinated by the bloggers who discuss in great detail how many hours it took them to write a paragraph, why they got rejected by their publisher, revisions, how much work this is, blah blah blah. I don't know, maybe I'm just lucky and this comes easy to me. That and the fact that I'm writing mainly for me, which takes the pressure off. If you like it and decide you might want to send me some pics of your junk, that's cool too. Men only though, because I only play for one team. Anyway, what I've also noticed, after doing a variety of stupid Google searches, is that I can't seem to find a blog quite like mine in regards to content. Woman gets married, goes through ugly separation, has to learn how to be a single parent, and balance all of that with work, family, children and an overwhelming need to get laid and discuss all of the above in somewhat (okay, very) raunchy detail. I mean, I know that other women are going through this shit. So why can't I find these women and their blogs? I need to network the blogosphere (I hate the word network because it's gay as shit), get my links listed on their stuff so I can get more readers. If you know of a blog similar to what I describe, post the link on here, please. Help a sister out.
Because I'm a woman, I have the right to change my mind with absolutely zero notice, and to do so with glee and complete disregard for everyone else involved. Divorce notwithstanding. This kind of changing of the mind is similar to when a woman is the passenger seat of a car, navigating (because we do that SO well), and exactly in the middle of executing a right turn, the woman will say, "No! I meant left! Turn left here!"
And of course, you can't. Because you're executing a right turn. If this happens and the driver is a male, bad words will immediately begin to stream forth from the driver's lips. If the driver is a female, it's cool. We'll just turn around and go back and make the correct turn, because we've all done this. Kind of like I changed my mind about a blog I posted sometime in August, early on about not giving my stuff away anymore. Of course, I had been swayed by someone else's morality. But just because it works for you doesn't mean it will work for me. I need to just be me, and be good with that.
What it comes down to is this: I'm starting to change my mind about my blog. I think I need to jazz it up some. It's too plain, too old-fashioned looking. If my blog was a vag, what I have right now would be some 1880's prairie vag, in a long cotton dress faded from too many washings and cooking over open fires on the wagon trail. This is my blog now. But I don't want to be that old 1880's prairie vag.
I want to be the new 2010 vag, the vag that's all decked out, de-pubed, beglittered and ready to par-tay. I need to vajazzle my blog. Seriously. So if you come by and check things out, it might look vastly different while I try different blog outfits on. All of the rest of this shit, just dressings, right? I mean, the heart and soul and spirit of the blog is the written word, and everything else just dresses and accessorizes it. I don't know when I'll get all of this shit done, quite honestly, and I don't know where I'll find all of these pics at, but I'll get it done. And then I'll ask, does this color make my blog look fat? Does this picture slenderize? Does this font make my hair look longer? Because that's what women do.
I've been perusing the blog world for the past day or so, in between obsessively checking facebook and looking at junk on craigslist. Literally, junk. Man junk. So I haven't been able to look at that many blogs, but what I've noticed is that I'm missing pictures and some super-hip background or layout or something. I've also noticed that my posts seem to be longer than the average. By a lot. I also think my writing is better that a fair amount of what I've seen, and I'm fascinated by the bloggers who discuss in great detail how many hours it took them to write a paragraph, why they got rejected by their publisher, revisions, how much work this is, blah blah blah. I don't know, maybe I'm just lucky and this comes easy to me. That and the fact that I'm writing mainly for me, which takes the pressure off. If you like it and decide you might want to send me some pics of your junk, that's cool too. Men only though, because I only play for one team. Anyway, what I've also noticed, after doing a variety of stupid Google searches, is that I can't seem to find a blog quite like mine in regards to content. Woman gets married, goes through ugly separation, has to learn how to be a single parent, and balance all of that with work, family, children and an overwhelming need to get laid and discuss all of the above in somewhat (okay, very) raunchy detail. I mean, I know that other women are going through this shit. So why can't I find these women and their blogs? I need to network the blogosphere (I hate the word network because it's gay as shit), get my links listed on their stuff so I can get more readers. If you know of a blog similar to what I describe, post the link on here, please. Help a sister out.
Because I'm a woman, I have the right to change my mind with absolutely zero notice, and to do so with glee and complete disregard for everyone else involved. Divorce notwithstanding. This kind of changing of the mind is similar to when a woman is the passenger seat of a car, navigating (because we do that SO well), and exactly in the middle of executing a right turn, the woman will say, "No! I meant left! Turn left here!"
And of course, you can't. Because you're executing a right turn. If this happens and the driver is a male, bad words will immediately begin to stream forth from the driver's lips. If the driver is a female, it's cool. We'll just turn around and go back and make the correct turn, because we've all done this. Kind of like I changed my mind about a blog I posted sometime in August, early on about not giving my stuff away anymore. Of course, I had been swayed by someone else's morality. But just because it works for you doesn't mean it will work for me. I need to just be me, and be good with that.
What it comes down to is this: I'm starting to change my mind about my blog. I think I need to jazz it up some. It's too plain, too old-fashioned looking. If my blog was a vag, what I have right now would be some 1880's prairie vag, in a long cotton dress faded from too many washings and cooking over open fires on the wagon trail. This is my blog now. But I don't want to be that old 1880's prairie vag.
Freakshow of the Day: Another Trifecta
Sometimes, there's nothing unusual on craigslist, just the normal tripe, which really isn't that interesting. And then other times... I hit the jackpot. Another trifecta tonight.
Looking for a females make friend with between 30 to 40 with some cultural heritage with the exception of American. A person who like and respect other cultures, bilingual, outdoor enthusiast and is bored like me. No stupid girls or spam please….
This post was titled "Females hipanic, indian, asian, cuban except american". Okay, if that's what this guy needs, then he should probably move to South American, the Caribbean, India, Asia, somewhere like that. In fact, he should join the military and they might just send him there for free. If he doesn't end up in one of those exotic locales, he'll certainly end up in Germany or the Middle East, where he can develop an affinity for Arabic women. But he's not going to do that, because that would probably require he do some work. Instead, he's just going to be lazy and put himself out there on craigslist and wait for the women to come to him. And really, he's not looking for a woman who is truly Hispanic, Indian, Asian or Cuban, he's looking for an American woman who is perpetrating to be something else because he's had such bad luck with American women and because he's just a typical lazy jackass American man who likes to drink beer and look at porn. Wait, this could be The Ex. Nah, can't be. He's too much of a close-minded asshole for this.
I'm SWM looking for a SWF that is looking for a great guy. I'm 5'9", dark blonde hair, blue eyes. I'm not the type of guy that is going to be all over you, and have to know where you are at all times. I'm not a control freak. I like my independence just as much as you do. I have my self together. I have my own vehicle, I have a job, and I have my own house. I have a life that I like living, and I'm just looking for someone to share it with. I can't tell you what type of person that I am because there is no way to define it. I have a very wide range of likes and dislikes. If you are interested in getting to know a really unique and very caring guy, then email me. I could go on and tell you how I treat women, but all they are are just words. I like to let my actions do the talking. What am I looking for? Someone who will care for me as much as I will them. Someone who is attractive in my eyes. Good conversation. The most physical things that can draw me in are beautiful eyes, and a smile that can light up a room. Please send a picture so that I know who I am addressing. I will send you back a picture in return. Also, please put the phrase "Just A Dream" in the subject line so that I know you are not a bot. Thanks. PS - Don't be afraid to email me if you have a child. I love kids.
And what we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a child molester. Seriously, what man without kids seeks out women with kids? The child molesting type, that's who. I was going to cut out all of the shit in the middle of the ad, but I thought that would detract from the whole package that is this child molester. Watch out, girls, this guy will be your best friend. He'll suck you right in, love you, love your kids, show up to do yard work for you, fix stuff around your house, will want to do weekend daytime dates with you so the kids can come along, will wine you and dine you, will offer to babysit, become your dream man, so on and so on. It's called grooming, and he's off to a good start.
Of course I saved the best for last.
Titled "How much do you like your dog??" The title says it all babe... I want to watch and play with you as you play with your best friend...Yes this is real, for those of you that know what I'm talking about get back to me?
First of all, I feel lucky to have stumbled across this one, because it's ripe for the flagging. I mean, are you fucking kidding me? A girl and her best friend? Ohhhhhhh myyyyyy godddddd, that is so disgusting. So this jackass wants a threesome with eight legs. Yeah, work that out in your head. I rock second grade math! I only have to use my fingers to subtract half the time! Hell yeah! I almost can't even believe this got posted, but then I wonder if it's some kind of joke posting from an afternoon of football drinking gone awry in the waning night that is Sunday. I feel like this might have originated in a dorm room and it's all about the laughs and seeing if you can get an action picture out of whatever sorry ass woman responds or seeing how far you can take this thing before you just get grossed out and insist to your dorm buddies and suite mates that chickening out on a girl and her dog isn't being a pussy, it's being grossed out and they just need to shut the fuck up or call her themselves.
Shit talking amongst friends is a bitch. It's more of a bitch than date-shit talking, because you can remove the date person from your life if that shit talking goes bad. It's harder to eliminate your friends from your life if the shit talking goes bad, because they just keep popping up randomly to remind you of your shit talking epic failure or to engage you in with a new topic (and that person would generally be me). Kind of like a buddy of mine at work who brings his girlfriend's lunch bag to work. It's one of those neoprene kind of lunch bags, except it's super cute and obviously designed with a girl in mind, considering the amount of pink on it and the fact that it looks like, well, a purse. The look that he gives me when I stroll into his office and see the lunch bag, and then make the inevitable comment, "I see you brought your purse to work today. Nice." And then I duck out of his office real quick-like, once the cursing has begun, and if I'm feeling extra cocky and full of caffeine, I'll make that one last comment. Because like all cocky shit talkers, I need to get the last word in. Getting the last word in is like shit talking crack, what you really talk shit for to begin with. So I might get the last word in, and if the response is either "Fuck you" or "Shut the fuck up", then I know I've won. No further conversation necessary. And I'll say, having lost my share of shit talking battles, having to say either of those phrases is physically and psychologically difficult, as it's the verbal equivalent of throwing in the towel. Either way, both parties are probably going to laugh, one sheepishly and the other confidently. There can only be one winner when it comes to shit talking. So regarding the guy who wants a bestiality-tinged threesome, either this is one sick dude, or this is some shit talking that's getting ready to go awry but he can't cry uncle yet.
Looking for a females make friend with between 30 to 40 with some cultural heritage with the exception of American. A person who like and respect other cultures, bilingual, outdoor enthusiast and is bored like me. No stupid girls or spam please….
This post was titled "Females hipanic, indian, asian, cuban except american". Okay, if that's what this guy needs, then he should probably move to South American, the Caribbean, India, Asia, somewhere like that. In fact, he should join the military and they might just send him there for free. If he doesn't end up in one of those exotic locales, he'll certainly end up in Germany or the Middle East, where he can develop an affinity for Arabic women. But he's not going to do that, because that would probably require he do some work. Instead, he's just going to be lazy and put himself out there on craigslist and wait for the women to come to him. And really, he's not looking for a woman who is truly Hispanic, Indian, Asian or Cuban, he's looking for an American woman who is perpetrating to be something else because he's had such bad luck with American women and because he's just a typical lazy jackass American man who likes to drink beer and look at porn. Wait, this could be The Ex. Nah, can't be. He's too much of a close-minded asshole for this.
I'm SWM looking for a SWF that is looking for a great guy. I'm 5'9", dark blonde hair, blue eyes. I'm not the type of guy that is going to be all over you, and have to know where you are at all times. I'm not a control freak. I like my independence just as much as you do. I have my self together. I have my own vehicle, I have a job, and I have my own house. I have a life that I like living, and I'm just looking for someone to share it with. I can't tell you what type of person that I am because there is no way to define it. I have a very wide range of likes and dislikes. If you are interested in getting to know a really unique and very caring guy, then email me. I could go on and tell you how I treat women, but all they are are just words. I like to let my actions do the talking. What am I looking for? Someone who will care for me as much as I will them. Someone who is attractive in my eyes. Good conversation. The most physical things that can draw me in are beautiful eyes, and a smile that can light up a room. Please send a picture so that I know who I am addressing. I will send you back a picture in return. Also, please put the phrase "Just A Dream" in the subject line so that I know you are not a bot. Thanks. PS - Don't be afraid to email me if you have a child. I love kids.
And what we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a child molester. Seriously, what man without kids seeks out women with kids? The child molesting type, that's who. I was going to cut out all of the shit in the middle of the ad, but I thought that would detract from the whole package that is this child molester. Watch out, girls, this guy will be your best friend. He'll suck you right in, love you, love your kids, show up to do yard work for you, fix stuff around your house, will want to do weekend daytime dates with you so the kids can come along, will wine you and dine you, will offer to babysit, become your dream man, so on and so on. It's called grooming, and he's off to a good start.
Of course I saved the best for last.
Titled "How much do you like your dog??" The title says it all babe... I want to watch and play with you as you play with your best friend...Yes this is real, for those of you that know what I'm talking about get back to me?
First of all, I feel lucky to have stumbled across this one, because it's ripe for the flagging. I mean, are you fucking kidding me? A girl and her best friend? Ohhhhhhh myyyyyy godddddd, that is so disgusting. So this jackass wants a threesome with eight legs. Yeah, work that out in your head. I rock second grade math! I only have to use my fingers to subtract half the time! Hell yeah! I almost can't even believe this got posted, but then I wonder if it's some kind of joke posting from an afternoon of football drinking gone awry in the waning night that is Sunday. I feel like this might have originated in a dorm room and it's all about the laughs and seeing if you can get an action picture out of whatever sorry ass woman responds or seeing how far you can take this thing before you just get grossed out and insist to your dorm buddies and suite mates that chickening out on a girl and her dog isn't being a pussy, it's being grossed out and they just need to shut the fuck up or call her themselves.
Shit talking amongst friends is a bitch. It's more of a bitch than date-shit talking, because you can remove the date person from your life if that shit talking goes bad. It's harder to eliminate your friends from your life if the shit talking goes bad, because they just keep popping up randomly to remind you of your shit talking epic failure or to engage you in with a new topic (and that person would generally be me). Kind of like a buddy of mine at work who brings his girlfriend's lunch bag to work. It's one of those neoprene kind of lunch bags, except it's super cute and obviously designed with a girl in mind, considering the amount of pink on it and the fact that it looks like, well, a purse. The look that he gives me when I stroll into his office and see the lunch bag, and then make the inevitable comment, "I see you brought your purse to work today. Nice." And then I duck out of his office real quick-like, once the cursing has begun, and if I'm feeling extra cocky and full of caffeine, I'll make that one last comment. Because like all cocky shit talkers, I need to get the last word in. Getting the last word in is like shit talking crack, what you really talk shit for to begin with. So I might get the last word in, and if the response is either "Fuck you" or "Shut the fuck up", then I know I've won. No further conversation necessary. And I'll say, having lost my share of shit talking battles, having to say either of those phrases is physically and psychologically difficult, as it's the verbal equivalent of throwing in the towel. Either way, both parties are probably going to laugh, one sheepishly and the other confidently. There can only be one winner when it comes to shit talking. So regarding the guy who wants a bestiality-tinged threesome, either this is one sick dude, or this is some shit talking that's getting ready to go awry but he can't cry uncle yet.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Cockblocked by Lemon Drops
I've survived my first night out drinking and clubbing in over a decade. I guess that cherry had re-grown and I popped it tonight. We started out at the bride's house, and I sucked down a rum and diet Pepsi, and realized I never knew how good that stuff tasted. Hello, ABC store tomorrow. And then, because we are all thirty something women living in the suburbs of somewhere, we piled into a Honda minivan and cruised off for the big city lights, blasting Lil Wayne and other dumb shit and took a side trip through Creighton Court because the driver's GPS is set to avoid highways or something. I knew where we were on the approach and my asshole immediately tightened up, because this is not the place to be rolling through on a Saturday night, much less when the economy is bad. I don't like going up in the projects during the daylight hours, and no, I'm not telling why I would have reason to be going up in the projects of Richmond. Everyone else in the van thought it was funny that we were cruising through the hood, and I'm just sitting quietly thinking, don't stop this fucking van for anything. Keep moving. Keep moving.
Pizza at this trendy little place downtown that does pizza stuff and martini specialities, like every other trendy little place, because martinis are back in. Mad Men and all. Personally, I don't like martinis. I don't like them wet, dry, clean, dirty, nothing. I hate olives, I think they are evil and I generally associate martinis with olives, and thus a martini will never cross through these lips. I'd rather get a nose full of fumunda than a nose full of olives. And that's bad. It's also the dumbest shit you'll probably read all day, too. I sucked down two more rum and cokes, because it was working for me and I didn't want to be the person to barf in the minivan by mixing up her liquor, beer and wine.
Finally, off to a bar. Since we've all grown up, it's Shockoe Slip instead of Shockoe Bottom. I had my share of the Bottom in my twenties, anyway, and I'm still a little sore about my car getting towed a few years ago whilst at a retirement luncheon at the way overpriced and super-way overrated pizza place down there. Okay, I'm really sore about that whole car towing incident, because the no-parking sign had blown over, and I was pretty fucking sure I had parked legally and should have insisted on going to court and fighting the whole thing. But I didn't. So we slide up in the trendy Irish bar, and I've never been to this place before. All I know about this place is that there used to be a salon right next door that did Brazilians. Brazilian waxing, that is. Not Brazilian people. Because I have a nose for knowing who does Brazilians, and I totally enjoyed the entire vajazzling conversation we had tonight and all the girlfriends whipping out their cell phones to Google vajazzling and then passing the phones around so that we could look at the pictures and discuss how that whole thing works.
I sucked down yet another rum and coke, but this one didn't taste that good and I know they used the bottom shelf shit. It was also not maintaining the pleasant buzz I had earlier when I was emailing a homeslice of mine to discuss conquesting and stuff. Since I was the only member of this party who smokes on the regular, and because this place is non-smoking (you suck!), I had to go out on the deck to get my puff on. I'm standing on the deck by myself, since I'm 36 + 1, I'm know I'm old enough to be able to go smoke outside without dragging a girlfriend along with me. I'll just stand there and smoke and look pretty, because I know I can do that.
I'm standing there, smoking, feeling my buzz slip away from me because of this shitty watered down rum I just overpaid for, and I see him. I saw him when he walked by me, but that can't be. No, it can't be. But wait, he looked at me. It is. Oh my god, that's my daycare owner's son. Holy shit. We waved and he walked over to give me a hug. Hmmm, this is really strange. The daycare owner, whom I also call the daycare Nazi, has a son who is about ten years younger than me. She's grooming him and his sister to take over both of her daycares, so this guy has been working as the administrator at our daycare since he graduated from college, and worked there before that on all of his summer breaks.
He lives in my neighborhood, which I discovered one evening when I was driving home and saw him out jogging. It must have been about 98 degrees outside, hot as fuck. As I approached him in my car, I didn't notice anything but this man's body. Men with tans who jog without shirts on, and have a six pack, yeah, I tend to notice them. I notice them even more when they glisten with sweat and pheromones. I slowed down ever so slightly, because I had to get my ogle on. I ogled, thought some really obscene thoughts, and then realized right after I passed him, oh my god, that's Mr. So-and-So [insert his first name here]. All of the daycare employees go by Miss So-and-So, and this guy is Mr. So-and-So. As soon as I realized it was Mr. So-and-So, I immediately felt like a complete lecher, well, just because I did. It just felt kind of wrong to think such raunchy thoughts about the daycare owner's son, even though he was well over the legal age. But then I saw him running again the next week, and the same raunchy thoughts entered into my brain, but I didn't feel quite so guilty that time.
So this is what I'm picturing when he's standing next to me talking to me out on the deck of this trendy Irish pub that's way overpriced and watered down. I'm thinking, I've seen you without your shirt on. Sweaty. We made small talk about daycare, my separation, his friends, my friends, and something was odd about this encounter. Obviously because it's not taking place in the daycare, but there's something more. It was loud on the deck, but not so loud that we needed to be standing that close to each other. There was something in the way he was looking at me, and something in the way I was looking at him. Could this be a little electricity flowing between us? Okay, that's weird, because he's much younger than me and I've seen some of his girlfriends. And they don't look like me. Usually, we like one type of person. Personally, I like men with darker hair. I don't know why; I just do. Every once in a while (before I got married, I should add), I'd been known to mix it up with a blond, but none of the blond men ever worked out, even though the strangeness of dating a tow-headed man was exotic enough to make it even more spicy. But I digress. So he and I are standing there on the deck, making small talk, and I'm trying to process what this is between us. I'm pretty sure there was some electricity there, because my buzz was wearing off and I don't think him standing this close to me and studying me that intensely was me having half a buzz at this point. And then I think, could this be the beginnings of a hook up? At this point I was doing some fast thinking of how I could take this from small talk to shit talk. Some woman came out onto the deck and motioned to him and he waved her off. Oh, that's strange. This could be. But it feels so dirty with him being the daycare owner's son and all. Dirty but good dirty. Dirty like I'm ready to grab hold of his spiky hair and do stuff.
But then, one of the girlfriends comes out and announces we've got shots, and we need to do them together for the bride. WHAT? Are you fucking kidding me? I looked at her, and this woman doesn't know me, so she doesn't know the look. The look of 'I do not want to walk away from this man to do some shot and lose this opportunity of what might just be a little electricity and a whole lot of me thinking dirty stuff'. I asked if she could just bring the shot out on the deck to me. Nope, we have to do the shot together. Goddammit and motherfucker. Are you kidding me? But this night isn't about me trying to get laid, it's about the bride saying goodbye to all of this foolishness that I've just entered into again. I looked at Mr. So-and-So, and just kind of shrugged, and said, "Lemon Drops. Gotta go." And that was that. We did the shot after we all toasted and did the drinking-girl scream, and that shot was watered down, too. I made a mental note to show up completely trashed the next time I frequent this bar, and just sip water, enjoy the scenery and talk a little shit. This is too much money to pay for watered down drinks and shots.
12:20am and we've made out way out of the trendy Irish pub to the club one block up, because we still need to drop it like it's hot and all. I'm completely sober at this point, but am secretly pleased that these 36 year old legs + 1 that hurt like hell from putting together a complete cheerleading dance routine two nights prior can still get low in a pair of four inch wedge heels. As for Mr. So-and-So, the electricity has been lost and I doubt very seriously I'll be able to recreate it on Monday morning at daycare when I drop the children off. Goddammit again.
The bride had fun and I'm glad I didn't get completely ripped and puke in the minivan. As for my hook up that wasn't, well, I guess being cockblocked by Lemon Drops happens. It was an almost kind of night.
Pizza at this trendy little place downtown that does pizza stuff and martini specialities, like every other trendy little place, because martinis are back in. Mad Men and all. Personally, I don't like martinis. I don't like them wet, dry, clean, dirty, nothing. I hate olives, I think they are evil and I generally associate martinis with olives, and thus a martini will never cross through these lips. I'd rather get a nose full of fumunda than a nose full of olives. And that's bad. It's also the dumbest shit you'll probably read all day, too. I sucked down two more rum and cokes, because it was working for me and I didn't want to be the person to barf in the minivan by mixing up her liquor, beer and wine.
Finally, off to a bar. Since we've all grown up, it's Shockoe Slip instead of Shockoe Bottom. I had my share of the Bottom in my twenties, anyway, and I'm still a little sore about my car getting towed a few years ago whilst at a retirement luncheon at the way overpriced and super-way overrated pizza place down there. Okay, I'm really sore about that whole car towing incident, because the no-parking sign had blown over, and I was pretty fucking sure I had parked legally and should have insisted on going to court and fighting the whole thing. But I didn't. So we slide up in the trendy Irish bar, and I've never been to this place before. All I know about this place is that there used to be a salon right next door that did Brazilians. Brazilian waxing, that is. Not Brazilian people. Because I have a nose for knowing who does Brazilians, and I totally enjoyed the entire vajazzling conversation we had tonight and all the girlfriends whipping out their cell phones to Google vajazzling and then passing the phones around so that we could look at the pictures and discuss how that whole thing works.
I sucked down yet another rum and coke, but this one didn't taste that good and I know they used the bottom shelf shit. It was also not maintaining the pleasant buzz I had earlier when I was emailing a homeslice of mine to discuss conquesting and stuff. Since I was the only member of this party who smokes on the regular, and because this place is non-smoking (you suck!), I had to go out on the deck to get my puff on. I'm standing on the deck by myself, since I'm 36 + 1, I'm know I'm old enough to be able to go smoke outside without dragging a girlfriend along with me. I'll just stand there and smoke and look pretty, because I know I can do that.
I'm standing there, smoking, feeling my buzz slip away from me because of this shitty watered down rum I just overpaid for, and I see him. I saw him when he walked by me, but that can't be. No, it can't be. But wait, he looked at me. It is. Oh my god, that's my daycare owner's son. Holy shit. We waved and he walked over to give me a hug. Hmmm, this is really strange. The daycare owner, whom I also call the daycare Nazi, has a son who is about ten years younger than me. She's grooming him and his sister to take over both of her daycares, so this guy has been working as the administrator at our daycare since he graduated from college, and worked there before that on all of his summer breaks.
He lives in my neighborhood, which I discovered one evening when I was driving home and saw him out jogging. It must have been about 98 degrees outside, hot as fuck. As I approached him in my car, I didn't notice anything but this man's body. Men with tans who jog without shirts on, and have a six pack, yeah, I tend to notice them. I notice them even more when they glisten with sweat and pheromones. I slowed down ever so slightly, because I had to get my ogle on. I ogled, thought some really obscene thoughts, and then realized right after I passed him, oh my god, that's Mr. So-and-So [insert his first name here]. All of the daycare employees go by Miss So-and-So, and this guy is Mr. So-and-So. As soon as I realized it was Mr. So-and-So, I immediately felt like a complete lecher, well, just because I did. It just felt kind of wrong to think such raunchy thoughts about the daycare owner's son, even though he was well over the legal age. But then I saw him running again the next week, and the same raunchy thoughts entered into my brain, but I didn't feel quite so guilty that time.
So this is what I'm picturing when he's standing next to me talking to me out on the deck of this trendy Irish pub that's way overpriced and watered down. I'm thinking, I've seen you without your shirt on. Sweaty. We made small talk about daycare, my separation, his friends, my friends, and something was odd about this encounter. Obviously because it's not taking place in the daycare, but there's something more. It was loud on the deck, but not so loud that we needed to be standing that close to each other. There was something in the way he was looking at me, and something in the way I was looking at him. Could this be a little electricity flowing between us? Okay, that's weird, because he's much younger than me and I've seen some of his girlfriends. And they don't look like me. Usually, we like one type of person. Personally, I like men with darker hair. I don't know why; I just do. Every once in a while (before I got married, I should add), I'd been known to mix it up with a blond, but none of the blond men ever worked out, even though the strangeness of dating a tow-headed man was exotic enough to make it even more spicy. But I digress. So he and I are standing there on the deck, making small talk, and I'm trying to process what this is between us. I'm pretty sure there was some electricity there, because my buzz was wearing off and I don't think him standing this close to me and studying me that intensely was me having half a buzz at this point. And then I think, could this be the beginnings of a hook up? At this point I was doing some fast thinking of how I could take this from small talk to shit talk. Some woman came out onto the deck and motioned to him and he waved her off. Oh, that's strange. This could be. But it feels so dirty with him being the daycare owner's son and all. Dirty but good dirty. Dirty like I'm ready to grab hold of his spiky hair and do stuff.
But then, one of the girlfriends comes out and announces we've got shots, and we need to do them together for the bride. WHAT? Are you fucking kidding me? I looked at her, and this woman doesn't know me, so she doesn't know the look. The look of 'I do not want to walk away from this man to do some shot and lose this opportunity of what might just be a little electricity and a whole lot of me thinking dirty stuff'. I asked if she could just bring the shot out on the deck to me. Nope, we have to do the shot together. Goddammit and motherfucker. Are you kidding me? But this night isn't about me trying to get laid, it's about the bride saying goodbye to all of this foolishness that I've just entered into again. I looked at Mr. So-and-So, and just kind of shrugged, and said, "Lemon Drops. Gotta go." And that was that. We did the shot after we all toasted and did the drinking-girl scream, and that shot was watered down, too. I made a mental note to show up completely trashed the next time I frequent this bar, and just sip water, enjoy the scenery and talk a little shit. This is too much money to pay for watered down drinks and shots.
12:20am and we've made out way out of the trendy Irish pub to the club one block up, because we still need to drop it like it's hot and all. I'm completely sober at this point, but am secretly pleased that these 36 year old legs + 1 that hurt like hell from putting together a complete cheerleading dance routine two nights prior can still get low in a pair of four inch wedge heels. As for Mr. So-and-So, the electricity has been lost and I doubt very seriously I'll be able to recreate it on Monday morning at daycare when I drop the children off. Goddammit again.
The bride had fun and I'm glad I didn't get completely ripped and puke in the minivan. As for my hook up that wasn't, well, I guess being cockblocked by Lemon Drops happens. It was an almost kind of night.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Going Out
Bachelorette party tonight. As stupid as this may sound, I'm really excited to be going out, although I have absolutely no idea what the night has in store for me. The woman who is getting married, I'm actually friends with the bridegroom more than the bride, but it's cool, I can roll with a bunch of women I don't know. No issues, no drama, just going along to have a good time and get.out.of.the.house. Because that's what it's all about, right?
I mentioned it in an earlier post, but I haven't been out in years. I've gone to respectable dinners and such with assorted girlfriends here and there, but I haven't been out-out in years. I don't even know if I've been out to an outing like this in the past decade. I haven't walked inside of a club since at least 1998 or 1999, except for my own bachelorette party, which wasn't the night of wild drinking that I hoped it would be because my body was repelling the booze with what was surely a warning sign of the marriage to come. Don't marry him, my body must have been telling me that night, but I didn't listen. Oh well, lesson learned. If my body cockblocks copious amounts of alcohol consumed in a relatively short period of time, I'll know there's a warning in it somewhere.
I ran over to cheap-but-hip big box clothing store today since I've lost some weight and I don't like the way any of my current clothes look for going out. They're okay for hanging out, going to work, slobbing around the house, etc. But not for going out. Imagine my pleasant shock when I picked out jeans two sizes smaller than my normal and they fit! Holy shit! And it wasn't a camel toe kind of fit, either. It was a good fit. But I didn't like the cut at the waist, because that gave me muffin top. Oh, gross. I think that muffin top might just be worse than camel toe. Why, why, why do all of these young girls not know this? Why is muffin top so prevalent nowadays that we have a term for it? God, just get a size larger. It's okay to not wear a size six. So anyway, I went back up a size, and muffin top disappeared, which meant I could get the tight and low cut top, because now I won't have this muffin top to worry about, and I can bring my girls out of hibernation. But still, I fit into a pair of jeans the size that I haven't seen for at least 10 years. Thank you, divorce. I was so excited I sat my ass right down on the bench in the changing room and quick posted a status update to my facebook page. Technology is awesome.
I need to run out and get a gift, probably a bottle of wine, because who doesn't love wine? She can drink with abandon and the bridegroom will thank me for getting his future intended drunk when I'm not there. So in the meanwhile, I'm washing clothes, cleaning up the house, doing chores here and there while I wait to get ready for my first night out in a decade. With no one to come home to give me the Spanish Inquisition. Oh, yeah. I'm ready for some few drinks, a little dancing, and hopefully some hot guy to do some mad shit talking with.
I mentioned it in an earlier post, but I haven't been out in years. I've gone to respectable dinners and such with assorted girlfriends here and there, but I haven't been out-out in years. I don't even know if I've been out to an outing like this in the past decade. I haven't walked inside of a club since at least 1998 or 1999, except for my own bachelorette party, which wasn't the night of wild drinking that I hoped it would be because my body was repelling the booze with what was surely a warning sign of the marriage to come. Don't marry him, my body must have been telling me that night, but I didn't listen. Oh well, lesson learned. If my body cockblocks copious amounts of alcohol consumed in a relatively short period of time, I'll know there's a warning in it somewhere.
I ran over to cheap-but-hip big box clothing store today since I've lost some weight and I don't like the way any of my current clothes look for going out. They're okay for hanging out, going to work, slobbing around the house, etc. But not for going out. Imagine my pleasant shock when I picked out jeans two sizes smaller than my normal and they fit! Holy shit! And it wasn't a camel toe kind of fit, either. It was a good fit. But I didn't like the cut at the waist, because that gave me muffin top. Oh, gross. I think that muffin top might just be worse than camel toe. Why, why, why do all of these young girls not know this? Why is muffin top so prevalent nowadays that we have a term for it? God, just get a size larger. It's okay to not wear a size six. So anyway, I went back up a size, and muffin top disappeared, which meant I could get the tight and low cut top, because now I won't have this muffin top to worry about, and I can bring my girls out of hibernation. But still, I fit into a pair of jeans the size that I haven't seen for at least 10 years. Thank you, divorce. I was so excited I sat my ass right down on the bench in the changing room and quick posted a status update to my facebook page. Technology is awesome.
I need to run out and get a gift, probably a bottle of wine, because who doesn't love wine? She can drink with abandon and the bridegroom will thank me for getting his future intended drunk when I'm not there. So in the meanwhile, I'm washing clothes, cleaning up the house, doing chores here and there while I wait to get ready for my first night out in a decade. With no one to come home to give me the Spanish Inquisition. Oh, yeah. I'm ready for some few drinks, a little dancing, and hopefully some hot guy to do some mad shit talking with.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Freakshow of the Day
Three separate posts on the same topic - yes, that got my craigslist-trolling attention.
1) tuesday nights aren't usually the most exciting, but as i was walking home with my two roommates, you definitely made this past one memorable. You ran up to us, completely naked, and proceeded to say hello and "shake it" because "your roommate dared you." you had a great body and you must have been freezing, but you didn't show it ;) thanks for shaking up our night.
2 - same night) I think I've had a couple of encounters with that guy... he ran up to my girlfriend on [insert street name here] a few months ago, completely naked, just jerking himself, it's kind of weird and creepy, he had a weird smile to whole time. He also claimed it was a "dare" from his roommates... a couple weeks later he reappeared, completely naked again, but was promptly chased away by this guido who lives in my building.
3 - the next night) Holy shit! totally know who you are talking about. White, bald guy with good physique. My roommate and I were just smoking a cigarette on our porch around 3AM, and this guy walks up. He says hi, wants us to take picutres with him naked and takes his camera out. "Oh man, my roommates won't believe this. I did it for a dare," he says. We laugh because it's the strangest thing, so we take pictures with him. I go inside to get my camera to take pictures of him too. As I went inside he asked my roommate to show her boobs. She did because he just seemed drunk and stupid, and she didn't really care. I come outside with my camera and he asked me, a guy, to "show my boobs". I showed him my nipples cause wtf...why my nipples, I don't know. So we all three take pictures with him, swapping cameras and shit and he leaves. Strangest night ever, but the funniest.
Well, trolling around in downtown Richmond is a flasher. This is funny, and yet, not-so-funny, because I know how people like this think. I'm pretty sure the flasher doesn't have a roommate, he just needs a cover story to make him not seem like a future rapist. I wonder if he was completely-completely naked, or was he wearing shoes? Personally, I wouldn't walk around naked in public, what with my stretch marks and stuff, but if I were to walk around naked in public, I wouldn't go traipsing barefoot through the city of Richmond. Good god, the stuff that's on those sidewalks. So whenever I see one of these posts or something, I always wonder, what kind of shoes was he wearing? And that's a weird thing to think, but bear with me. I've walked around my house naked (blinds closed, mind you) and I've done this barefoot and with shower shoes on, and I don't even know why I had the shower shoes on. Yeah, I looked stupid, but I was home alone, so it was fine. It feels really odd to walk around naked with shoes on, even if they're just shower shoes.
And here's where the third post doesn't make sense. and this guy walks up. He says hi, wants us to take picutres with him naked and takes his camera out. "Oh man, my roommates won't believe this. I did it for a dare," he says. So was he naked when he walked up, and if so, where did his camera come from? Or, did he strip right there on the sidewalk, which seems like it would be even more awkward than just walking up to someone completely naked with a camera slung on your wrist with a little wrist strap? Or maybe it was a cellphone camera and he was just carrying it. That makes a little more sense. I'll have to assume the two dimwits who agreed to this were drunk, because WHAT THE FUCK? Who other than two drunk dimwits would agree to this shit? And what dude would show his nips to another man?????? Unless he's gay, but this guy doesn't sound gay. So again, what the fuck?!?
I get the whole streaking concept, and I must admit, I find it to be hilarious. Just like mooning is hilarious. Which I've never, ever done. Flashing, on the other hand, not so hilarious, because of the other activity that's usually taking place in hand. Literally. Although you don't normally see these people bare assed nekkid, because that's hard to explain when the cops show up. Flash with some clothes on and you can at least claim you were just taking a leak or some other story that no one will believe.
I guess we can call this guy flashing-in-the-streak, which has a kind of English ring to it, kind of like Goring-on-Thames or Knuckle-of-Moose. I've come up with my own male variant of moose knuckle--giraffe tongue. They're both long, purple and warm. At least, we hope for long. Anway, I'll fix it up even better. Flash-the-Steak. There. Oops, that's a typo. But I guess he is flashing the steak. Flash-the-Streak. There, fixed.
Freakshow of the Day. Thank you, craigslist, for this never ending supply of stupidity and perversion.
1) tuesday nights aren't usually the most exciting, but as i was walking home with my two roommates, you definitely made this past one memorable. You ran up to us, completely naked, and proceeded to say hello and "shake it" because "your roommate dared you." you had a great body and you must have been freezing, but you didn't show it ;) thanks for shaking up our night.
2 - same night) I think I've had a couple of encounters with that guy... he ran up to my girlfriend on [insert street name here] a few months ago, completely naked, just jerking himself, it's kind of weird and creepy, he had a weird smile to whole time. He also claimed it was a "dare" from his roommates... a couple weeks later he reappeared, completely naked again, but was promptly chased away by this guido who lives in my building.
3 - the next night) Holy shit! totally know who you are talking about. White, bald guy with good physique. My roommate and I were just smoking a cigarette on our porch around 3AM, and this guy walks up. He says hi, wants us to take picutres with him naked and takes his camera out. "Oh man, my roommates won't believe this. I did it for a dare," he says. We laugh because it's the strangest thing, so we take pictures with him. I go inside to get my camera to take pictures of him too. As I went inside he asked my roommate to show her boobs. She did because he just seemed drunk and stupid, and she didn't really care. I come outside with my camera and he asked me, a guy, to "show my boobs". I showed him my nipples cause wtf...why my nipples, I don't know. So we all three take pictures with him, swapping cameras and shit and he leaves. Strangest night ever, but the funniest.
Well, trolling around in downtown Richmond is a flasher. This is funny, and yet, not-so-funny, because I know how people like this think. I'm pretty sure the flasher doesn't have a roommate, he just needs a cover story to make him not seem like a future rapist. I wonder if he was completely-completely naked, or was he wearing shoes? Personally, I wouldn't walk around naked in public, what with my stretch marks and stuff, but if I were to walk around naked in public, I wouldn't go traipsing barefoot through the city of Richmond. Good god, the stuff that's on those sidewalks. So whenever I see one of these posts or something, I always wonder, what kind of shoes was he wearing? And that's a weird thing to think, but bear with me. I've walked around my house naked (blinds closed, mind you) and I've done this barefoot and with shower shoes on, and I don't even know why I had the shower shoes on. Yeah, I looked stupid, but I was home alone, so it was fine. It feels really odd to walk around naked with shoes on, even if they're just shower shoes.
And here's where the third post doesn't make sense. and this guy walks up. He says hi, wants us to take picutres with him naked and takes his camera out. "Oh man, my roommates won't believe this. I did it for a dare," he says. So was he naked when he walked up, and if so, where did his camera come from? Or, did he strip right there on the sidewalk, which seems like it would be even more awkward than just walking up to someone completely naked with a camera slung on your wrist with a little wrist strap? Or maybe it was a cellphone camera and he was just carrying it. That makes a little more sense. I'll have to assume the two dimwits who agreed to this were drunk, because WHAT THE FUCK? Who other than two drunk dimwits would agree to this shit? And what dude would show his nips to another man?????? Unless he's gay, but this guy doesn't sound gay. So again, what the fuck?!?
I get the whole streaking concept, and I must admit, I find it to be hilarious. Just like mooning is hilarious. Which I've never, ever done. Flashing, on the other hand, not so hilarious, because of the other activity that's usually taking place in hand. Literally. Although you don't normally see these people bare assed nekkid, because that's hard to explain when the cops show up. Flash with some clothes on and you can at least claim you were just taking a leak or some other story that no one will believe.
I guess we can call this guy flashing-in-the-streak, which has a kind of English ring to it, kind of like Goring-on-Thames or Knuckle-of-Moose. I've come up with my own male variant of moose knuckle--giraffe tongue. They're both long, purple and warm. At least, we hope for long. Anway, I'll fix it up even better. Flash-the-Steak. There. Oops, that's a typo. But I guess he is flashing the steak. Flash-the-Streak. There, fixed.
Freakshow of the Day. Thank you, craigslist, for this never ending supply of stupidity and perversion.
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