That Girl has had several busy weeks in a row and finally decided that it was time to take a mini road trip to see friends and remember what it's like to love the shit out of life for a weekend. So, like the ol' Cheers adage goes, I wanted to "go where everybody knows your name". So I did. And it was awesome. You can't plan weekends like this one. I spent part of the day with the ones I love the most, playing with the kids, shopping with my sister and enjoying a bit of normalcy.
Come sundown though, it was time for beers and debauchery. Lots and lots of debauchery. I wanted a night that wouldn't soon be forgotten and that's exactly what I got. Starting at one bar, I was greeted by friends I hadn't seen in months with comments about how good I look. It was a giant step up from a bar with Big Mac. Got my beers and my girls, what more do you need, right?
The night got interesting as we hopped from bar to bar. Finally settling in our favorite watering hole, I find myself sitting next to an old friend from the summer of Special K. You see, that summer was an experiment with ketamine and a wide range of hallucinogenics and coed softball. Dub as I will refer to him, was a much welcome blast from the past! As we reminisced and caught up, Dub, who was double fisting it, knocked me on my ass and took my breath away.
"What are you doing these days, Dub?"
"I'm leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow," he said.
"Really? Wow. That's too bad."
"You should have sex with me. I mean, I'm leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow. You could be the last woman I ever have sex with. It's, like, your patriotic duty! It would be un-American of you NOT to have sex with me! Are you an American?!"
I laughed so hard, saluted him, said God Bless America, spread my legs under the booth and said, "Well, in that case, climb on in!" It had to be one of the best pick up lines ever. And it was definitely classic Dub.
As the bar closed, we found ourselves in the parking lot trying to figure out plans for the rest of the evening. Dub invited us back to his friend Skippy's house for more beers. We kindly obliged. As the hours moved on, the moon moved past and the beers dwindled, our laughs became louder, the jokes better and the bond stronger. These are the nights that I miss living in the city. In that small town, there's always a porch to sit on in the dark and watch the stars crawl slowly by as the trains whistle in the distance.
Sitting at Skippy's, I came out of the bathroom to find TJ, another flake from the summer of Special K, sitting in my lawn chair. After hugs and high fives and a few quick quips from the past, we continued our socialization and antics.
"Hey, come here for a second," TJ said, not moving from his lawn chair.
I walked over and bent down next to his chair as he motioned me closer, as if he had a secret to tell.
"Can I just see, like, one of your nipples?" he asked with a straight face, cigarette dangling from his lips.
"No! I am a classy lady!" I quipped.
"I know you are, that's why I asked discreetly and I just meant me, not everybody else." TJ's logic was flawless. He had me there. But Skippy had heard. Skippy announced it, told TJ to leave me alone and we all had a good laugh, a hearty laugh, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt.
TJ's antics, Dub's commentary and the additional beers culminated in even more pick up lines. My heart was truly won over when Skippy asked if he could "bruise my bladder later". I laughed so hard, I nearly peed my pants!
Slowly the crowd faded away. One by one, taxis arrived, couches were found, short drives were made and I found myself sitting on the stoop with Skippy enjoying the last of my now luke warm beer. We talked about music, being middle children, our siblings, and what seems like a million more single sentence conversations. Before I knew it, the sky began to turn a deep turquoise-lavender. A train rolled by a few blocks away blowing it's whistle loud enough to break our speech and stop our lips. It was in that moment that we found ourselves in one of those awkward moments of direct eye contact, the kind where you can feel the kinetic connection, the kind where you feel like your touching but you're not... the kind where your breaths synchronize themselves but your heart beats take on a mind of their own.
Skippy leaned in, gently grabbed my chin, and kissed me. The next moments were lost until the train whistle stopped and was replaced by birds chirping. I opened my eyes and it was light. The sun was coming up. That morning, I laid myself softly down in Skippy's bed. We continued to make out for what seemed like hours. As I traced the tattoo on his right bicep with my finger, I felt a roughness. I could tell it was a scar.
"What story does this tell?" I asked him quietly.
"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked.
"I want to know it all." I replied.
"Have you ever heard of the USS Cole?" he said quietly. I could feel his heart racing through his chest as it laid on top of mine.
At 20 years old, Skippy was serving in the US Navy when the ship was bombed. He still has shrapnel in his arm and memories, more like nightmares, burned forever in his brain.
Skippy kissed me again and again. It was that kind of making out that makes your whole body tingle, that removes every stress, every insecurity, and fills every bit of time and space.
Skippy called last night to see if I made it home okay, to see when I was coming back and to tell me that he missed my lips. I know, that this night will never happen again, but the memory of it all is enough to keep me smiling for at least the next few days. Besides, who needs a hamburger when you've got peanut butter? I'll take the Skippy's of the world over the Big Macs any day.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Want some fries with that shake?
That Girl had an incredibly surreal experience this past week as she went on her first blind date with someone that she met from the internet. Yes, apparently, wish and you shall receive. As I stated in my last blog posting, I was going to give myself 83 more days to go on a date. Well, only a few days later, I found myself having a drink with the Big Mac. You'll find out why I call him that momentarily.
First, allow me to regress and tell you what had been going on prior to this encounter. See, in the month that I've been on this dating site, I spent a few nights on the phone with W. telling her "bedtime stories" which consisted of me describing the photos of the creepers and crazies and then deciding that a few were cute enough to send a virtual wink to. Okay, I'm not gonna lie... I winked the shit out of the internet that night just to see the responses that I would get. I didn't get much but I did get one... Big Mac.
Big Mac sent me an email that was incredibly well written, formatted properly, and was quite interesting! I might add that this email arrived around the same time that I encountered "Rope Fiend" (see previous posts) so receiving this email left me both skeptical and a little anxious. I responded to his email by answering all of his questions about me and inquiring about the attributes and interests that he had shared with me. After a few emails back and forth, Big Mac asked for my phone number and since technology allows me to block creepers... I said, what the hell and emailed him back with my number. After all, you only live once and lately, I haven't been really living life as much as I've been watching it happen around me.
The night that he called me, I let it go to voice mail. I wanted to see if his voice sounded like Mike Tyson on helium before being caught off guard. His voice was deep, not quite like Marvin Gaye's but soothing. His words were well enunciated, crisp and relaxed all at the same time. I called him back a little while later and we talked for over an hour. We talked about our jobs, touched lightly on past relationships as he openly divulged that he is divorced (married his high school sweetheart and best friend of 20 years... decided they were better friends than lovers... it was really quite a touching story), and joked about politics and current events.
"So what it is that you do?" I asked.
"I'll give you a hint, I work for the world's largest corporation and you drove by 5 of them on the way to work today."
"Walmart?" I asked... slightly hesitant.
"No. You stink at the guessing game."
"I'm brain dead... it's 9:30pm and I've been at work on the phone all day."
"I work for McDonald's."
cricket. cricket. cricket.
"Oh, what do you do there?" I asked forcing a bit of intrigue into my words.
"Drive-thru in the morning and fries in the afternoon."
cricket. cricket. fuck me. cricket.
"I'm kidding!" he said. "I'm in charge of blah blah blah. I have a very important blah blah blah." You can fill in the rest.
I sighed with relief as he spoke about budget projections and all of this other uninteresting business bullshit. But I was still interested... he was interesting.
He asked about my plans for the weekend. I actually had some and they were family obligations so I would feel bad standing them up for a blind date. I was leaving on vacation for a week and he said he'd call when I got back. Oh, and if you didn't figure it out by now asshats, I call him Big Mac because he works at McDonald's.
On countdown day 81, I had a date to meet for drinks at a bar within walking distance to my apartment. I got up early, made sure I looked super cute but not like I was trying. I wore an outfit I've worn before, did my hair the same way I do it all the time and made sure to roll on a little extra deodorant. I made sure I had some cash in my wallet (just in case I needed to take a cab... those heels weren't meant for walking) and headed out to my day. I was running late to the date and texted him as I was leaving work. He said he would get a table.
I'm not going to lie... I was nervous. I haven't had a date like this, with someone I didn't really know, where I hadn't initiated any part of it, since 2001. Seriously.
As I approached the table, I could see he was on his blackberry. He greeted me with... a total stink eye.
"I'll be right with you," he said as he gazed his eyes slowly up and down over me... eyebrows raised, mouth slightly dropped open... as if I had the plague on my face or something.
"It's nice to meet you." I said. He didn't reply.
The next 10 minutes were filled with awkward and mundane conversation regarding my day at work, his day at work. He told me about a project that he had due the next day. I could see through his excuse like Paris Hilton's panties. We had already discussed everything we were talking about... his love of golf, his job, his birthday being right around the corner, his job, his job, oh did I mention we talked about his job?! This was getting painful. The waitress came by to ask about appetizers, he told her we weren't eating. Bitch wanted some bruschetta but apparently, I wasn't hungry.
"So you were at the gym for 2 hours last night?" he asked in utter disbelief.
"Yes, I'm usually at the gym for about an hour and a half 4 days a week," I said.
He looked me up and down, shrugged, huffed and said, "Really." again. Okay, about this time, I wanted to rip the earrings, all 4 of them, out of his ears, but I was really trying to just see what happened. I wasn't going to be rude, it's not fucking classy.
"So you don't eat McDonald's?!" he asked in disbelief again... we've already talked about this. I explained that I try to eat pretty clean, I already have a potty mouth, no need to put a bunch of shit in it. For the next 30 minutes I sat through a sales pitch. 101 reasons why I should eat McDonald's including receiving the profit margins and calorie count of their most popular items.
"Oh, I brought you something," he said as he dug in his pocket. He pulled out 2 cards and handed them to me. I looked at his hands. I always find men's hands to be interesting. You can tell if they are a worker and somehow I think you can see comfort in them. You can see strength. His fingers were short and stubby, his palms ridiculously small. All I could think of was that Burger King commercial and "MY TINY HANDS!" I made sure my mouth was closed and looked up to make sure he hadn't seen my reaction as he handed me what he had pulled from his pocket. I stared in shock at the items in my hands: free coupons for a smoothie and a frappe from none other than McDonald's. fuck me. fuck me. you've got to be fucking kidding me. fuck me.
The waitress came and asked if we would like another round. As much as I was in desperate need of another glass of wine, he again answered for both of us, replying that we are fine and he's going to need to go soon to finish that presentation he has in the morning. Thank dog! I can see the finish line!
The waitress inquired about the check and whether it was together or separate. I can still hear the utterance ringing in my ears like church bell's on a Sunday morning...
"Ummmmm...." he said.
I looked at the waitress who appeared to be in shock and casually replied, "Whatever is easiest for you." She returned with split checks at which I left mine sitting on the table long enough to realize that this asshole was not going to pay for my wine. Just to reiterate... he asked me out and I ended up paying for my own drink. Big Mac is a big douche.
The date began at 6pm and I was home by 7:05pm. I immediately walked to my fridge, pulled out a bottle of wine, popped the cork and opened the cabinet to get a glass. As I was staring at the glass, I realized that I had already pressed the top of the bottle to my lips and proceeded to tip it! That night, I finished the whole bottle, with each sip becoming more appalled at Big Macs behavior. As I slurred myself to sleep that night, I had visions of McChicken's squawking after me.
I woke up in the morning with my eyes nearly swollen shut (it happens with too much wine). Looking at the hot mess of a reflection in the mirror, I told myself that Big Mac could take his free smoothie coupons and suck it.
First, allow me to regress and tell you what had been going on prior to this encounter. See, in the month that I've been on this dating site, I spent a few nights on the phone with W. telling her "bedtime stories" which consisted of me describing the photos of the creepers and crazies and then deciding that a few were cute enough to send a virtual wink to. Okay, I'm not gonna lie... I winked the shit out of the internet that night just to see the responses that I would get. I didn't get much but I did get one... Big Mac.
Big Mac sent me an email that was incredibly well written, formatted properly, and was quite interesting! I might add that this email arrived around the same time that I encountered "Rope Fiend" (see previous posts) so receiving this email left me both skeptical and a little anxious. I responded to his email by answering all of his questions about me and inquiring about the attributes and interests that he had shared with me. After a few emails back and forth, Big Mac asked for my phone number and since technology allows me to block creepers... I said, what the hell and emailed him back with my number. After all, you only live once and lately, I haven't been really living life as much as I've been watching it happen around me.
The night that he called me, I let it go to voice mail. I wanted to see if his voice sounded like Mike Tyson on helium before being caught off guard. His voice was deep, not quite like Marvin Gaye's but soothing. His words were well enunciated, crisp and relaxed all at the same time. I called him back a little while later and we talked for over an hour. We talked about our jobs, touched lightly on past relationships as he openly divulged that he is divorced (married his high school sweetheart and best friend of 20 years... decided they were better friends than lovers... it was really quite a touching story), and joked about politics and current events.
"So what it is that you do?" I asked.
"I'll give you a hint, I work for the world's largest corporation and you drove by 5 of them on the way to work today."
"Walmart?" I asked... slightly hesitant.
"No. You stink at the guessing game."
"I'm brain dead... it's 9:30pm and I've been at work on the phone all day."
"I work for McDonald's."
cricket. cricket. cricket.
"Oh, what do you do there?" I asked forcing a bit of intrigue into my words.
"Drive-thru in the morning and fries in the afternoon."
cricket. cricket. fuck me. cricket.
"I'm kidding!" he said. "I'm in charge of blah blah blah. I have a very important blah blah blah." You can fill in the rest.
I sighed with relief as he spoke about budget projections and all of this other uninteresting business bullshit. But I was still interested... he was interesting.
He asked about my plans for the weekend. I actually had some and they were family obligations so I would feel bad standing them up for a blind date. I was leaving on vacation for a week and he said he'd call when I got back. Oh, and if you didn't figure it out by now asshats, I call him Big Mac because he works at McDonald's.
On countdown day 81, I had a date to meet for drinks at a bar within walking distance to my apartment. I got up early, made sure I looked super cute but not like I was trying. I wore an outfit I've worn before, did my hair the same way I do it all the time and made sure to roll on a little extra deodorant. I made sure I had some cash in my wallet (just in case I needed to take a cab... those heels weren't meant for walking) and headed out to my day. I was running late to the date and texted him as I was leaving work. He said he would get a table.
I'm not going to lie... I was nervous. I haven't had a date like this, with someone I didn't really know, where I hadn't initiated any part of it, since 2001. Seriously.
As I approached the table, I could see he was on his blackberry. He greeted me with... a total stink eye.
"I'll be right with you," he said as he gazed his eyes slowly up and down over me... eyebrows raised, mouth slightly dropped open... as if I had the plague on my face or something.
"It's nice to meet you." I said. He didn't reply.
The next 10 minutes were filled with awkward and mundane conversation regarding my day at work, his day at work. He told me about a project that he had due the next day. I could see through his excuse like Paris Hilton's panties. We had already discussed everything we were talking about... his love of golf, his job, his birthday being right around the corner, his job, his job, oh did I mention we talked about his job?! This was getting painful. The waitress came by to ask about appetizers, he told her we weren't eating. Bitch wanted some bruschetta but apparently, I wasn't hungry.
"So you were at the gym for 2 hours last night?" he asked in utter disbelief.
"Yes, I'm usually at the gym for about an hour and a half 4 days a week," I said.
He looked me up and down, shrugged, huffed and said, "Really." again. Okay, about this time, I wanted to rip the earrings, all 4 of them, out of his ears, but I was really trying to just see what happened. I wasn't going to be rude, it's not fucking classy.
"So you don't eat McDonald's?!" he asked in disbelief again... we've already talked about this. I explained that I try to eat pretty clean, I already have a potty mouth, no need to put a bunch of shit in it. For the next 30 minutes I sat through a sales pitch. 101 reasons why I should eat McDonald's including receiving the profit margins and calorie count of their most popular items.
"Oh, I brought you something," he said as he dug in his pocket. He pulled out 2 cards and handed them to me. I looked at his hands. I always find men's hands to be interesting. You can tell if they are a worker and somehow I think you can see comfort in them. You can see strength. His fingers were short and stubby, his palms ridiculously small. All I could think of was that Burger King commercial and "MY TINY HANDS!" I made sure my mouth was closed and looked up to make sure he hadn't seen my reaction as he handed me what he had pulled from his pocket. I stared in shock at the items in my hands: free coupons for a smoothie and a frappe from none other than McDonald's. fuck me. fuck me. you've got to be fucking kidding me. fuck me.
The waitress came and asked if we would like another round. As much as I was in desperate need of another glass of wine, he again answered for both of us, replying that we are fine and he's going to need to go soon to finish that presentation he has in the morning. Thank dog! I can see the finish line!
The waitress inquired about the check and whether it was together or separate. I can still hear the utterance ringing in my ears like church bell's on a Sunday morning...
"Ummmmm...." he said.
I looked at the waitress who appeared to be in shock and casually replied, "Whatever is easiest for you." She returned with split checks at which I left mine sitting on the table long enough to realize that this asshole was not going to pay for my wine. Just to reiterate... he asked me out and I ended up paying for my own drink. Big Mac is a big douche.
The date began at 6pm and I was home by 7:05pm. I immediately walked to my fridge, pulled out a bottle of wine, popped the cork and opened the cabinet to get a glass. As I was staring at the glass, I realized that I had already pressed the top of the bottle to my lips and proceeded to tip it! That night, I finished the whole bottle, with each sip becoming more appalled at Big Macs behavior. As I slurred myself to sleep that night, I had visions of McChicken's squawking after me.
I woke up in the morning with my eyes nearly swollen shut (it happens with too much wine). Looking at the hot mess of a reflection in the mirror, I told myself that Big Mac could take his free smoothie coupons and suck it.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
83 days.
83 day. 2014 hours. 120,841 minutes. The amount of time until I turn 30. My life will be at least 1/3 of the way over.
I can't even begin to reflect on the last 29 years of my life as it seems as if only the last 5 have meant anything. I've grown so much as a person, changed so much physically, mentally, emotionally... sexually. I keep hearing that 30 is the new 20 and that scares the hell out of me. Pretty sure I should have died during my 20's a few times. And lord knows, I can't party like I used to. I now have to plan two days of recovery for every 1 night of party. My days begin by popping vitamins and mixing protein shakes. My evenings end by applying moisturizer and wrinkle cream. I spent 2 days on the beach... and 2 weeks checking for moles that looked kinda funny.
In the last year, I have had 1 date. Yep, one. And it wasn't even that great of a date. Still trying to shake that bucket of crazy out of my past but he keeps popping up. You may remember A. I'm not even sure that I know how to do this whole "dating" thing. I remember my 8th grade homecoming dance. It was the first time I was going out with a boy but I didn't really think of him as a boy. I had known him since I was 6 years old. We'd been classmates for years. I bought this red glitter shift dress with matching red lipstick. My mom let me wear her gold stud earrings and bought me some pretty black shoes and shiny pantyhose (to suck in all my kid fat and so that I could sound like I was a walking zipper as my pubescent thighs rubbed together with every step that I took). As we were leaving my house that night, I remember my mom looking at me and saying, "Let him hold the door for you." I didn't get it at the time. I didn't get it later than night when he continuously tried to open every door for me but I just kept barging through them like I did every day.
"Let him hold the door for you."
It still didn't really make sense until this year when I realized that I've spent the last 12 years of my life working so hard to do things on my own and my way that I've never let anybody hold the door for me. My mentality has always been that at the end of the day, nobody is looking out for me but me.
83 days.
I'm giving myself 83 days to lose 25 more pounds and to have at least one more date where I let someone hold the door for me. I've been doing this online dating thing for nearly a month now and it's just getting depressing at this point. I've had one nice conversation with one nice guy who asked me to have drinks but hasn't contacted me since. My inbox is filling up with creepers and crazies and nothing promising.
83 days and then what? Just another day I suppose. Or maybe the start of a whole new life. I suppose I'll let the stars decide.
I can't even begin to reflect on the last 29 years of my life as it seems as if only the last 5 have meant anything. I've grown so much as a person, changed so much physically, mentally, emotionally... sexually. I keep hearing that 30 is the new 20 and that scares the hell out of me. Pretty sure I should have died during my 20's a few times. And lord knows, I can't party like I used to. I now have to plan two days of recovery for every 1 night of party. My days begin by popping vitamins and mixing protein shakes. My evenings end by applying moisturizer and wrinkle cream. I spent 2 days on the beach... and 2 weeks checking for moles that looked kinda funny.
In the last year, I have had 1 date. Yep, one. And it wasn't even that great of a date. Still trying to shake that bucket of crazy out of my past but he keeps popping up. You may remember A. I'm not even sure that I know how to do this whole "dating" thing. I remember my 8th grade homecoming dance. It was the first time I was going out with a boy but I didn't really think of him as a boy. I had known him since I was 6 years old. We'd been classmates for years. I bought this red glitter shift dress with matching red lipstick. My mom let me wear her gold stud earrings and bought me some pretty black shoes and shiny pantyhose (to suck in all my kid fat and so that I could sound like I was a walking zipper as my pubescent thighs rubbed together with every step that I took). As we were leaving my house that night, I remember my mom looking at me and saying, "Let him hold the door for you." I didn't get it at the time. I didn't get it later than night when he continuously tried to open every door for me but I just kept barging through them like I did every day.
"Let him hold the door for you."
It still didn't really make sense until this year when I realized that I've spent the last 12 years of my life working so hard to do things on my own and my way that I've never let anybody hold the door for me. My mentality has always been that at the end of the day, nobody is looking out for me but me.
83 days.
I'm giving myself 83 days to lose 25 more pounds and to have at least one more date where I let someone hold the door for me. I've been doing this online dating thing for nearly a month now and it's just getting depressing at this point. I've had one nice conversation with one nice guy who asked me to have drinks but hasn't contacted me since. My inbox is filling up with creepers and crazies and nothing promising.
83 days and then what? Just another day I suppose. Or maybe the start of a whole new life. I suppose I'll let the stars decide.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Cyber + Nature - Nay = BUTCHER!!! or why online dating is a contact sport
So, despite the lack of conversation from my faithless readers, I decided to play around with the online dating thing. I am going to be very careful in how I speak of this particular event because I don't have the fucking money to pay for slander charges... although it would be pretty fucking cool.
So, I made a small start, baby steps you might say. I chose a rather reputable dating website and created an online profile. It took me so long to fill in the "about me" section that I had to sign back in to finish it and of course, it got deleted because of the time-out. I read the examples, study the highlighted notes as if I were cramming for finals, and followed the designated tips to creating the perfect profile. I uploaded a recent picture and cropping it so you could only see my face and my neck... no boobs, no shoulders, no arm fat flailing in the wind. After receiving the initial emails from website stating that my photo was deemed appropriate and my profile was approved, I had a bit of a better feeling about this whole thing. I like that they screened me. I mean, dog knows, if they knew me they wouldn't let me within inches of their precious bit of Internet real estate. But they don't and I'm smart enough to navigate around their crazy blocker so I was in.
Now, I wasn't really completely ready to commit to this whole thing, so I didn't pay for it. I wanted to see what would happen first. Within an hour, the emails began rolling in. The first one showed me my first 12 matches. 12?! This was a definitely a step up from the last website that I had played with last summer that resulted with a "There are no matches in the world for you" comment in 24 point bolded font. I double checked to make sure that website wasn't run by my mother and moved on.
As I perused through the matches, I became slightly intrigued by many of the photos... not bad looking. I began matching our attributes and reading through each of their little blurbs of verbal vomit about themselves. There were a few that caught my eye, snagged my interest and then ended with me clicking the not interested button and throwing them back into the virtual dating pond. I'm not going to lie, I'm incredibly intimidated by this whole thing. I look at some of these guys and I think, their too hot for me. I look at them and I've seen their kind before, the kind that wouldn't give me CPR if I dropped dead in front of them. I realize this is me being judgemental, but isn't that what online dating is all about? Genetically engineering a date?
Bachelor #1:
34, never been married, no children but wants them some day, has a bachelors degree, enjoys lifting weights, watching movies and traveling.
Not bad huh? Too bad there were 12 pictures of him in bike shorts and muscle tee's on his profile. Kinda sucked all the mystery out of that one.
Bachelor #2:
30, divorced, Master's degree, enjoys outdoor activities such as canoeing and camping.
Now, I'm not turned off by his divorce. I'm not intimidated by his Master's degree... I gots mine too! (And no, it obviously wasn't in fucking English). I love spending a weekend on the river and waking up in nature. But I'm totally opposed to being the third wheel and since this particular individual mentioned God 17 times in his 2 paragraph profile, I think he'd feel like he was cheating on Him with me. I'm spiritual, not religious, and I don't have anything against those that are but this just isn't for me.
Bachelor #3:
31, job in management making about 120K a year, enjoys wine tastings and traveling, grew up outside my favorite city in the Midwest... Chicago.
Um... did a double check... and yeah, it's my friends boss who also, as far as I knew, was in a relationship. Did a triple check, yep, he had been "active in the last 5 days" and yep, yep, you bet your ass I immediately picked up the phone and ratted his ass out to my friends. One conference call later, my face hurt from laughing and I pressed the "not interested" button. Turns out he's a serial online dater, even when he's in a committed relationship. Ass hat.
Finally, I came upon Bachelor #4:
29, bachelors degree, enjoys alternative music and outdoor activities. Never been married and wants kids some day. Spiritual not religious.
Wowza... sounds good so far. Oh, and did I mention that he doesn't mind a girl with a little extra weight?!
His pic was... interesting... he wasn't wearing a shirt, sitting in front of his web came, tattoo on his upper arm slightly exposed although not recognizable. Slightly square glasses perched upon his nose and he didn't appear to be wearing the man-hair sweater so that's good. I don't want a man I have to groom.
I remained a little intrigued and began reading his profile... a very telling little paragraph about how he's a stubborn man and enjoys playing in the woods. Then there were the words, in tiny 10 point print, that made my heart race, my palms sweat and my asshole tighten. He wanted to tie me up in the woods and tease me for hours... and that's a direct quote. It reminded me of the wedding scene from the movie Secretary where Maggie Gyllenhall was tied up against a tree getting fucked like pedophile in prison. Only, in the movie it was kinda hot. On this dating website, it was kind reminiscent of a mediocre midweek crime drama on network programming. All of a sudden I saw myself becoming the victim of a serial killer and ending up on some 20/20 special on Internet dating and fetish killers. (Oh and had I checked his screen name a little closer, I would have seen this coming... rope fiend.)
I clicked "not interested" and slid my debit card back into my wallet without subscribing to the website. Then I took a shower and scrubbed all the dirty sex-voodoo off me. Between rinse, wash and repeat, I prayed to the gods for protection against creepers and woodsmen.
I can't decide... is it worth the $35 a month for entertainment purposes only?! I have always wanted to be on the side of a milk carton... or a billboard... hmmmm. Eh, fuck it. Why not, right?!
So, I made a small start, baby steps you might say. I chose a rather reputable dating website and created an online profile. It took me so long to fill in the "about me" section that I had to sign back in to finish it and of course, it got deleted because of the time-out. I read the examples, study the highlighted notes as if I were cramming for finals, and followed the designated tips to creating the perfect profile. I uploaded a recent picture and cropping it so you could only see my face and my neck... no boobs, no shoulders, no arm fat flailing in the wind. After receiving the initial emails from website stating that my photo was deemed appropriate and my profile was approved, I had a bit of a better feeling about this whole thing. I like that they screened me. I mean, dog knows, if they knew me they wouldn't let me within inches of their precious bit of Internet real estate. But they don't and I'm smart enough to navigate around their crazy blocker so I was in.
Now, I wasn't really completely ready to commit to this whole thing, so I didn't pay for it. I wanted to see what would happen first. Within an hour, the emails began rolling in. The first one showed me my first 12 matches. 12?! This was a definitely a step up from the last website that I had played with last summer that resulted with a "There are no matches in the world for you" comment in 24 point bolded font. I double checked to make sure that website wasn't run by my mother and moved on.
As I perused through the matches, I became slightly intrigued by many of the photos... not bad looking. I began matching our attributes and reading through each of their little blurbs of verbal vomit about themselves. There were a few that caught my eye, snagged my interest and then ended with me clicking the not interested button and throwing them back into the virtual dating pond. I'm not going to lie, I'm incredibly intimidated by this whole thing. I look at some of these guys and I think, their too hot for me. I look at them and I've seen their kind before, the kind that wouldn't give me CPR if I dropped dead in front of them. I realize this is me being judgemental, but isn't that what online dating is all about? Genetically engineering a date?
Bachelor #1:
34, never been married, no children but wants them some day, has a bachelors degree, enjoys lifting weights, watching movies and traveling.
Not bad huh? Too bad there were 12 pictures of him in bike shorts and muscle tee's on his profile. Kinda sucked all the mystery out of that one.
Bachelor #2:
30, divorced, Master's degree, enjoys outdoor activities such as canoeing and camping.
Now, I'm not turned off by his divorce. I'm not intimidated by his Master's degree... I gots mine too! (And no, it obviously wasn't in fucking English). I love spending a weekend on the river and waking up in nature. But I'm totally opposed to being the third wheel and since this particular individual mentioned God 17 times in his 2 paragraph profile, I think he'd feel like he was cheating on Him with me. I'm spiritual, not religious, and I don't have anything against those that are but this just isn't for me.
Bachelor #3:
31, job in management making about 120K a year, enjoys wine tastings and traveling, grew up outside my favorite city in the Midwest... Chicago.
Um... did a double check... and yeah, it's my friends boss who also, as far as I knew, was in a relationship. Did a triple check, yep, he had been "active in the last 5 days" and yep, yep, you bet your ass I immediately picked up the phone and ratted his ass out to my friends. One conference call later, my face hurt from laughing and I pressed the "not interested" button. Turns out he's a serial online dater, even when he's in a committed relationship. Ass hat.
Finally, I came upon Bachelor #4:
29, bachelors degree, enjoys alternative music and outdoor activities. Never been married and wants kids some day. Spiritual not religious.
Wowza... sounds good so far. Oh, and did I mention that he doesn't mind a girl with a little extra weight?!
His pic was... interesting... he wasn't wearing a shirt, sitting in front of his web came, tattoo on his upper arm slightly exposed although not recognizable. Slightly square glasses perched upon his nose and he didn't appear to be wearing the man-hair sweater so that's good. I don't want a man I have to groom.
I remained a little intrigued and began reading his profile... a very telling little paragraph about how he's a stubborn man and enjoys playing in the woods. Then there were the words, in tiny 10 point print, that made my heart race, my palms sweat and my asshole tighten. He wanted to tie me up in the woods and tease me for hours... and that's a direct quote. It reminded me of the wedding scene from the movie Secretary where Maggie Gyllenhall was tied up against a tree getting fucked like pedophile in prison. Only, in the movie it was kinda hot. On this dating website, it was kind reminiscent of a mediocre midweek crime drama on network programming. All of a sudden I saw myself becoming the victim of a serial killer and ending up on some 20/20 special on Internet dating and fetish killers. (Oh and had I checked his screen name a little closer, I would have seen this coming... rope fiend.)
I clicked "not interested" and slid my debit card back into my wallet without subscribing to the website. Then I took a shower and scrubbed all the dirty sex-voodoo off me. Between rinse, wash and repeat, I prayed to the gods for protection against creepers and woodsmen.
I can't decide... is it worth the $35 a month for entertainment purposes only?! I have always wanted to be on the side of a milk carton... or a billboard... hmmmm. Eh, fuck it. Why not, right?!
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Remote Control Relationships
"I don't get it," she said. "Why isn't anybody hitting on you?"
Looking around, I notice group after group of men, sitting together, staring at each other, drinking their beers and not generally saying a word. For a moment, I double checked our location to make sure we weren't in a gay bar... not that there's anything wrong with gay bars but as a 29 year old single woman, spending endless hours in a gay bar will not help my dating life.
"We don't do things that way anymore," he said. "You have to go online now. Nobody goes to a bar to meet people. You go to hang out with the people you already know."
Really? I have to go on the Internet? Is that what we have come to is meeting people through pixels and digital signals? I mean, if I wanted an electronic relationship, I'd stick with Mr. Buzzy. But after weeks of contemplation and yet another endless weekend spent laying on the couch watching bad TV, old movies and an outing at Walmart, I'm beginning to think that something needs to change.
Living in the city is great but can be so incredibly lonely at the same time. I mean, at 29, I feel like I don't really need to make any new friends, as most my close friends have been around for nearly a decade or more. How do you replace that? You can't. But it's even harder in the city. The majority of the people that I speak with daily are my coworkers, or the rude customers on other end of the phone line. Believe it or not, but I will go days without my phone ringing and the truth is, I quit doing all the calling when I realized that I was the one doing all the calling, visiting, driving, etc. It's hard when your friends aren't where you are, and even harder when you start to realize that maybe your friends aren't the only thing geographically displaced, but the relationship itself.
I never thought striking up a relationship, or even getting a dinner date, would be so difficult. There was a nice piece of dark chocolate that kept hanging around my cubicle, talking to my coworkers and giving me the shy eye. He was tall, handsome and at least I know this one has a college education. Then he saw me standing outside smoking a cigarette... hasn't looked at me since. Whatever happened to not judging people? It's not like I was shooting heroin into my eye or anything. Oh well, I don't really like sleeping where I eat if you know what I mean.
The creeper at the gym continues to end up on the treadmill behind me, on the weight machine next to me, and pretty sure if he could follow me into the locker room, he would. He's nice enough but I'm not attracted to him, and I don't think that's judging, I think it's chemistry. But this dry spell is beginning to really bother me. Even the homeless men aren't giving me any attention. I think that may be an all time low.
"I'm not going to lie, you're intimidating," she said.
"Now that I know you, you're awesome, but if I didn't, I'd be scared to death to approach you," he said.
FLASHBACK: 4th grade. New boobs. Catholic school. Nearly shear blouses. Torture.
I was bullied all through grade school, middle school and most of high school. I used to be quiet and shy, overly sympathetic, a premium listener and an all around good person. Somewhere in those years of puberty and emotional distress, I had turned into a pushover, always wanting to be part of the cool crowd. A follower by fault, I often found myself getting into sticky situations, constantly jeopardizing my better judgement for a moment of fitting in. I was a doormat. But somewhere, somewhere I developed a huge fucking pair of steel balls and razor sharp forked tongue. Somewhere I became the people that I hated. Somewhere in learning to stand up for myself, I became, well, cold, callous and unforgiving. In learning to protect myself, I started a war.
I don't think I'm ready for Internet dating. I'm not sure that I would even know how to begin. It all seems so awkward to me. I'm too old fashioned. I want to believe that I will meet "the one" or even "the one for right now" through some serendipitous moment. I want a TV embrace. I want kinetic energy and chemistry. I want a dark room with bright lights in the corner and for that first meeting awkwardness to feel exhilarating.
The truth is, I want the same thing every other girl wants. I've learned to be dominate in every other area of my life out of necessity and survival. So, when it comes to men, I don't want to have to pursue them. I don't think that there's anything wrong with wanting to be chased a little. Don't get me wrong, I don't like games, but I don't want to be the only one reaching out. Besides, even my last booty call left with no warning, and without giving me any booty. I mean, I get hit it and quit it, why do you think I called? But it's hit it THEN quit it, not just quit it. I needed a little action and I eventually got some from ol' faithful, Mr. Buzzy, but it's not the same. Off track. Anyway, I want someone to want to spend time with me, to want to take me out to dinner and hold the door open for me like a gentleman, to not get embarrassed when I laugh a little too loudly. At the end of the night, I don't want them to be afraid to pull my hair a little when we're in bed. Like I said, I want the same thing as every other girl.
So faithful readers, how do YOU feel about online dating?
Looking around, I notice group after group of men, sitting together, staring at each other, drinking their beers and not generally saying a word. For a moment, I double checked our location to make sure we weren't in a gay bar... not that there's anything wrong with gay bars but as a 29 year old single woman, spending endless hours in a gay bar will not help my dating life.
"We don't do things that way anymore," he said. "You have to go online now. Nobody goes to a bar to meet people. You go to hang out with the people you already know."
Really? I have to go on the Internet? Is that what we have come to is meeting people through pixels and digital signals? I mean, if I wanted an electronic relationship, I'd stick with Mr. Buzzy. But after weeks of contemplation and yet another endless weekend spent laying on the couch watching bad TV, old movies and an outing at Walmart, I'm beginning to think that something needs to change.
Living in the city is great but can be so incredibly lonely at the same time. I mean, at 29, I feel like I don't really need to make any new friends, as most my close friends have been around for nearly a decade or more. How do you replace that? You can't. But it's even harder in the city. The majority of the people that I speak with daily are my coworkers, or the rude customers on other end of the phone line. Believe it or not, but I will go days without my phone ringing and the truth is, I quit doing all the calling when I realized that I was the one doing all the calling, visiting, driving, etc. It's hard when your friends aren't where you are, and even harder when you start to realize that maybe your friends aren't the only thing geographically displaced, but the relationship itself.
I never thought striking up a relationship, or even getting a dinner date, would be so difficult. There was a nice piece of dark chocolate that kept hanging around my cubicle, talking to my coworkers and giving me the shy eye. He was tall, handsome and at least I know this one has a college education. Then he saw me standing outside smoking a cigarette... hasn't looked at me since. Whatever happened to not judging people? It's not like I was shooting heroin into my eye or anything. Oh well, I don't really like sleeping where I eat if you know what I mean.
The creeper at the gym continues to end up on the treadmill behind me, on the weight machine next to me, and pretty sure if he could follow me into the locker room, he would. He's nice enough but I'm not attracted to him, and I don't think that's judging, I think it's chemistry. But this dry spell is beginning to really bother me. Even the homeless men aren't giving me any attention. I think that may be an all time low.
"I'm not going to lie, you're intimidating," she said.
"Now that I know you, you're awesome, but if I didn't, I'd be scared to death to approach you," he said.
FLASHBACK: 4th grade. New boobs. Catholic school. Nearly shear blouses. Torture.
I was bullied all through grade school, middle school and most of high school. I used to be quiet and shy, overly sympathetic, a premium listener and an all around good person. Somewhere in those years of puberty and emotional distress, I had turned into a pushover, always wanting to be part of the cool crowd. A follower by fault, I often found myself getting into sticky situations, constantly jeopardizing my better judgement for a moment of fitting in. I was a doormat. But somewhere, somewhere I developed a huge fucking pair of steel balls and razor sharp forked tongue. Somewhere I became the people that I hated. Somewhere in learning to stand up for myself, I became, well, cold, callous and unforgiving. In learning to protect myself, I started a war.
I don't think I'm ready for Internet dating. I'm not sure that I would even know how to begin. It all seems so awkward to me. I'm too old fashioned. I want to believe that I will meet "the one" or even "the one for right now" through some serendipitous moment. I want a TV embrace. I want kinetic energy and chemistry. I want a dark room with bright lights in the corner and for that first meeting awkwardness to feel exhilarating.
The truth is, I want the same thing every other girl wants. I've learned to be dominate in every other area of my life out of necessity and survival. So, when it comes to men, I don't want to have to pursue them. I don't think that there's anything wrong with wanting to be chased a little. Don't get me wrong, I don't like games, but I don't want to be the only one reaching out. Besides, even my last booty call left with no warning, and without giving me any booty. I mean, I get hit it and quit it, why do you think I called? But it's hit it THEN quit it, not just quit it. I needed a little action and I eventually got some from ol' faithful, Mr. Buzzy, but it's not the same. Off track. Anyway, I want someone to want to spend time with me, to want to take me out to dinner and hold the door open for me like a gentleman, to not get embarrassed when I laugh a little too loudly. At the end of the night, I don't want them to be afraid to pull my hair a little when we're in bed. Like I said, I want the same thing as every other girl.
So faithful readers, how do YOU feel about online dating?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
I Pledge Allegiance to My Ass
As I sit perched on the couch, under my lap blanket, watching the season finale of Law & Order: SVU, I can feel my thighs slowly expanding. I haven't been to the gym in over a week as I've been battling a combination of a cold and allergies. Hard to run when you can't breathe. I feel terrible. Like I've broken some sort of pact with myself... like I've betrayed my cellulite. Damn Catholic guilt.
A year ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about skipping them gym for a week or even a month. But I've had a rough couple of weeks with food. I've dealt with birthdays, team lunch outings at work, and a charity bake sale. I consider myself to be somewhat of a punk-rocker Betty Cracker as I can whip up pretty much anything from scrap or recipe! So, when asked to cook for a company bake sale to support a sick baby charity, well, I just couldn't resist! Why not show off my amazing culinary skills and do a bit of good at the same time?!? Baking for babies = bliss.
However, as the day of the bake sale grew near, I was running out of time. Unforeseen car problems earlier in the week meant having to work a short day and then make up the hours later on... a couple of 10 hour days and I didn't feel like making anything from scratch. So, I did what any efficient woman would do... pre-made cookie dough... in the tube of course, I'm not so lazy that I have to break 'em and bake 'em. So, at 7:45pm the night before the bake sale, I trekked my way to Hyvee and began perusing the cookie dough, looking at prices as I am also economical. I mean, I know it's for charity but that shit can get expensive.
As I stood looking at both prices and calories (I'm trying to be health conscious for others as well), I hear a woman's voice.
"DON'T DO IT! CHOOSE WATERMELON INSTEAD!"
Looking over my left shoulder, I see an empty aisle. A small giggle comes from the right. Whipping my head around, I find myself face to face with a man slightly older than my father. He has a mortified look on his face, as if he'd just shit his pants in public or something. Standing next to him was his wife. As she picked up some full fat coffee creamer, she continued giggling. "Who am I to judge? I'm just looking out for you." The man looked at her with shock and disbelief on his face, mouth dropped open.
It took me a moment to realize that this wasn't a joke. This bitch was serious. She just looked at me and told me to eat a piece of fucking fruit! (Now, this may be karma for the amount of times I've told skinny bitches to eat a fucking sandwich, but still, it's fucking rude.)
"Excuse me," I said, "but I'm baking for a charity bake sale. These aren't even for me."
"Uh huh," she said.
Remember the look I had on my face when I could see that woman's thong through her ultra tight pants? That's pretty much the same look that I had on my face at this moment as well. I recognized the feeling. My mouth open wide like a snake trying to devour a small rodent. The snake was the other woman though... the other white bitch, not unlike pork.
Now, obviously there are lots of things that come to my mind on a very regular basis, many offensive, all honest. However, I would never walk around a grocery store commenting on what people are buying... well, not out loud anyway. (I did once yell that Martha Stewart could eat my asshole in the middle of a grocery store, but I was on vicodin at the time so it doesn't really count.) I'm a firm believer in freedom of speech, freedom of press and freedom of expression. If it weren't for those things, I wouldn't be able to write this fucking blog for your fucking entertainment. And yes, I just used the word fucking twice in that sentence because I could. However, just because those freedoms exist doesn't mean that you have to use them.
I know that I'm lacking the filter between my brain and my mouth, but I think for the most part, I have tact even when that filter doesn't work. To all the rude women out there, I would generally tell you to say it loud and say it proud but when it comes to commenting on peoples weight, looks or anything else that is generally controlled by genetics, I think you all should keep it to yourselves. That is, unless you really wanna see my fat ass take my earrings off and find out why they call it a ghetto booty.
A year ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about skipping them gym for a week or even a month. But I've had a rough couple of weeks with food. I've dealt with birthdays, team lunch outings at work, and a charity bake sale. I consider myself to be somewhat of a punk-rocker Betty Cracker as I can whip up pretty much anything from scrap or recipe! So, when asked to cook for a company bake sale to support a sick baby charity, well, I just couldn't resist! Why not show off my amazing culinary skills and do a bit of good at the same time?!? Baking for babies = bliss.
However, as the day of the bake sale grew near, I was running out of time. Unforeseen car problems earlier in the week meant having to work a short day and then make up the hours later on... a couple of 10 hour days and I didn't feel like making anything from scratch. So, I did what any efficient woman would do... pre-made cookie dough... in the tube of course, I'm not so lazy that I have to break 'em and bake 'em. So, at 7:45pm the night before the bake sale, I trekked my way to Hyvee and began perusing the cookie dough, looking at prices as I am also economical. I mean, I know it's for charity but that shit can get expensive.
As I stood looking at both prices and calories (I'm trying to be health conscious for others as well), I hear a woman's voice.
"DON'T DO IT! CHOOSE WATERMELON INSTEAD!"
Looking over my left shoulder, I see an empty aisle. A small giggle comes from the right. Whipping my head around, I find myself face to face with a man slightly older than my father. He has a mortified look on his face, as if he'd just shit his pants in public or something. Standing next to him was his wife. As she picked up some full fat coffee creamer, she continued giggling. "Who am I to judge? I'm just looking out for you." The man looked at her with shock and disbelief on his face, mouth dropped open.
It took me a moment to realize that this wasn't a joke. This bitch was serious. She just looked at me and told me to eat a piece of fucking fruit! (Now, this may be karma for the amount of times I've told skinny bitches to eat a fucking sandwich, but still, it's fucking rude.)
"Excuse me," I said, "but I'm baking for a charity bake sale. These aren't even for me."
"Uh huh," she said.
Remember the look I had on my face when I could see that woman's thong through her ultra tight pants? That's pretty much the same look that I had on my face at this moment as well. I recognized the feeling. My mouth open wide like a snake trying to devour a small rodent. The snake was the other woman though... the other white bitch, not unlike pork.
Now, obviously there are lots of things that come to my mind on a very regular basis, many offensive, all honest. However, I would never walk around a grocery store commenting on what people are buying... well, not out loud anyway. (I did once yell that Martha Stewart could eat my asshole in the middle of a grocery store, but I was on vicodin at the time so it doesn't really count.) I'm a firm believer in freedom of speech, freedom of press and freedom of expression. If it weren't for those things, I wouldn't be able to write this fucking blog for your fucking entertainment. And yes, I just used the word fucking twice in that sentence because I could. However, just because those freedoms exist doesn't mean that you have to use them.
I know that I'm lacking the filter between my brain and my mouth, but I think for the most part, I have tact even when that filter doesn't work. To all the rude women out there, I would generally tell you to say it loud and say it proud but when it comes to commenting on peoples weight, looks or anything else that is generally controlled by genetics, I think you all should keep it to yourselves. That is, unless you really wanna see my fat ass take my earrings off and find out why they call it a ghetto booty.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Golden Oldies
I can't believe that I haven't written in a month or more. This is what happens when The Girl becomes involved in a long distance relationship (see previous blog). But that is all over now. No more A. And I'm okay with that. I broke it off. Long story short: don't lie. Don't lie about something stupid. Don't say things you don't mean. Regardless, he's still texting nearly daily which means that That Girl must be awesome in the sack. Not to toot my own horn but beep mother fuckin' beep!!!
Anyway, down to business. The month of April was full of all sorts of craziness. Intense sessions at the gym were concluded by overweight elderly women walking buck ass naked through the locker room on nearly a daily basis. Now, these women have a sense of comfort in their body that seems to be lost on my generation. I was intrigued by sagging breasts and old vagina... catching glimpses when I wasn't trying to look. Do not be mistaken. Old vagina is a trainwreck. If ever in the situation, you must look at old vagina to see, if nothing else, your future as you, too, one day will either a) possess an old vagina of your own or b) be married to someone who has an old vagina. After weeks of encountering breasts so saggy that they could accidently get caught in the zipper of their pants if not careful when putting them on, I found myself being much more confident in my own nudity in the locker room. I, however, make sure that I keep the lawn trimmed... something lost on that generation. I swear I saw more bush than you could find in a South American rainforest.
There is a downside to being surrounded by old vagina. Old vagina isn't generally aware of what's going on around them. I mean, I'd think if they were aware, they'd put on some fucking panties. Regardless... one morning, after finishing an intense session with my trainer, I had showered and laid out my work clothes on the bench in front of me. I often get excessively warm while blow drying my hair and putting on my makeup, so I decided to go topless to finish my grooming routine. Standing in front of the vanity I dry and straighten my hair, paint on my makeup perfectly so and do a double check before heading back to my clothes a mere 15 feet away. As I approach my area of the locker room, I find my gym bag to be dumped on the floor, shoved out of the way without a second thought. I pick it up, place my things back inside and take a deep breath. I'm sure that somebody was trying to move it and just accidently knocked it over. That is until I can't find my work shirt. A grey cotton tunic type shirt with a deep low cut front and balloon sleeves. Looking around, my mouth drops open as I realize that there is in fact dripping wet old vagina and ass sitting on my shirt! This crazy old lady must have worked a little too hard at the water aerobics or she's just a total bitch because she stripped off her swimsuit, still soaking wet, and sat it right down on top of my shirt. She moved my bag, but she couldn't move my shirt?! Are you fucking kidding me?! I was shocked. For the first time ever, the filter between my brain and my mouth was clogged... no words could escape. Nothing could explain what happened in my head. The woman stood up, I picked up my shirt and was thankful that I had packed 2 that morning, unsure of what I would want to wear.
I left the locker room that day disgusted. I made a point to tell my trainer during our next session and to walk up to the pool window and point her out. Apparently, she's crazy. Still not an excuse for sitting her dripping wet old vagina and ass on my shirt.
The month of April was full of strange observations. I found people on the highway picking their nose while driving. I don't mean just a single digit in the ol' nostril. I mean elbow high, knuckles bent, digging for gold in a mine that is empty! One guy had his elbow out the drivers side window! Found another asshole reading their kindle while driving. Seriously? I love reading, too, but not enough to do it at 70 mph in rush hour traffic.
April was here and gone, but I'm back and will be writing far more regularly! I'm so sorry for leaving you all hanging. Oh, and I hope none of you get nightmares from reading about old vagina.
Anyway, down to business. The month of April was full of all sorts of craziness. Intense sessions at the gym were concluded by overweight elderly women walking buck ass naked through the locker room on nearly a daily basis. Now, these women have a sense of comfort in their body that seems to be lost on my generation. I was intrigued by sagging breasts and old vagina... catching glimpses when I wasn't trying to look. Do not be mistaken. Old vagina is a trainwreck. If ever in the situation, you must look at old vagina to see, if nothing else, your future as you, too, one day will either a) possess an old vagina of your own or b) be married to someone who has an old vagina. After weeks of encountering breasts so saggy that they could accidently get caught in the zipper of their pants if not careful when putting them on, I found myself being much more confident in my own nudity in the locker room. I, however, make sure that I keep the lawn trimmed... something lost on that generation. I swear I saw more bush than you could find in a South American rainforest.
There is a downside to being surrounded by old vagina. Old vagina isn't generally aware of what's going on around them. I mean, I'd think if they were aware, they'd put on some fucking panties. Regardless... one morning, after finishing an intense session with my trainer, I had showered and laid out my work clothes on the bench in front of me. I often get excessively warm while blow drying my hair and putting on my makeup, so I decided to go topless to finish my grooming routine. Standing in front of the vanity I dry and straighten my hair, paint on my makeup perfectly so and do a double check before heading back to my clothes a mere 15 feet away. As I approach my area of the locker room, I find my gym bag to be dumped on the floor, shoved out of the way without a second thought. I pick it up, place my things back inside and take a deep breath. I'm sure that somebody was trying to move it and just accidently knocked it over. That is until I can't find my work shirt. A grey cotton tunic type shirt with a deep low cut front and balloon sleeves. Looking around, my mouth drops open as I realize that there is in fact dripping wet old vagina and ass sitting on my shirt! This crazy old lady must have worked a little too hard at the water aerobics or she's just a total bitch because she stripped off her swimsuit, still soaking wet, and sat it right down on top of my shirt. She moved my bag, but she couldn't move my shirt?! Are you fucking kidding me?! I was shocked. For the first time ever, the filter between my brain and my mouth was clogged... no words could escape. Nothing could explain what happened in my head. The woman stood up, I picked up my shirt and was thankful that I had packed 2 that morning, unsure of what I would want to wear.
I left the locker room that day disgusted. I made a point to tell my trainer during our next session and to walk up to the pool window and point her out. Apparently, she's crazy. Still not an excuse for sitting her dripping wet old vagina and ass on my shirt.
The month of April was full of strange observations. I found people on the highway picking their nose while driving. I don't mean just a single digit in the ol' nostril. I mean elbow high, knuckles bent, digging for gold in a mine that is empty! One guy had his elbow out the drivers side window! Found another asshole reading their kindle while driving. Seriously? I love reading, too, but not enough to do it at 70 mph in rush hour traffic.
April was here and gone, but I'm back and will be writing far more regularly! I'm so sorry for leaving you all hanging. Oh, and I hope none of you get nightmares from reading about old vagina.