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.
Showing posts with label hooker - two birds one stone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hooker - two birds one stone. Show all posts
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Beyonce should write a song about this shit.
A few years ago my mom was dating the most gawd awful man.
He was socially awkward, but not in that endearing way some people are, when everyone around knows that they simply can’t help themselves. Those people are accepted into the fold and embraced for their awkwardness. “Oh, that’s just John! He’s a few cards short of a full deck, but very nice once you get to know him.” No, not like that at all. He was socially awkward in a Fatal Attraction meets Law and Order sort of way. “...and these are their stories! DUN DUN!”
They were introduced by my godmother and her (now) ex husband, going out on a few double dates with them and such. I wasn’t terribly concerned with their relationship; in fact I pretty much ignored it...until he started spending more time at our house.
In the beginning the only opinion I had about him was that he was ugly as homemade sin – short, oddly shaped, with coarse black hair in a V that stuck out over his forehead, and a pair of beautiful blue eyes ruined by the fact that they were covered with a thick black almost unibrow and so close together, you often had to look twice to make sure they weren’t crossed. And then there was the rather large tattoo of SpongeBob Square Pants on the side of one calf. I kid you not.
But eating dinner with him at the same table and sitting on the couch opposite his Hunchback of Notre Dame frame, I became uneasy. He never said much of anything and when he did, it was strange and had a tinge of faux cheerfulness. And the way he looked at and touched mom made my stomach turn.
I’ll admit I tested him – ignoring him, being rude - if looks could kill he’d be six feet under. I had suspicions. And when, after barely a few weeks of seeing each other, he was showering her with expensive gifts and sending flowers to work every day, I knew I was on the right track to psycho town.
I was sitting alone on the porch one evening reading when mom came out to ask my opinion on an outfit. I looked her up and down, nodded my approval, and went back to my book. Still she stood there until I looked again, a thoughtful expression on her face. “So”, she leaned across the back of the chair in front of me, “what do you think about SpongeBob?” (It’s what we called him behind his back. Still do, in fact.)
I looked at her with exasperation. She already knew what I thought of him as I’d said so loudly and more than once. I believe the most often used phrase was “fucking creepy”. But mom is one of those people that will continue to periodically ask the same question, always hoping for a different, more satisfying answer. I sighed, wondering just what I needed to say this time to prevent her from ever asking again.
“I don’t like him”, I said seriously. “Every time I look at him I think to myself ‘it puts the lotion on it’s skin, or else it gets the hose again!’”
She immediately burst out laughing. I’m admittedly an amusing impressionist, but I meant every word. And I couldn’t help chuckling a bit at her reaction, but I followed it with a sobering “just you wait” in case she doubted my sincerity.
I needn’t have bothered. Mom happens to think 95% of people are insincere, hence the repetitive question asking I suppose. My answer became a running joke, repeated often at the family gatherings that he didn’t manage to weasel his way into, and yet she still continued to date him.
The more time he spent around her friends and family, the more insistent the clamor became – “There’s something wrong with that guy. (Dun Dun!)” And though he was not an intelligent man, as evidenced from our previous stilted and juvenile conversations, he was street wise. He recognized the signs of unease and he made changes to his routine. Rather than sending her flowers every day, he took it down to once a week. Rather than just giving her an expensive present, he also gave them to my sister and me. Rather than just sitting on the couch and staring off into the distance at Sunday dinner, (I’m assuming it was the distance... Like I said, his eyes were almost crossed) he painted the outside of my grandmother’s house.
I wasn’t very happy about the situation, but I was also being bought. Which is nice, terrible as that may sound? (Especially when you’re a single parent whose baby’s daddy is a man whore that fathers more children than a Polygamist cult leader and your kid is last on the child support totem pole.) And as an added bonus, there was talk of them moving in together and mom giving me the lake house outright. Creepy fucker with a SpongeBob tattoo or not – a free house is nothing to sniff at.
But after they’d been dating for several months, mom had to have major surgery. I took the day off and planned to stay at the hospital with her overnight, but that morning he joined grandma and I in the waiting room and he never left. I couldn’t get rid of him to save my life and being close to him for that long was making my skin crawl. The minute they informed us she was out of surgery and in a room where we could go in, he was off like a shot. I was livid.
He sat beside her the entire afternoon and into the evening, leaning over the space between the couch and the bed, and rubbing her right hand raw while her left repeatedly jabbed the little red Morphine button. To make matters worse, when she had visitors he refused to move – just sat there with his ass crack hanging out of his stupid shorts, chafing her hand like a lunatic.
I left. I couldn’t help it. Grandma took one for the team and said she’d stay the night because if I had to sit in the same room with him for one second longer, they’d have had to do emergency surgery and remove my foot from his ass.
A few weeks went by, with mom laid up in the bed at home. He continued to drop by and call, but miraculously she seemed to be coming around. She started avoiding him and making excuses. I thought his behavior at the hospital had finally pushed her through the veil.
Then she showed me the ring.
Apparently he’d proposed to her some weeks before and she’d kept it to herself. She told me that she wouldn’t give him an answer, so he just gave her the ring and said to wear it and think about it, or something of the sort. I was horrified.
Lucky for me (and probably her skin), when she started to distance herself a little, he shot himself in the foot. Stepping up the psycho routine, he sent nutty text messages and had his mother call my grandmother and cuss her out for no apparent reason. Adios, SpongeBob. You don’t fuck with my grandma.
And though he was everything but a gracious ex, he did refuse to take the ring back.
Now mom has a relatively normal boyfriend who we love and the ring is snug in her jewelry box. We even laugh about SpongeBob sometimes, even though he’s done and said disgusting things since their breakup, some of it pertaining to me (which I wrote about here).
Sadly, the ring is quite gorgeous. So much so that occasionally, when I rifle through mom’s jewelry box for something and see it sitting there, I can’t help but slip it on and wonder.
How many women have accepted a shiny, expensive rock from a broke down prince? How many are desperate enough for that fairytale that they’ll brush aside their real wants and needs? How can anyone ever be that lonely?
And you know what fucking sucks?
I think I might be on my way to figuring it out.
He was socially awkward, but not in that endearing way some people are, when everyone around knows that they simply can’t help themselves. Those people are accepted into the fold and embraced for their awkwardness. “Oh, that’s just John! He’s a few cards short of a full deck, but very nice once you get to know him.” No, not like that at all. He was socially awkward in a Fatal Attraction meets Law and Order sort of way. “...and these are their stories! DUN DUN!”
They were introduced by my godmother and her (now) ex husband, going out on a few double dates with them and such. I wasn’t terribly concerned with their relationship; in fact I pretty much ignored it...until he started spending more time at our house.
In the beginning the only opinion I had about him was that he was ugly as homemade sin – short, oddly shaped, with coarse black hair in a V that stuck out over his forehead, and a pair of beautiful blue eyes ruined by the fact that they were covered with a thick black almost unibrow and so close together, you often had to look twice to make sure they weren’t crossed. And then there was the rather large tattoo of SpongeBob Square Pants on the side of one calf. I kid you not.
But eating dinner with him at the same table and sitting on the couch opposite his Hunchback of Notre Dame frame, I became uneasy. He never said much of anything and when he did, it was strange and had a tinge of faux cheerfulness. And the way he looked at and touched mom made my stomach turn.
I’ll admit I tested him – ignoring him, being rude - if looks could kill he’d be six feet under. I had suspicions. And when, after barely a few weeks of seeing each other, he was showering her with expensive gifts and sending flowers to work every day, I knew I was on the right track to psycho town.
I was sitting alone on the porch one evening reading when mom came out to ask my opinion on an outfit. I looked her up and down, nodded my approval, and went back to my book. Still she stood there until I looked again, a thoughtful expression on her face. “So”, she leaned across the back of the chair in front of me, “what do you think about SpongeBob?” (It’s what we called him behind his back. Still do, in fact.)
I looked at her with exasperation. She already knew what I thought of him as I’d said so loudly and more than once. I believe the most often used phrase was “fucking creepy”. But mom is one of those people that will continue to periodically ask the same question, always hoping for a different, more satisfying answer. I sighed, wondering just what I needed to say this time to prevent her from ever asking again.
“I don’t like him”, I said seriously. “Every time I look at him I think to myself ‘it puts the lotion on it’s skin, or else it gets the hose again!’”
She immediately burst out laughing. I’m admittedly an amusing impressionist, but I meant every word. And I couldn’t help chuckling a bit at her reaction, but I followed it with a sobering “just you wait” in case she doubted my sincerity.
I needn’t have bothered. Mom happens to think 95% of people are insincere, hence the repetitive question asking I suppose. My answer became a running joke, repeated often at the family gatherings that he didn’t manage to weasel his way into, and yet she still continued to date him.
The more time he spent around her friends and family, the more insistent the clamor became – “There’s something wrong with that guy. (Dun Dun!)” And though he was not an intelligent man, as evidenced from our previous stilted and juvenile conversations, he was street wise. He recognized the signs of unease and he made changes to his routine. Rather than sending her flowers every day, he took it down to once a week. Rather than just giving her an expensive present, he also gave them to my sister and me. Rather than just sitting on the couch and staring off into the distance at Sunday dinner, (I’m assuming it was the distance... Like I said, his eyes were almost crossed) he painted the outside of my grandmother’s house.
I wasn’t very happy about the situation, but I was also being bought. Which is nice, terrible as that may sound? (Especially when you’re a single parent whose baby’s daddy is a man whore that fathers more children than a Polygamist cult leader and your kid is last on the child support totem pole.) And as an added bonus, there was talk of them moving in together and mom giving me the lake house outright. Creepy fucker with a SpongeBob tattoo or not – a free house is nothing to sniff at.
But after they’d been dating for several months, mom had to have major surgery. I took the day off and planned to stay at the hospital with her overnight, but that morning he joined grandma and I in the waiting room and he never left. I couldn’t get rid of him to save my life and being close to him for that long was making my skin crawl. The minute they informed us she was out of surgery and in a room where we could go in, he was off like a shot. I was livid.
He sat beside her the entire afternoon and into the evening, leaning over the space between the couch and the bed, and rubbing her right hand raw while her left repeatedly jabbed the little red Morphine button. To make matters worse, when she had visitors he refused to move – just sat there with his ass crack hanging out of his stupid shorts, chafing her hand like a lunatic.
I left. I couldn’t help it. Grandma took one for the team and said she’d stay the night because if I had to sit in the same room with him for one second longer, they’d have had to do emergency surgery and remove my foot from his ass.
A few weeks went by, with mom laid up in the bed at home. He continued to drop by and call, but miraculously she seemed to be coming around. She started avoiding him and making excuses. I thought his behavior at the hospital had finally pushed her through the veil.
Then she showed me the ring.
Apparently he’d proposed to her some weeks before and she’d kept it to herself. She told me that she wouldn’t give him an answer, so he just gave her the ring and said to wear it and think about it, or something of the sort. I was horrified.
Lucky for me (and probably her skin), when she started to distance herself a little, he shot himself in the foot. Stepping up the psycho routine, he sent nutty text messages and had his mother call my grandmother and cuss her out for no apparent reason. Adios, SpongeBob. You don’t fuck with my grandma.
And though he was everything but a gracious ex, he did refuse to take the ring back.
Now mom has a relatively normal boyfriend who we love and the ring is snug in her jewelry box. We even laugh about SpongeBob sometimes, even though he’s done and said disgusting things since their breakup, some of it pertaining to me (which I wrote about here).
Sadly, the ring is quite gorgeous. So much so that occasionally, when I rifle through mom’s jewelry box for something and see it sitting there, I can’t help but slip it on and wonder.
How many women have accepted a shiny, expensive rock from a broke down prince? How many are desperate enough for that fairytale that they’ll brush aside their real wants and needs? How can anyone ever be that lonely?
And you know what fucking sucks?
I think I might be on my way to figuring it out.
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