Online dating

I have this crazy idea that I’m positive no blogger has ever had before, because I’m just that original.


I’m going to join a dating website.

90% of this decision is based on the wealth of material that’s sure to crop up, 5% is based on the fact that I obviously can’t meet anyone anywhere else, and the other 5%...well; let’s just say that if I do it, The Grandmother has promised to stop harassing me about going to church to meet a “nice man”. One day, when she’s older, I’ll tell her about the nice man, the nice seminary student actually, that I met at church and played hide the holy relic with in the back of his jeep. He made the sign of the cross in all the right places. Our father, who art in heaven...how loud I screamed your name. Amen.

Seriously, I’ve been circling around this idea for awhile now. I’ve gone from being adamant that online dating is for losers, to being genuinely curious. It seems like everyone is doing it now. But, just in case anyone decides to make fun of me, I have a full proof plan that goes a little something like this: Bitch, I will Cut. You.

Now that that’s settled, I need to make another plan – a plan of action. This is where you guys come in. (That’s what she said.) I welcome any advice from those who’ve done the online dating gig before, and even advice from those that haven’t done it but think they know everything about everything anyway. (Yeah, you know who you are.)

I’m sure there are certain things that, for the sake of being fair, I need to include on my profile. They say that honesty is the best policy in general, but is the same true for online dating? For instance, when I tell them I’m the single mother of a kindergartener, do I go ahead and lay it all out there?

“When I was 18 I fucked my much older boss because I thought he was sexy, but it turns out that he wasn’t that sexy, he was just fertile. Now I have a five year old daughter that whines constantly and has an unhealthy fascination with her own vagina, which we actually call a “boo” because apparently “vagina” is not an appropriate word for a child. She also has a small problem with kleptomania that I’m addressing, as needed, by sneaking the things she takes back without anyone knowing in order to avoid embarrassment.”

Do I tell them outright that I live at home with my mother, her boyfriend, my teenage sister, two retarded cats, and a mastiff puppy that eats my underwear? Do they need to know the family dynamics?

“There won’t be any sex happening at my place, in case you were wondering, so I hope you live alone or have nice roommates. I generally can’t even masturbate in peace so sometimes, when I do get a little alone time, I get so excited that I injure myself and then I’m out of commission for a few days. So if I use the word “recuperating” in response to a request to hang out, that’s probably what’s going on and if you still want to get together, you shouldn’t expect anything more than a blowjob. And only if you really deserve it.


Furthermore, if you decide you want to be ‘old fashioned’ and pick me up from my house rather than meet me somewhere like a non-stalker, you will likely be subjected to a heated inquisition. My mother will ask you if you are gay, if you are aware that I may be gay and if you are - why it doesn’t bother you, if you are aware that my womb was once occupied (well, twice occupied, but I hope she’d leave that first one off knowing how some people feel about murder), and if you’ve heard of the private school she attended 27 years ago. However, there is no need to worry about my father as he lives 1200 miles away and only comes to town when there’s a bulk sale on cocaine. But should we eventually decide to get married (you never know, stranger things have happened), you should know that he will likely die before then from liver damage, so you’ll have to pay for the wedding on your own.”

As much as people say they want the whole truth and nothing but the truth, full disclosure can be a little daunting. There’s the issue of likes and dislikes.

Do I really tell them that I like to read books about vampire teenagers and make fun of fat kids on slip-n-slides? Do I tell them I hate most sports and am bored to tears by anything even remotely related to hunting, fishing, and the outdoors in general? Men around here are crazy about racecar driving. Do I tell them that I think watching a bunch of cars go round and round in a circle for over half the day is the most ridiculous hobby I’ve ever heard of in my life?

“Also, I dislike children. I plan on never having another child, so if you want any you’d better be ready to make it worth nine months of torture and be ready to hire a nanny. And the only way you could possibly make it worth it is with money. And handbags...I like handbags.”

I see online dating as a way of cutting through all the bullshit, a way for people to let you know who they really are before you come out the pocket for dinner and drinks. Or at least, that’s how it should be. I’m sure there are dirty liars and perverts on there. It’s the internet after all.

That brings us to profile pictures. I want to put up an attractive picture that makes people want to look at my profile, but wouldn’t that be false advertising?

There they see this decent looking blonde girl with fantastic fucking eye shadow (thankyouverymuch), but she doesn’t look like that except maybe half of the time. Sometimes she doesn’t put on makeup for a week and dude, she’s got some really dark under-eye circles. They take her home and nail her like Bob Villa on steroids, go to sleep, and wake up with Medusa. There’s mascara everywhere, hair stuck to the drool on her face, and her snoring could rival the noise from the chainsaw massacre.

Wouldn’t it be more prudent to put up a shitty picture? If they’re attracted to me then, imagine how much they’d like me when I fixed myself up! It would be like Extreme Makeover every other weekend.

But I guess all of that seems relatively easy compared to the issue of actually going on a date with someone. What if they put up a picture from years ago and instead of a 30 year old, I end up sitting across from some dude with a ventilator and a pair of false teeth? Do I stick it out and see if he’s got money? Has Anna Nicole been dead long enough to have a replacement?

Oh my god. What if I agree to meet with some guy and when I get there he turns out to be my mom’s ex boyfriend, Spongebob!

The longer I think about it, the more terrifying this situation becomes. I think I’ll get a taser, just in case. Is it legal to tase your date because he’s your mom’s ex boyfriend or because he smells funny?

So many questions!

I’m planning on setting up my profile tonight, so if you have any suggestions, warnings, or advice – come out with it now. Or, if after reading all of that you decide you just can’t live without me and there’s no need for me to look any further, tell me that too. But only if you’re loaded. I can’t support my crumb snatcher on love and sexy time, you know. Well, technically I could support her on sexy time, but my grandma would be really upset if I took up prostituting.

Dream Interpretation

I’ll go weeks or months without having a single dream and then all of a sudden I’ll be bombarded with them. It’s like my brain is trying to make up for lost time by cramming two or three in each night. I haven’t been able to figure out the trigger, though I’m sure there is one. There has to be.

I usually don’t remember dreams unless they’re reoccurring. They don’t last past the first fluttering of my eyelids and the thought, “Well that was strange”. I always said I’d make a dream journal, write them down the minute I wake. Unfortunately other things always take precedence: prying my eyes open with contact solution, pushing the kid off my head, shooting from the bed like a fired missile because I’m late again. Then, inevitably, when I have a moment of calm, I realize that I’ve missed the opportunity yet again and all I remember is that there was a dream and it was bizarre in some way.

Friday night I stayed home and turned in pretty early. I had three dreams that night and for once I was able to write them down. The first was an old, reoccurring dream, easy to remember:

I’m young, probably around five or six. I’m lying on the bed in my childhood room, white blonde hair spilling out across the pillow. I’m wearing an old, short sleeved nightgown with a ribbon at the neck. I’m half asleep, toying with the ribbon, when I hear a noise. I get up; my eyes are half closed slits.

In the middle of the dark room sits my red, white, and blue round plastic table and chairs. A small sliver of light appears in the middle of the table and I stare at the checked surface. I start to reach across the table and as I do, it seems to extend itself. I watch my arm pass over the top, fascinated. Then all of a sudden a snake appears on the other side, moving toward my hand with its mouth open. All I can see anymore is my arm, fist closed against the inevitable onslaught, the snake, and an endless expanse of red, white, and blue. It looks like a scene from Alice in Wonderland, surreal and slightly distorted.

I can’t seem to draw back my hand and the snake moves in quickly, snapping its jaws down on my small, closed fist. I feel no pain, only terror. Then I wake up.

Now comes the age old question: What does it mean?

I don’t know how accurate dream interpretation books and/or websites are, but this online dictionary pretty much confirms what I think the dream means:

I’m afraid of intimacy, commitment, and snakes. But I like sex. Orgasms complete me. I have an enormous ego that’s constantly attacked (bitches). Loosely translated, of course. I might have exaggerated on the ego bit.

I didn’t like this next dream at all, mostly because I come off a bit psycho:

I’m in a bridesmaids dress and I’m stumbling through a hotel hallway with a dark haired girl. We’re laughing, but even as I laugh and cling to her arm I know something is about to happen.

We burst through a door and it appears to be an enormous living room. People are sitting on couches and chairs, the room is full. We stumble into the center and there is talking, though I can’t remember what it’s about.

That’s when I notice him sitting in the corner of a couch to my right, on the edge of the activity. He’s an old fling. Everyone is talking at once, but I don’t listen. He and I, we’re staring each other down. His face is cold and mocking, mine is defiant. I feel reckless and giddy. The girl is still holding my arm and I sling her away from me. She smacks into a wall.

The scene changes and I’m talking to him alone. I’m wearing a different dress and I’m bragging about how rich men want me. He’s not impressed.

That’s all I remember. I know there’s a bit missing, but that’s what I’ve got. It’s probably got something to do with ego and temper. Maybe it means that I’m an angry, closet lesbian that dresses well.

This last one is the most bizarre:

There’s a really fat blonde woman standing in front of a small brown house. Everything seems to be in shades of brown except for her. She’s wearing a black t-shirt with some band on it and shiny, neon green spandex Capri pants with fake pockets on the back. Her ass is the only flat thing about her and her hair is bleached and teased 80’s style.

As she’s standing there six punk rock guys come walking across the lawn. They are all wearing a lot of black and have Mohawks, etc. Some of them disappear inside the house and some stand around outside. One of them tells the woman that their car broke down. While he’s explaining the situation, another one shouts from the open front door, “We need to call The General now for a ride!” Then they all chime in and say in the TV commercial voice, “Call 1-800-General now!”

The blonde offers them a ride. One of the guys hugs her, wrapping his arms around her big body, attempting to slide his hands into her fake back pockets. They just keep slipping and he keeps trying for a ridiculous amount of time.

Then they all pile on to her MOTORCYCLE and drive off down the highway. They’re all piled around her like The Muppets. Except for the one she’s sitting on.

I can’t even begin to analyze that one.

So, what do you guys think? Let's have your opinion on some of these.

Parenting: It's weird.

All parents make promises to themselves and to their children. Before they pop out in a mess of blood, fleshy cord, and other things you’d rather not think about (You’re welcome.) you set guidelines on how best to raise them. You form ideas about who they’re supposed to be.

The problem with these promises and guidelines is that they’re often unrealistic.

Children are like STDs. Some are treatable, some aren’t. Some communicate easily, some take a bit of extra prodding. Some are shared with others (whether they want them or not), some are kept hidden.

That might not be the best analogy. My point is you can’t decide before you meet the little buggers how exactly you’re going to raise them. Each one is unique...infectious in their own way.

I was making promises I couldn’t keep long before the kid even came into the picture. I told myself, “Self, you will never have children. You must promise not to procreate for the sake of yourself and others.” And I did. I promised.

But my promises are like front clasp bras – always coming undone accidentally on purpose. You don’t want them to come undone, but you knew when you bought them that your boobs were entirely too large and assertive to be held in by those little clasps.

So before the kid was even a renegade egg I was fucking up this whole “child guidelines” thing. And before I realized that there are no set guidelines and control is just a seven letter word, I spent the first year or two of her life promising this and that, buying into the media hype, and just generally stressing myself out. It started with the little things.


I promised she would always look like she’d been birthed by a J.Crew model, more or less.

I bought expensive outfits, hats, bows, shoes, and matching socks. I made sure she was wearing the cutest thing possible whether we were in public or sitting at home watching talk show reruns. If she got a spot on something I changed her immediately. If she had a snotty nose I would use that suction thing relentlessly on the off chance she would get a stray booger stuck to her face and someone would see. (Actually, I thought the sucker thing was kind of fun. Sick, I know.) In short, she was a very shiny baby.

That didn’t last long. I eventually got lazy and allowed her to become the pantless, tangle headed wonder she is today. The kid would rather ride her scooter around in her underwear than play dress up like other little girls or hide under the bed rather than have her hair brushed. And truthfully, most days I just cannot be bothered to fight about it. You have to pick your battles. Like whose turn it is for the remote, which brings me to...


I promised she would watch very little TV and when she did, only educational programs.

Though evidently a common parental guideline, I failed to take into account my complete and utter lack of patience and low tolerance for all things...child related.

It quickly went from one or two educational shows a day to, “Hey, kid! Sit down and watch Spongebob...look! Look!” Then I’d attempt to squeeze in as much cleaning, cooking, or hiding in a corner as I could before she realized she’d been duped.

Don’t get me wrong we play games and read books and all that other constructive stuff, but I have a short attention span. I’m also very competitive when it comes to board games and the like. As a matter of fact, just recently she and I were playing Chinese checkers and I found it physically impossible to LET her win. I know she’s only four (almost 5), but she totally cheats.

So anyway, now TV = babysitter. Her current obsession is The Little Rascals and she’s picked up a few lovely phrases such as “I hate your stinkin’ guts” and “snot wads”. She also enjoys watching The Bachelor with my mom’s boyfriend and calling the women “hussies”. I’m incredibly proud.


I promised myself that I would nip any and all bad habits in the bud immediately. I was going to be a strict enforcer of “the law”. Uh huh.

At first I didn’t realize what was going on. I’d pick her up from school and there would be a tiny toy dinosaur or some other random little thing in her book bag. I figured they were hers (she’s got so much stuff it’s hard to keep up with it all) or that they were prizes. Things finally became clear when she tried to walk out the door one day with the rattiest looking baby doll I’d ever seen.

“Hey, what are you doing with that? That’s not yours.”

She stood in front of the door and hugged the naked, ratty baby tight to her chest. “Yes it is”, she said.

“Um no, no it’s not. Go put that ugly thing back.”

“NO! IT’S MINE!”

This went back and forth for a minute. Appalled to be having a scene over such a disgusting toy, I turned around to see one of the teachers looking at me.

“She can take it home if she wants. Just for tonight”, she said.

I looked at my defiant child and I wanted to say no because she was being a shit, but I was tired and didn’t want to engage in tug of war. So instead I said, “Ok”, and led her out to the car.

It took a minute for things to click, but click they did. When I got home I dumped out her bag, went through every tiny compartment, and found contraband galore. And what did I do about it?

I laughed, of course. And when everyone else got home, I told them about it and laughed some more. And when I returned the things to her school, they laughed a little...so I did too. Pretty soon it became this running joke to see what she would attempt to make off with next.

Until she stole someone’s large stuffed pony a few weeks ago.

She got one for Christmas, but hers was pink and this one was black, brown, and white. Of course I don’t pay attention to such things so when one of the teachers asked if I’d seen it, I said no but I’d look around. Sure enough, the little bugger had snatched it.

I made her give it back to its rightful owner who didn’t really understand the significance of the moment. The kid did. She stood there with her arms crossed and looked at me in a threatening manner. The battle lines were drawn. I had to lay down the law about stealing. I had to learn to suppress my laughter, because evidently some people don’t find my sticky fingered child amusing.

Today I’d like to say my child is a recovered kleptomaniac, but unfortunately she’s still going strong. She did stop stealing from school, though now she just takes my things. It’s not nearly as funny, especially when I really need them, but at least it doesn’t get me in trouble with the other parents.

I could fill a few more pages with the promises I made and the guidelines I set: My kid will be this, do that, and go there. But I can’t map out her life. I can’t control everything and I can’t force her to behave.

Technically I’m supposed to be the ringmaster to her clown. But who wants to constantly crack a whip? I think I’ll divide my time between laughing in the stands and coaching subtly from the sidelines.

And if that doesn’t work I can always feed her to the tigers.