Mastering the Art of Wooing a Lady (OkCupid Edition)

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“What is a beautiful lady such as yourself doing on this website?”

LOL

I re-activated my OkCupid profile last week. It’s been 7 whole days and I’m still on it! Last time I lasted less than 24 hours and the time before 5 whole days which led to that hilarious cub encounter buried deep in the archives, here let me pull that up for you.

I am having the best time ever! I tweaked my profile to display my sardonic wit which I thought would separate the men from the boys but it does not: “Message me if your dick is pointing in my general direction” separates the cobras from the turtles and that is alright by me. Age is just a number, right? OkCupid is a free for all. It’s a dick salad! Why are these people only on the internet? Where is the dick salad in real life? I don’t get it, but whatever, I AM GLUED TO MY COMPUTER AND I NEED A BREAK.

There’s a fuckton of dating sites out there and they all have their own flavour. I told you before I get mailings from match dot com, the morning scrolling of scrotum of middled age losers seeking breeding possibilities, gross. Then there’s LavaLIfe, so complicated and segregated: What if I am looking for Prince Charming AND an awesome Hate Fuck (more on this later)? I have to fucking write two profiles and think of more than one user name (the hardest part of joining any dating site). Also there’s Plenty of Fish which I think your mom is on. I guess I am your mom so I should shut up but I just don’t want to be part fish culture, it’s so fishy.

OkCupid is like a big giant sports stadium cum (lol) refuge centre after Noah”s Ark sank and everyone needed a place to go to change their underwear and grab a hot dog or whatever. Plus it’s a place where you can find out a lot about yourself and your inner desires, especially when you have to answer all those inane multiple choice match questions (which you can do at your leisure bits at a time). I do value intellect and a sense of humour and hopefully they get that random math question right because otherwise they will never find your Gspot. Some of the questions make no sense when you think about matching with someone, for example: Do you wear underwear? YES, EVERYDAY, I’M A SNAIL FFS. What if HE went commando? I don’t care. Does it bother him that I wear underwear? It shouldn’t. Does he like to keep his furniture clean? Stupid.

My week started out in a civilized manner. I re-activated my old profile with some CURRENT pictures PLUS my Instagram feed AND a link to this blog so you know I’m not a bot, I got nothing to hide. I got some nice cordial responses and an offer to go for drinks with asuper hot young dude who looked like post-modern Jesus as shot by Mario Testino who would probably be able to walk down any given street and every man, woman, and child (over 16) would want his number. They come and then they disappear into ether of the internet as though they are just a dream. Sigh.

Then on Sunday I tweaked my profile. I added some things and I answered all the bondage questions. Now I can’t breathe. So many messages AND I WANT TO ANSWER THEM ALL BUT I CAN’T!

So I have tips for y’all when responding to an ad, they are me-specific but they could be applied to anybody really, and please if you have any of your own, leave a comment below.

1. You need to actually read someone profile. I know that it hard in the world of ADHD mobile apps where you scroll and swish to the left and you have to keep fingering to til you get to your favourite OCD number (mine are sets of 12). But if you are going to message someone, you should read what they took the time to write. YOU SHOULD WRITE ONE OF YOUR OWN. I would rather see someone’s boneheaded list of 6 Things You Can’t Live Without be: 1. Beer, 2. my dick, 3. pussy, 4. more pussy, 5. your mom’s pussy 6. my cat than left blank. It’s not hard (that’s what she said).

2. When you leave your first message, don’t just say “Hi ;)” YOU NEED TO KNOW YOU WILL BURIED IN THE VERY BOTTOM OF DICK SALAD LIKE A SLIVER OF RAW ONION. Read the lady’s profile. Then you write: “Oh hi, I like your profile. I love fried chicken!” And trust, the lady will write back and before you know it, you will EATING fried chicken. Yes.

3. If the lady does not respond right away, wait. Oh my God, just because the green dot is on does not mean she’s a cable rep. She might just be eating her dick salad slowly, maybe she’s enjoying sucking on a kalamata olive, DO NOT TAKE IT PERSONALLY. Try again tomorrow.

4. Just because the result of answering all those questions yields a low result of an under 50% match, does not mean you should dismiss that person. There is one question that got me thinking which was: “Could you have sex with someone you hated?” And I thought about it and YES.! YES! YES! YES! And now that’s what I want. I found someone I could tell just by looking at his face that I would HATE him and now I can’t stop thinking about him. He would totally NOT get me and think I was sloppy and ridiculous and I would think he was boring and tedious and would tell each other to shut up and we would look at each like, BLARGGGGH I HATE YOUR GUTS and then some jolt would come out no where and in an instant we’d be pounding each other in a rhythm that only the darkest jungle has ever felt. Five stars I gave him. I have yet to hear back.

5. Married dudes, let me redirect to Ashley Madison dot com. There’s a whole bunch of them with faces obscured, scrolling, trolling like they belong here. Some of them say they are in “open relationships” and their wives are cool with this. No judgment to any of you but this lady has no fucking interest. Literally. Nothing more boner-killing than a grown man who gets his kicks from sneaking around from his “mommy.” It’s just not hot. I don’t run on an appointment schedule, THAT IS WHAT A RUB N TUG IS FOR.

6. Setting up a date. This is the tricky part! Once you’ve had some clever back and forth banter, it may be time to move over to exchanging phone numbers. I made a rookie mistake by giving my phone number out too early and I like sleep at night with my phone on because I have kids might be calling from the police station. I DO NOT WANT PENIS PICTURES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT! I know what it looks like and it’s not a visual thing for me. It’s the velvety tactileness that keeps me coming back. DO NOT BE IMPATIENT WITH THE LADY. Don’t forget she is a lone wolf, she probably hasn’t smelled a man in a while, she spooks easily.

7. If you say to the lady at ANY time: “Would you like to go for coffee” you will be promptly taken out of the dick salad and thrown directly in the compost bin. Lady does drinks. Not. Coffee.

8. If the lady disappears into the the internet ether, then let her go. It’s a fish stew out there for you, go get some.

I haven’t actually gone on an OkCupid date since that last one, two summers ago, so I don’t have any good tips of how to conduct yourselves, that’s up to you and your instincts. Also I promise not to blog (without permission of course, and I had permission that last time) about anything that goes on, as I am a lady. But the one thing I wanted to say, was THE BEST RESPONSE EVER was a gentleman who wrote me the most beautiful poem based on my profile that I will forever cherish. Who says the internet is not a romantic place?

 

 

Mastering the Art of Being a Mistress

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I’m so bored this summer I could totally bone your husband but RELAX I won’t, I’m also way too lazy to put in the work. I’m living vicariously through a friend who is newly single and is finding her mojo everywhere her usual daily grind takes her: She sends me photos from dudes and chicks on the street she finds hot: PANTY CREAMER ALERT! A cop on a horse! A MILF-type in the park with wind in her hair! SHE IS ON FIRE WITH LUST IN HER LOINS and I am drowning in my own morning wasted panty sludge. If I stick close to her, I can get some of her contact mojo, maybe.

She’s having some great epic sexting with a married man. I’ve had a few of those myself, whatevs, usually ends with some lunchbag letdown Skype session where all I can do is obsess about finding my good angle when scrunching my bra down. I AM THE WORST SEXTER EVER, a real boner killer, trust. But my friend has it all going on and it’s like they are both writing Harold Robbins revival novel. I still love my Harold Robbins and learned every trick I need to know from The Lonely Lady and The Carpet Baggers. I might be bad at sexting but I’m good at holding my breath with water in my mouth and you’d have to take me a porterhouse steak dinner to find out what that’s all about. Call me.

I feel like I could teach a course at the Learning Annex: How to Be the Post-Modern Madame Pompadour and Live Your Dreams. Even though I am a failure at love and all relationships in general, I have observed y’all doing the mating rituals like zoo animals with no regard of any superfluous and confining nuptial agreements. I have many case studies even though I have no clue whatsoever how the male mind works, I know the ladies and I have seen your mistakes aplenty. Take notes:

1. The first and most important hard and fast rule when embarking on this mistress lifestyle is: DO NOT GET ATTACHED TO THE OUTCOME. In fact this is the most important rule of life, it’s the Buddhist credo. It goes for playing a game of tennis to buying a house to the mastering the art of mistressing. You more or less just have to live in the now and not get hung up on the fact that at some point, somebody is going to get hurt real bad. Spoiler alert: It won’t be him.

2. Rationalize that his wife is a murdering shrew and you are saving him from a life of disparaging henpecking and of course, celibacy because they haven’t had sex in months or years. This is probably actually true by the way. I will never forget how last month I was at St. Louis Bar and Grill and I watched a husband and wife having wings and beers and he was blithely chowing down and she was staring at him, not eating, just staring with hatred of a raccoon stuck in an empty garbage bin, you could actually see a cartoon thought bubble appear over her head and in capital Comic Sans: I HATE THE WAY YOU CHEW! I SWEAR TO GOD I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON THAT DRUMSTICK AND I WILL MAKE GODDAMN SURE I WILL FAKE A HEIMLICH ON YOU, SO DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!  

It was palpable. And you really had to feel sorry for the dude and at one point, he and I locked eyes for the last second, his gaze pleaded “Help Me.” And after when they finished and he walked by my table, I made the finger in the hole hand gesture which he probably mistook for me mocking him which I guess I was because fuck him and his chewing chicken wings with his mouth open and licking his fingers, ugh. Anyway, you can have him, he’s probably ripe for Mistress 101.

3. Prepare yourself for loads of free time. Once this mistressing thing starts to happen, even during the sexting foreplay phase, these married dudes have a habit of disappearing for days at a time. One minute you’re sending hot sexy messages (whilst you are watching Netflix of course) and the next minute, nothing. It’s like your phone has died but it hasn’t because later you get a message from your best friend who is having a crisis and you ignore her because sexting comes first. But you end up watching two episodes of Hannibal and he still hasn’t responded so that was a waste. GET USED TO THIS SPOOKED HORSE, SISTER, AND DON’T EVER IGNORE YOUR FRIEND BECAUSE YOU WILL NEED HER TO GLUE YOUR DUMB ASS HEART BACK TOGETHER BECAUSE YOU FORGOT RULE NUMBER ONE.

4. Have you ever watched Roger Federer play tennis when he was at the top of his game and even at this year’s Wimbledon match? No? Well dude is in control, it’s like he loses the first few games on purpose to make his opponent think he is the one dominating. And then, after his rival is too tired to be all cocky, he knows how to place that ball so his opponent will have to scamper across the court to return it like a passed out drunkard. Take a page from Roger’s book, this is what you have to do as a Master of Mistressing. Make him feel like a boss in the beginning so he can maintain reasonable boner erectus AND THEN hit him cross court with some wack-a-doodle drop shot that makes him remember not to chew with his mouth full.

5. You have to compliment him on his penis. I KNOW! They are all the same to me, too. You have to make his seem special and they all are, yes indeed. To have a penis is like having a puppy around all the time. I wish I had one. A puppy, I mean.

6. Time management is tricky with some of these men. What is up with a grown middle age man who claims to have only a window of time or has to wait for his wife for whatever? Dudes: Why can’t just say “I’m going to Banana Republic to check the sales” and then take your sweet time about it? And then HOURS later come home and say they didn’t have any 34 Long in those stupid Dawson fit that makes your ass look boxy? Mistress, you are going to have to teach him to lie without his pants actually setting fire. And make switch him over to slim fit Aidens because you can. You have the power.

7. Ignore your friend when she tells you at the nail salon: “They never leave their wives you know.” You yell back: “YOU SAY THAT LIKE IT’S A BAD THING. I DON’T WANT A HUSBAND, LET  HIS WIFE WASH HIS SOCKS.” And then when you are home alone drinking a 1.5 litre bottle of wine to yourself because he is incommunicado with some family function, don’t get all caught up in that laundry fantasy you have where you sort his socks from light to dark and fan them out in his top drawer. Are you crazy?

8. Assume everything he says is a lie.

9. Know when it’s over. Seriously, sister, that could even be before it ever begins. But if you stretch it out for months and even years, you will know when it’s time and when it comes, you will walk away with all  the dignity you can muster because that is what Madame Pompadour would do. And then she got her hair did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Winged Eye Liner

 

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June is my favourite month. It has its laundry list of problems though and here are some:

Mystery air fluff that makes you sneeze, mystery tree goo that turns your car into a caramelized apple, glaring white cellulite splattered with teeny weeny blue spider veins on your upper thighs, the compulsive need to go and sit on a patio and drink $80 cocktails, maggots in the kitchen compost, the conundrum of what to wear underneath a skirt if it isn’t long johns, having to go buy new Birkenstocks because you stepped in dog shit last October and your old ones are still underneath the rotting wicker love seat on your front porch, buying your first watermelon because ’tis the season and it is heartbreakingly and disappointingly flavourless (probably because it came from a truck along with those gross white GMO strawberries), sweaty bra smegma, that plantar wart you got in the winter from not wearing flip flops in the steam room is no longer a cute little friend and needs to be lanced otherwise you can’t get a pedicure OR YOU WILL BE TREATED LIKE A LEPER AT 5 STAR NAILS and you absolutely one hundred percent need one if you insist upon wearing those fug-ass Birkenstocks all summer… AND the list goes on.

I’ve been having some health issues recently which I will not burden you with except for the fact that I am quite possibly DYING OF BOREDOM on top of it all.

“Only boring people get bored,” says Dr. Phil when he is yelling at an insolent teenager on one of his shows.

It’s fucking true. I am so boring, it’s like a disease. I am a human Birkenstock. Today, Freddy, my parents, and I went to a mall to actually buy “Baby’s First Birkenstocks” as is our Spring tradition. Baby is 18 now and going off to be a counsellor at camp for the summer as is his destiny and needs to wear giant ass cork paddles on his feet because that is what they all the kids wear. I realize I am in my glory in sensible shoe shops. Yo, I picked up a Croc in “Soft Mocs” and said out loud to no one in particular, “I need this shoe in a size 10.” IT HAPPENED TO ME. I didn’t get them as a sense of shame took over but! These Crocs had a jute wedge, a leather strap upper body with a faux-Burberry underlining. They were genius.

Don’t put my on the ice floe just yet as I am still enjoying my food.

Used to be that June brought on the promise of summer flings, that patio promise of becoming social again, wearing a summer dress and upskirting accidentally on purpose a pair of  neon pink lacy underwear underneath (that is what you wear in the summer FYI) especially after a winter of eating melted parmesan cheese biscuits with your boyfriend, Netflix. But then of course, “Orange is the New Black” came out in the beginning of June, stalling us all.

Anatomy of a Binge Watch, an ode to #OITNB, no spoilers ahead:

Day One: Watch the first episode…huh…what happened to Lori Petty and why does she look 100 years old? IMDB her and she is the same age as me, holy shit. Watch 4 more episodes that day. Order pizza, drink wine, fall asleep during episode 5.

Day Two: Wake up early to move car because tenants are having a yard sale and maybe I can put out some stuff, too, make a few bucks. BUT! First rewatch episode 4 (too drunk to remember) and definitely episode 5, watch also 6, 7, and 8, drinking coffee. Holy shit, it’s noon…too late to yard sale. Feeling a bit of ants in the pants, like no wonder I am suffering from Boredom-itis, I have just watched 4 straight hours of TV. I watch two more episodes. Eat a crumpet with jam and smear it all over the laptop keyboard and sneeze a bit of it all over the screen, it’s a sign. I decide to go to Shoppers Drug Mart and get BB cream because a) I can’t get Lori Petty’s wretched face off my mind  b) I need a raison d’être to get out of the house. The tenants are still having their yard sale. They made much money and sold a giant ass tv to the local crazy and I missed the whole transaction. I buy a pair of red converse because they are in my size and I feel like Cinderella whenever I find random shoes that fit, is that just me? I wear the Converse and go the Shoppers, buy a BB cream and yet another liquid eyeliner because I still hold on to hope. Have we talked about winged eyeliner yet or have I just been thinking about it obsessively all this time?

This:

It’s still Day Two: Go home, I HAVE 3 EPISODES OF “ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK” LEFT. Evangeline is 4 episodes behind me and she is watching it on the main tv. I hunker down with her, re-running half heartedly, and practise my liquid eyeliner skills. Why is it so goddamn hard? I am an artist-type and I cannot master this. Do you notice Red from OITNB wears her eyeliner kind of in the crease in a strange way? I look this up on “reddit r/makeupaddiction” and there is an entire forum discussing the entire cast’s hair and makeup. It’s all Dolce & Gabbana and not actual windowsill soot and Kool-Aid which goes to show you. I hope they made Lori Petty look haggard on purpose because help me, I really hope my BB cream works. Also I need to wear lipstick, my mother keeps telling me. I WATCH THE LAST 3 EPISODES ON MY LAPTOP CLUTCHING MY EYELINER.

I need to watch the whole thing again but more slowly this time.

A scrolling of scrotum. What?

One of my closest friends is newly single and has been looking on dating websites to see what it’s about and is laughing her head off so at least there’s someone who is amused.  Every morning I wake up to a daily email of match dot com eligible bachelors for me, Smiles Pattycake (don’t ask) to choose from. I am not actually registered on this site because they want money and just kill me if I start paying for this, they just send me a scroll full of teasers so that I will join because these dudes are so hot. The other day, my ex-neighbour showed up, the Lillipution divorced sad sack who hired hookers on Friday nights and then moved to a condo with his dog that he was truly in love with, so much so that he fucking wrote about him in his profile. He also had his list of criteria for the perfect woman, including her height and hair colour and AGE. He and all the other middle-aged lumpen moobacious (self-described as “athletic and toned”) men in his age range are looking for women 10 years younger or more, ie. BREEDERS. I have been monitoring my match dot com dick list for over a year and the same inventory of losers show up in different formations so they don’t think I won’t notice I am getting the dregs of mankind. Here’s a tip, DingleDouche69, YOU WILL NEVER FIND LOVE WITH YOUR LIST OF CRITERIA, GO GET SOME SUSHI AND STIFF YOUR FINGERS AND CALL IT A DAY.

I thought I would die of boredom but instead I think I am going to die of despair. I need to unsubscribe from such things.

It’s World Cup Fever. There are lots of men to be found and yet no men who are interested even if you are wearing no underwear, never mind neon pink ones.

Seriously, if you want to find a bunch of dumb men, go to any sports bar right this moment. They are all huddled around talking about World Cup Soccer like they know what the fuck is happening. The other day I heard two men talking for what seemed to be the entire season 2 of OITNB about how the ball rolled off one guy’s shoulder and landed in the net like it was some strategic-inspired miracle of the holy Gods instead of dumb luck based on the wind and the goal tender having fluff in his eyes.  Ugh. So. Boring.

Although fun fact I learned today: The team from Netherlands wears orange jerseys because it’s the royal colour. That is all. Okay, I’m going to practise my winged eye liner now, and wait for this boredom to blow over and maybe see what else is on Netflix.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Attack of the Internet Trolls!

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Last week I had a kerfuffle with a stranger on the Internet. It was hardly anything worth reporting but it encapsulates a much bigger issue that bugs me enough that I can’t think of anyone better to share with than y’all, my interweb kitten pals.

I was perusing through the job listings on Craigslist as I am wont to do, like 10 times a day. I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE THINKING: Why are you looking on Craigslist for jobs, aren’t the only people on that whack site crazy serial killers, like Buffalo Bill from “Silence of the Lambs” plotting to lure you into a dark lair to murder you and make a meat dress from your starved hanging flesh? Probably. Every so often I find a job that I think I would like and yes, I will send a resume and witty cover letter and I will inevitably hear the sound of interweb crickets. I often wonder if my applications are going straight into a SPAM box but then every once in awhile I will get a response. A couple of times even, I had interviews and thought everything went swimmingly well and would be perfect for the job(s) but then never heard from the prospective employers again. I can only assume they called me to check out the size of my ass to see how my hide would fit into their designs. Still crazy that I didn’t get hired because I have enough flesh to last for weeks in a hole in the basement. Trust.

I found a job title that caught my eye: STUDIO MANAGER IN LESLIEVILLE. Pretty generic, so I clicked on the description of requirements which was all check: Must have computer skills blah blah, social media, blogging, Facebook, blah blah, MUST HAVE RELIABLE CAR…$11 an hour, hours from noon til 5, MUST BE AVAILABLE FOR “OVERTIME” WHEN ASKED.

First of all, before we comb through the true crime of this ad, I really hate it when job listing don’t actually list the company’s name because then when you are writing your witty and personalized cover letter, you have nothing to research so you can throw in some inside knowledge. We are only going to have to assume that Buffalo Bill of Craigslist was placing the ad, and his “studio” is where he makes his meat dresses. Except Buffalo Bill is most probably female which I will explain later, so we will now refer to her as “Buffalo Billie” from now on. If you know it’s Buffalo Billie’s human meat dressmaking studio, you can write a little personal nugget: “And I loved your last year’s winter collection of wrap dresses made from the hide of Italian men, so luxurious!”

So I read the ad, even though it’s the kind of job I would want whatever it was, I let it go and kept scrolling on because part-time/minimum wage is not really going to work out long term for moi. Why would Buffalo Billie not just put “Internship” on the listing like everyone else? That way you know they are looking for university graduates desperate enough to work for shite pay, or no pay at all, or a hilarious “stipend” that you carry to the bank at the end of a term that can maybe cover your metropass, a can of Arizona Ice Tea and a lottery ticket at the corner store.

But whatevs, so what? Buffalo Billie can pay whatever she wants, it’s her business. Besides a lot of people have two jobs. They can work for Buffalo Billie in the day from 12 to 5 and then trot over to their servers job at night. BUT! Then I thought, how can you have a second job when Buffalo Billie wants you to work over-time at her whim? I did my maths in my head and calculated that at $11 an hour, which is basically minimum wage, and 5 hours a day, you are making $55 per day, $275 a week, a little over $1100 a month! AND she wants you to own your own car so you can fetch her some twine at Staples to topstitch her latest collection of Chinese Cheongsams made from the flesh of…well, you know. SHE WANTS YOU TO OWN YOUR OWN CAR AND WORK FOR MINIMUM WAGE! IS THIS CRAZY OR WHAT? Unless you won your car on “The Price is Right” and live in your mother’s basement, I fail to see how this is even possible.

Well, I let all that sink in and before I knew it, I had a bee buzzing in my bonnet, and when that happens, my fingers turn to scorpions and I will lay wrath where wrath is due.

You know I am a salty bitch and swear (in writing) like a longshoreman and I am unapologetic about it. The smartest people in the world (Louis CK and my friend Lorraine) will lay an “F” bomb here and there and it sounds highly intellectual. I’m just telling you this now because, I answered Buffalo Billie’s ad like this:

“I am responding to your ad on Craigslist for studio manager. I understand you are offering $11-12 per hour  for a 5 hour work day and require that the candidate “must have a reliable car.”
Are you high? Perhaps you should pull your head out of your asshole and realize the position and wages you are offering for what you offering is disgusting.
People are actually looking for jobs so they can live, not run their cars so they can suck your dick. You should be ashamed.”
I SIGNED MY NAME WITH MY PHONE NUMBER. I am not an anonymous internet troll after all. I know, it’s harsh, but when I get the feeling of righteous indignation, I will act upon it. I will sign your change.org petition about missing girls, I will kick a Sharpei off a Shiba Inu (what? long story but trust, the Sharpei had it coming), and I will go to court on your behalf to fight the douches of the world. This is what makes me awesome, if nothing else. So I wrote that email and pressed the send button and thought nothing of it because it is Craigslist after all and nobody ever answers back.
Well wouldn’t you know it, the one time I write a profanity-laced email is the one time I get a response. I can tell you for absolute sure if I sent Buffalo Billie my resume with a generic cover letter, I would have made the trash pile. But Buffalo Billie responds! And it is woefully and sadly disappointing. Let’s go through it together:
“Hi Kristin,

Thanks for taking the time to respond – I’m sorry you had such an emotional response to my posting and felt that a verbal attack was warranted.
Being a small business owner I wish I could offer more. The benefits that come with this position are pretty stellar but I choose not to make that the focus of the job posting online because I don’t want to attract people similar to yourself. The vehicle costs are also covered, in case you’re wondering.The wages do get increased as time goes on, depending on the level of commitment and dedication and hopefully not long after hiring, the person would become an integral part of a team of fantastic and appreciative people, hopefully with a full salary and a long-term, two-way commitment.”
There’s more but we’ll stop here and do some maths again:
THE BENEFITS ARE STELLAR!!! I have 32 teeth in my mouth, so unless you are paying for all them to get $500 veneers, 80% coverage (one of the better plans) on a  $200 dentist bill twice a year is not going to make minimum wage look like delicious gravy. AND who the fuck under-promises when advertising for a job and expects to attract people unlike myself, who I assume she means ugly internet trolls? Buffalo Billie places an ad for shite pay and crap hours and figures she will attract the cream of the crop of eager minions, like all her other employees who are grateful to work for a such amazing Her Majesty. They are probably all dead, hanging on hooks in her basement, turning into leather, and she probably uses the veneered teeth for her accessory line of earrings and matching necklaces. So appreciative of that kick-ass dental plan.
And then she writes:
“I’m not high, my head is atop my shoulders and not stuffed into any orifice, nor do I have a dick that needs sucking, but thank you for for covering all bases. I won’t be ashamed, but for you.”
She doesn’t have a dick that needs sucking, that’s why she is a she and not a he, because no man would write that sentence, am I right? And yes, I should have wrote “proverbial dick.” Oh my God, some people take things so literally.
The sad part was that she googled me and found my now-defunct career as a real estate agent and said that she would spread the word to everyone NOT to buy a house from me as my “personality is not classy.” Sweet Jesus, what does she think real estate agents do? The good ones fight tooth and nail to make shit happen for their clients. I have seen one of my very favourite agents push and shove another dude off a porch while swearing at the top of his lungs. It was epic and awesome and he has his own brokerage now. SIGH, those really were good times come to think about it.
Anyway, my sadness and disappointment lies in the state of employment in this city. I am afraid it is a place where milquetoast and mediocrity rule the game. And nobody wants to hire a salty old broad who is actually really quite sweet in person. And would make a really chic meat dress.
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What Ever Happened to All Those Van Pattens?

YOU HAVE TO BE A SEVENTIES KID TO GET THIS.

In between angry hot flashes, I had this major mind-blowing IMDb Trivia experience yesterday and I had no one to share it with because my kids grew up on Hannah Montana, so I’m just going to lay it all out here for us all to groove to, or not, but if you care at all about Salami from “The White Shadow” keep scrolling:

It began with John Slattery from “Mad Men” on “The Kelly and Michael Show” promoting his new first-time directorial film, “God’s Pocket” which by the way, has Philip Seymour Hoffman in it as his last completed project…so SAD! Okay, but let’s focus: They bantered on about Mad Men, which you probably don’t watch but I do but I never knew that in REAL LIFE, he is married to his TV ex-wife, Mona, played by TALIA BALSAM (pay attention, the Van Pattens are coming) here they are in civilian garb:

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And here they are as Roger and Mona Sterling:

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So awesome.

AND HERE IS TALIA BALSAM WITH HER FIRST HUSBAND, GEORGE CLOONEY, CIRCA 1990, HOLY SHIT:
george-clooney-4Why am I just finding this out now? Did you know this? Why didn’t you tell me?

And now comes the Van Patten tangent. I actually brought some post-it notes and created a Van Patten family tree on my laptop. I know, crazy.

Okay so TALIA BALSAM, born in 1959, is the daughter of the late great MARTIN BALSAM (1919-1996):

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Psycho, 12 Angry Men, super-prolific in the 1970s but yet, no epidsodes of ‘The Love Boat!”

and her mother is JOYCE VAN PATTEN (b.1934):

Unknown-1She did a whole whack of 70s tv, no “Love Boat,” but “Love American Style”…oh, how I loved that show…and she is the SISTER of:

BIG DADDY DICK VAN PATTEN (b.1928):
Dick_ClassicOh my God, “EIGHT IS ENOUGH” was my 70s jam, love love love! Dick was on a few episodes of “The Love Boat,” fun fact: He was supposed to play “Gopher” but changed his mind for “Eight is Enough” which was smart hockey, fo sho. He is married to Pat Van Patten and hold on to your titties, here comes the good part, THEIR MAN SPAWN! Again, if you watch tv in the 70s, you most probably have a pair of panties you wrecked yourself dedicated to one of these dudes:

VINCE VAN PATTEN (b.1957):

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I’m getting all retro swoony. Totally hot in the 70s (yes, appeared on “The Love Boat”) and became a pro tennis player! Married soap opera actress Eileen Davidson (blech, tacky ho) and now is on “The World Poker Tour.” I don’t know what to think about that but yes, I would still hit it. If I was playing Fuck, Marry, Kill with the Van Patten boys, this is the one I’d Fuck:

Eileen+Davidson+Vincent+Van+Patten+33rd+Annual+2LcopFBcxuSl

 

Next up, JIMMY VAN PATTEN (b. 1956):

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He was in the original “Freaky Friday” with Jody Foster as a cashier. Hot. 66% of those Van Patten boys seemed to have gotten their start on “The Odd Couple tv show,”  interesting. Lately he has been in the “Saw” horror franchise. Would I still hit it? Why not? I have nothing else going on. Oh, and in the game Fuck, Marry, Kill, I’d Marry this one, he has kind eyes and seemingly zero douche-factor:

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And then the first born bro, NELS VAN PATTEN (b. 1955):

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I’m not sure I have any feels for this Van Patten but he is a Van Patten, so yes, yes, I’d probably hit it. He’s had an obscure 70s tv career, was also a tennis pro, and here is is now:

2005 TV Land Awards - Arrivals

I don’t know, on second thought maybe I’ll just pass on this one, and sacrifice this Van Patten to the gods of 70s Hotness.  I would Kill him, obviously.

Which brings us to the final Van Patten, TIMOTHY VAN PATTEN (b.1959). He is NOT a Van Patten bro, he is a Van Patten Uncle. Seriously! He and Big Daddy Dick are brothers from another mother. He is my very favourite Van Patten of them all:

salami

SALAMI FROM “THE WHITE SHADOW” OMG OMG OMG! To die for! Nowadays he is a director:  Sex and the City! The Sopranos! Rome! The Pacific! Game of Motherfucking Thrones! Boardwalk Empire! I watch none of these shows, except for SATC of course. Here he is now and he is so cute, I would Fuck, Marry, AND Kill him with my hot-flashing pussy:

MV5BMTk4MDM0NDg4NV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMzgwNTgxOA@@._V1_SY317_CR12,0,214,317_AL_

You know how I feel about beards. Sweet Jesus.

The Tale of the Invisible Lady

EFOZe0n

I’ve been gone from the Bloglands for a month for a number of reasons, have you even noticed? I have been kind cheating on you with Yelp, I’ve been getting my rocks off there because there is a live audience. Last week I got a “Review of the Week” which is like getting an Oscar in the context of mass internet drivel. When this happens, you get messages all day from total strangers who send you accolades in the form of virtual “badges.” For this honour, you are chosen based upon your “FUC” rating. Unbeknownst to me, because until last week I didn’t understand Yelp and its convoluted game plan, my FUC rating (Funny Useful Cool) was high in relation to having only 12 reviews, which are just shorter versions of this blog because it’s all about ME, ME, ME and that $3 donut I just ate and yelped was just a collateral subject. So anyway, I’ve been yelping rather than blogging because like a lab rat, I work for rewards, even if they are full of shit.

Also something has been happening that I wasn’t going to tell you about because it is so awful and I hate it so much and I am full turmoil and shame and misdirected anger and general rage. It’s actually not funny at all.

I am drying up.

The last time I had hosted my tender lady time, Santa was in town. That’s 4 months ago! There is no upside to this, if you’re thinking that at least my underwear is stain-free. They aren’t. I go through at least 3 pairs a day in urinary seepage. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

At first I thought I was having a lot of drunk sweats. You know that hangover feel when your body wants to sweat out the poisons and replenish with grease? Well it was happening all the time. I went “on the wagon” whatever that means, just to be sure, and yes, okay some of these episodes were probably drunk sweats but some of them were not. THEY ARE MOTHERFUCKING HOT FLASHES! Fuck my life. I thought escape this fate and I would be invincible and now I have to deal with the harrowing disappointment that I am not. And by the way, being on the wagon is really boring and I still have insomnia and I’m more bloated than ever, what the fuck?

Here is what is bullshit: I can deal with the hot flashes. In fact, they amuse me. You’re out there in the world, minding your business and suddenly, from deep inside, your core starts to heat up, like from zero to inferno in one second. THIS IS HOW I SURVIVED THE POLAR VORTEX, BITCHES. I can deal with this, just breathe and it will pass. Even though I feel like running out into traffic, it’s okay. But what kind of evolutionary joke is going on when you feel like your innards are having a caloric pig roast, and yet nothing is actually burning? In fact, you are gaining weight, right through where all the heat is happening, comes the dreaded middle-pudge menopausal swell. Gone is that precise waist-hip ratio that when men look at you, they overtly want to plant their magical seeds inside you because subliminally they think that somehow you will be a good mother. I don’t really get it either, but it’s a fertility law that we must respect. Your waist is supposed to be smaller than your hips but these trolling hot flashes are making your waist explode like a tin of Jiffy Pop Popcorn. I’M ON FIRE, I SHOULD ACTUALLY BE MELTING! It’s fucked up is what it is. Nature is an asshole.

Breathe.

AND THEN THERE IS THIS DICK:
johnny-depp-300What the ever loving fuck is this? Am I the only one around here who sees this fool for the pathetic loser he is? “Oh, Johnny Depp, can you believe he’s 50? He’s so hot!” YOU ARE DELUDED! He looks every bit 50 and then some. He looks like he’s been rotting in the bottom of the ocean and then slapped on pancake and a costume from “Death in Venice” with Indiana Jones’ hat (WTF?)  to take his bovine trophy snatch to some function so everyone will see he has a hole with a proper waist-hip ratio where he can plant his creepy seeds. Fuck him.

Breathe.

 

I had an epiphany about the phenomenon of middle aged men and their tendency to dump you for a younger woman just when you think you have it all going on: The kids are in college and you can do some traveling, maybe buy condo in Florida, take up golf. But that goes all tits up because he “has a right to change his mind!” When it happens, you think it’s your fault because you’ve succumbed to the aging process and he wants someone younger and hotter. And then after a while and thousands of dollars in therapy, you run into them at Starbucks one day and you are shocked to see a) she might be young but she’s actually not that hot (Telly Savales in a wig!) and b) she’s pregnant, what the fuck? He had a vasectomy 20 years ago right after you gave birth to Spencer or whatever name was popular back then and he vowed he didn’t want any more kids, no way, no how, even though you could have squeezed out another despite the fact your waist hip ratio was already showing serious signs of inversion.

It’s not that he want a younger woman PER SE, it’s that he wants another breeder. Biology wins. It’s menopause for men! I wish it had an ugly name of its own because it deserves one. Dickopause or something. Men AGE and they go through hormonal changes as they AGE because they AGE and get all estrogeny and soft and pillowy and girly and feminine and slopey shouldered and the moobs! Why, they are ripe for lactation!  Probably some primal signal in their AGING brains gets all desperate and maternal, like a 35 year old woman does with her achey breaky ovaries. Old fucking men don’t even think of the consequences, oh no:  Quick! Spread the rancid spunk around before death comes, who cares if the teachers call you grandpa in the schoolyard and you’ll be in a walker at your precious loin spawn’s high school graduation: TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE and you got to keep on splooging. Ugh, fucking gross.

Breathe.

This theory does explain whatever is happening with George Clooney. He has been okay by me until recent news, I like the way he’s aged gracefully and even the way he had serial beards (no judgement) or whatever and said he would never get married because it kept hope alive, that you or me might be the game changer, assuming he isn’t gay. AND THEN he gets engaged after dating some smug lawyer for two minutes whose name looks like “Anal” in the tabloid headlines and we, as a collective force, are never going to remember it. She’s supposed to be some kind of star lawyer (eye roll) who represented Julian Assange. How do you have time lawyering celebrities when it looks like you spend all your waking hours managing your uni-brow and then somehow get to “date” and lube George Clooney up for marriage in the time it takes most people to scroll through a day’s worth of Dlisted? I hate her, I don’t care what you say, and already I told you I’m filled with irrational rage. Suddenly this Anal is the game changer?  She is the 36 year-old with a ticking time clock and he is the 53 year-old spawn bomb. This isn’t love, it’s biology and disaster. Fuck him and Johnny Depp.

Breathe.

I have high hopes for Zac Efron. He’s soooo cute! *sucks self into a pair of Spanks*

That lady on the left looks much better from the back. That makes me sad that I just said that, I AM SUCH A BITCH.

N0UVRUm

 

 

 

What Kind of Buzzfeed Quiz Taker Are You?

Oh Buzzfeed, so many questions. Is all this social media quiz-mania killing our brain cells or guiding us through our stagnant and unexamined lives? Here’s some help for you to understand the meaning of it all! Take this test and find out:

1. You scroll on your Facebook newsfeed and see that the goofy nerd from high school has posted his results to the Buzzfeed quiz “Which Gilligan’s Island Character Are You?” and he is, true to form, Gilligan, so you:

a) Pound your fat fist on that “Like” button and/or add a comment: “LMFAO! Little Buddy!” and move on. If you had bothered to take the test, you most likely would have been The Skipper. Even though you were his bully in high school, 20 years and the onset of the Type 2 Diabetes has mellowed you out a bit and now you have a lot of penitence on your plate, asshole.

b) Take the quiz yourself and find out your are the Professor AND Mary Ann, how did that happen? You snort, keep it to yourself, and scroll on for some cat video action.

c) Take the quiz yourself, find out you are Mrs. Howell, freak out, as if! You are still hot, you gave up gluten, 40 is not old! So you retake the quiz adjusting your answers, and you are of course: Ginger! You post it on your own wall and wait for the pokes to begin.

d) Are late to the proverbial party, in both life and on Facebook, and see all the likes and comments on whatever this nonsense is and notice that the one who calls herself Ginger was the girl who gave you an awkward handjob in back of the sugar shack in Grade 10. She’s 25 years older now but you recognize her smug face, you click on her profile photo album and land on the one where she is wearing yoga pants and is fully expressing “camel pose” because of course she is, you zoom in and catch the formation of a tiny bit of toe. The internet is a vast sea of porn but this!  This is what keeps you coming back. Sweet Jesus.

Castaways

 (art: Scott Scheidly)

2. Your sister takes the “What Color Are You?” Quiz and finds out she is “White” but says she would have “preferred another colour.” You:

a) Worry about her a little bit. Being White must be the worst thing ever, poor thing. Okay, it’s the worst, this signifies an unspeakable failure. You will not tell your parents even though being White is not nearly as bad as being Blue. Can you imagine?

b) Roll your eyes and review the questions. Snort. Of course she is White, all her walls in her house are beige for godsakes.

c) Clap yo hands! Take the quiz yourself, find out you are Purple. You pinch your nipples in gratitude and thank the gods for the details that they meticulously put in creating you. Tonight, in front of the mirror, you will practice winged eyeliner, with the liquid formula and a brush!

d) Get mad. WTF? White isn’t even a color, per se. Is Black even an option? You are 100 shades of grey! Why is this happening? Is this real life?

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3. In order to find out which city you should live in, one of the questions is “Which Beyoncé?”  You are stumped because there are like, 5 photos of  Beyoncés to choose from and you don’t know any Beyoncés, not because you aren’t cool, you just don’t listen to mainstream music and all that shrilling in the satellite radio at the mall sounds the same, so you:

a) Guess which Beyoncé is most New York because New York is cool and you should live in New York, everybody should live in New York at least once in their life because New York is where everything happens. You totally need to live in New York because…..

” …da da da  NEW YORK!

Con! Crete! Jung! Gull!  Where! Dreams! Are!  Maaaaaaade of

There’s la la  yuh cahhh do

Na-naah-nuh in New York

These streets will mah-muh-mah,wauh uhuha

Big luuhs-uh will ta la uuh

Huuuhla it from New York, New York, New York!”

That’s Alicia Keyes, stupid.

 b) You choose Afro Beyoncé because that is the only Beyoncé you recognize but it’s from Austin Powers which means Buzzfeed will send you to London. You are nervous to live in London because you hate the rain and are afraid of terrorists. What? Terrorists! Grow up! You shouldn’t be so afraid of things, and what do you mean you hate rain? You hate sun! You complain about it all the time: ” The sun, it’s so bright, I can’t see!  The sun, it’s so yellow, it offends my purple sensibility!” You should definitely move to London, don’t even bother finishing the rest of the quiz, just go, you chicken-shit idiot.

c) You download and listen to all of Beyoncé’s “greatest” hits, you really want to get the most appropriate answer, like a sign from the gods, because you are tired of living in limbo. Maybe Buzzfeed is the I’Ching of the Internet, a spiritual guide if you will. You light up a fatty, and blow the smoke out the window…of your parents basement. You end up watching 7 episodes Season 3 of “How I Met Your Mother” on Netflix and completely forget all abo

d) You choose any old Beyoncé and will probably, somehow randomly, end up getting Portland because that’s where all the roads arbitrarily lead anyway, so it seems, even though you retake the test, tweaking your answers. WTF, why is Portland even an option? Is is it because you are pro-pubes?

2701_Beyonce_Foxy

 

4. You’ve had a bad day, you take the “What is Your Spirit Animal?” quiz and find out you are a BEAR, you:

a) Take it literally, and drink some beers.

b) Take it personally, and drink some beers.

c) Take it philosophically, and drink some beers.

d) Drink some beers.

Gee28

5) You vow not to take anymore frigging Buzzfeed quizzes EXCEPT this one more: What Job Should You Have? Just for shits and giggles you take it and much to your surprise, it is straight forward, no dumbass peripheral Beyoncé-type questions that trip you up, and you actually get what you want! So you:

a) Quit your job as a waitress and pursue actressing because you are a natural, sweetheart. Dreams R Made 4 U.

b) Apply for Teacher’s College because teaching is in your blood. And the summer vacations!

c) Clap yo hands! Finally you can parlay your OCD into a career of Computer Software Engineering. Your mother said you would never get a date being on the computer all day but hello?! Palo Alto, California! Why did you get Portland in that other quiz?

d) Keep on blogging, Writer, don’t stop, submit, submit, submit.

*welp*

SIGH! My internet kittens, what are we going to do with each other?

uTPZrlz