Author Archives: Kristin Peterson

Hey Yes, Hello Again, Mastering the Art of Waking Up from a Coma

Long time, no write on this internet highway. I miss you folks. I have lots to say! But I’m stunted with writer’s block or laziness or lack of nutrients or something. Please, let me warm up: Blah blah ahem coff coff coff. Red leather, yellow leather. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.  Qwerty you a pointy long ass dick. *wiggles fingers* let’s go:

So I’ve been pretty busy with my job which is like my 10 year-old self’s dream of heaven, taking care of dogs all day. It’s also my 54 year-old’s self’s salvation, who would have known? It’s a pretty sweet way of spending the days and after 6 months, I’m still in the honeymoon phase. I CANNOT GET OVER THE FACT I GET PAID TO DO THIS. In the morning, I pile a pack of dogs in my car and drive them to a park, play, later rinse repeat in the afternoon. Every time I stick my head in my doggofied-seats down hatchback to load up a woofer, another ploofo-bear will ram my head with his/her tongue into my ear or whatever. I will lean in and my heart will just explode with joy as tails wag and flog my face. Plus I love the doggy smell. Corn chips and low note farts. Whatever, the nose is an olfactory mystery of wants and desires.

Speaking of which.

I am in a constant state of needing to shower, pretending I showered, not showered, just air-dried on top of my bed at the end of the day. Under boob sweat smells like expensive French cheese from unpasteurized milk FYI. I’m like totally savage these days. I have never felt hotter. And yet I’ve been a lazy hunter.

My excessive dating has died down exponentially from last year since who needs such things when you can let a Weimaraner head butt you in the ovaries. Or a muzzled mutt try to pry his metal trap open between your legs and hammer-head your upper thighs til they’re a flank steak ready to fry straight up on a George Foreman grill, ho. Bitch, I am bruised and scratched and all of that tactile energy seems to feel that need. Or did I ever really have a need? Not knowing, it’s currently a learning curve. All I have to say is I have never felt so alive.

But! In my two month comma from this bloggo, some shit went down which has been a processing exercise. I’m super bad at reacting to things straight away, a thing I learned about myself, I have to marinate and stare at walls or tv screens. Been watching “The Bachelorette” for the first time since that desperate doe-faced Trista married that Frankenstein cro-magnon looking firefighter Ryan back in the early aughts, oh my god, I remember watching that in a bar waaaaay back when my kids were little and I was sneaking out just to save my sanity. I don’t want to google how they’re doing because it’s not like I don’t care, it’s like I care too much.  I sincerely hope they are happy-ish. Ish because most people don’t even get that. I feel sad for the couples of the modern world because they bought into society’s ideals which I revere and mock at the same time. It’s a real dichotomy of emotions I feel on any given moment. Sometimes I pretend my pillow is hairy bearded Jesus looking man with a long nose and nimble fingers who can make me achieve a mighty orgasm, sweet motherfucking Christ, and help me fix things around the house. Other times my pillow is just a pillow, prop, prop, fluff, fluff, let me watch Seinfeld on Peachtree, and I need to wash the case in the morning because I’m getting chin zits.

Anyway, my pops has gone to live in Sunnybrook Veteran’s Hospital to live out the rest of his life. It’s sad, yes, but it’s not really. In his case it’s actually idyllic and well planned. He has Alzheimer’s, a terrible disease for anyone to have and for everyone around him. Going through the stages is a roller coaster at first. There’s the grumpy, angry period, where they know it’s happening, and by the way, the best time to make sure they stop driving. I get this, sometimes I forget how to shift and let my wispy mind wander into an existential overdrive that I feel like I’m going to start to fly out of traffic like an aeroplane, spelled the British way, wheee! I’m pretty sure if they don’t have cure in the next 10-20 years, my brain will petrify into a rock hard blob of no return. Crosswords don’t help really.

So, going to see my poppadom has been a mixed bag of stuff. First and foremost, my second oldest sister has taken over this whole thing and has gone every single day. She is the MVP of the family these days and she has seen her calling in taking care of our dad. She is actually glowing and they are good together, being a caregiver is her calling. My dad doesn’t know our names but he recognizes us as familiar people. In his current state, he’s like a toddler. His once brilliant mind, that had designed airplane engines in his heyday, is now enthralled by a fidget spinner. BUT HE SAYS THE CUTEST THINGS. I love you, to my mom who he has known for over 60 years, but what’s your name again? I would just swoon if someone said that me. I wouldn’t even be insulted because the fact that they still love you but kind of forget you is tantamount everything that romance stands for.

 

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So that.

Got Shingles in the spring. Was shocked when I went to the clinic and that’s what dude-somewhat-handsome-and debonair-probably-gay doctor said it was. Thought I had poison ivy because it was on my butt and I pee outside nowadays. “Let me see your bum-bum,’ he said, that’s gay, right? It’s not a big deal but it’s painful as fuck but I don’t think it’s worth spending money to get the vaccine. Life is full of shit in general so a bout of shingles is just a slap in the face that any adult should be able to deal with. Still have the rash tho :(. On my butt crack.

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Then a very tragic death happened. Won’t discuss that here but just to say life is precious and let’s watch out for each other.

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Dating: I know that’s why you read this. I have been involuntarily monogamous with my foot fetish friend! Dude from the previous post post, in goddam April, that’s how long it’s been since I’ve blarffed up a blog. I totally love his personality, he’s the chillest, most easy-going human being I have ever met. You know when people self-describe themselves as “easy-going?” They are not really. They get fucking mad at things and you never know when, it’s like walking on a land mine. I have examples but I’m too ashamed to report them. “I”M EASY GOING BUT YOU ARE A RACIST FOR SAYING MY EX-GIRLFRIEND HAS NEWSCASTER HAIR!” Okay that was just one example from the past. This dude gets mad at nothing, ever. Also, he’s is totally cool with my Shingles butt rash. He’s so quirky though, it’s like peeling an onion of kink layers. I thought the foot fetish out was something but turns out, there’s more! When someone tells you who they are, believe them, is that a Maya Angelou quote? Don”t just fucking believe them, but times it by 100, cuz that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I have a foot fetish! But I also like a lot of other things! Gather your big ol’ Home Depot 10 gallon bucket because I’m going to fill it with a list you didn’t even know you had! How lucky am I? More to follow I guess.

And yeah, I’ll just leave this here for now and thank ye for reading this far…. Summer time, let’s enjoy:

 

 

Mastering the Art of Dating Foot Fetishist or How I Learned to Wrangle an Eel Between My Toes

Sweet Kittens, it’s been a long winter for us all and the Netflix is now on the actual chill mode, if you know what I mean. Ugh, I hate it too, I’m such a lazy ass bear but! I do not want to miss out on what could be the next great adventure. Life is short and yet soooo long so let’s make it messy now and clean it up later.

First things first, protip: It’s time to exfoliate all the skin and fluff up the hairs, trim only the nose ones because all the other hairs are hot (says me). Hoes, real talk, let’s go on a Groupon spa weekend in Muskoka and get steamed up and whipped with Venik branches from Russia, we deserve it. I have been perusing all the sites for some such deals for us all to go on but so far everything looks kind of dodgy. This could be all DIY stuff with a loofah at home but I think getting out of the comfort zone is a good thing. Other people doing weird stuff to you when you’re buck naked is where it’s at. You know I’m right.

Winter has been quiet for me on the dating front. Phew, says some of you, clutching your pearls, and boo, says another lot, hands down your pants. Whatevs, I live for myself at this point. I spend all the live long day outside all out in the elements with the dogs and I love them so much that they are enough emotionally, physically, and philosophically to keep me satisfied as a whole person BUT! I still have the love of bone. I am a dog person after all.

One of my old Tinder fuckboys had been messaging me a lot recently. I am sure he also missed “Cuffing Season.”  What is that internet lingo, you ask, and is it available on Amazon Prime? No, it is not .  Here’s the thing: During the winter months people tend to create false relationships because it’s cold outside and they don’t even want walk out the door to crawl into an Uber to get to a booty call so they strategize. Some people are more ambitious than others and they actually hook up with someone they met on New Year’s Eve (I’m looking at you, Bob) and others just deflate and give up and wear sweatpants (I’m looking in the mirror now). Peeps, I’m NEVER going to have a relationship so I’m basically like a snake that wakes up in the spring and doesn’t know quite what to do but goes with the flow of the other snakes and slithers into to the Shoppers Drug Mart mid-March for Magnums “just in case.”

So my old Tinder fuckboy, let’s call him TFB for short, is a young gentleman I hooked up with in early January after last year’s gluttony of bone that ended with a couple of weird encounters, with one that I STILL need therapy over but neither here nor there, I’m a grown up, I will own it, et cetera, but seriously what the fuck is my problem. Question mark. Help. Exclamation mark.

But TFB is a lovely man. Very sweet, good-looking, suave, skilled, we had a fun time and I was super comfortable with him but hibernation calls and it’s January and I am a bear so I shut him down for a while. At one point he texted me that he does a kind of self-imposed Lent-like thing before his birthday where he doesn’t have sex for an entire month (I know right? Times that by 100 million and welcome to an entire decade of my forties) but apparently he has a Foot Fetish I was not aware of in our first encounter. Can I send a pic?

OF MY FEET… Lol what?  Anyone who has dared touched my phone knows it’s a landmine of Listeria, bacteria, tits, and now doggie fecal matter so yes, my sweet TFB, I will send not only a pic of my feet but a video of them rubbing together. How much fun is this? So much! Next time we get together it will be about my feet! I’m so down with it!

So I send him a video of my raw, just pulled my socks off feet rubbing together and I’m like all grooving but at the same time disappointed with how dry and diabeetuz they look and no polish yet on the toes but he doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m not picky,” he says, “Thank you, I’m dying here.” Oh yeah, apparently he doesn’t even jack off during his personal lent so I’m not sure if he’s just trolling me or what but who cares, life is short and long at the same time, might as well fill it with weird shit. Right? I’ve never had a dude who cared about my feet before. One guy once looked down at them and said: “Wow, how weird that your feet are veiny and anorexic but the rest of you is not.” Of course he had male pattern balding and hair on his back but I held my tongue but haha, it’s all seeping out now.

A couple of weeks pass.  TFB has his birthday, he sends me a pic of him slamming back a bottle of Hennessy (of course). He’s 27. Hoo hah. Meet up soon? And I’m very cool with that, it’s been awhile and he’s nice and I’ll get a foot massage on top of it all. We set a date and he wants me to come to his house. I hate that, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate that…going to another location for this type of thing EXCEPT that he says he has a Pomeranian. He spells it “Palmeranian” and its his roommate’s but it’s still a floofy dog I want to meet. How weird is it that I work with dogs all day and am dying to drive across town to meet a “Palmeranian” in a dodgy neighbourhood? And obviously because I am driving, I am sober as a judge when I get there. Which makes some of you say, are you ever really sober as a judge, Kristin? What kind of old fucking lady drives across town to a Tinder fuckboy’s house to see his dog and get a foot rub?

A lady that loves to live and then tell the stories, bruh. You’re welcome. I do these things so you don’t have to.

So. I get to his house and it turns out he lives in one of those shared accommodation type scenarios which I did when I very first moved to Toronto. Mine was a hilarious group of strangers  and 30 years later, I’m still friends with one of my housemates. His house was similar, probably, but the people were all holed up in their rooms. Where’s the dog? I asked. And he’s like oh, prolly out for a walk. And I’m super disappointed but also extra nervous because the main floor of this house looks like a hoarding situation. But he calls the dog’s name: “GOLIATH!” and lo and behold, a tiny little ploof of floof comes running out from under some stack of income tax papers and goes woof woof and I pet his soft furry head and I’m okay with it all. Goliath wiggles around a bit then goes back in the portal of domestic disorganization which he came from and I kick off my shoes in the door way and go upstairs to the dude’s room.

His boudoir is on the third floor. Hot with radiant electric heat. Only old women would get this, I tear off my clothing down to my undies because it’s like a like a tropical jungle. and I just want to get it all done before my parking situation expires. But he’s all coolio and says “I got wine” and pours me a cup of pale pink juice. I guess rosé? It’s sweet and he’s so sweet. Also he has his Netflix on pause on the tv that takes up the whole wall beside his bed. I’m like “Cool, what are we watching?” and he says “Dave Chappelle” because of course. I’ve actually never seen any Dave Chappelle but I am aware of who he is and that he has a comeback and so I’m down with drinking some pink juice and watching some Netflix but I’m an impatient woman with this type of dating so make things happen, dude, or I’m going to fly in ten minutes. I’m a Nervous Nellie, kind of like the Palmeranian downstairs under the hoarding cave.

Well. Turns out there are two Dave Chappelle specials. I certainly didn’t have to fly during the first one, nor did I even get to finish half of my pink juice. My feet were rubbed and tugged and toes licked…I am not doing this back, by the way, dude kept his socks on the whole time, and other regular stuff happened and I’m all good and satisfied and ready to go home BUT! There is another yet hour of Dave Chappelle and he says, don’t go! Aren’t you ready for Round Two? Oh! Okay, it’s Friday. I love stand up comedy on Netflix more than anything and Dave Chappelle is funny as fuck. So. Another cup of pink juice. Second episode and he says: “Do you want to give me a foot job?” I’m not sure what a “foot job”is but kind of guessing what that entails (entoes lololol) and I’m so down with it. I can lay back, starfish, watch the actual tv with my face and breathe through my nose. Yes, I will give you a foot job, my dude. So he brings out the baby oil. Hello, when was the last time you saw a bottle of baby oil? For me, like the 197os when certain people used to use it as tanning oil, I didn’t even put baby oil on my babies. Baby oil, people, the answer to dry diabeetuz feet, I have since been applying it nightly. Then he instructs me of what to do. At first it’s good, I’m concentrating a bit, making sure the balls of my feet are tight together whilst his greasy long ass member slides through in and out. It goes on a while, am I bored? No Dave Chappelle is my new comedy hero. Things are slithering around and I look at my situation and it literally looks like I’m wrestling with an eel in between my feet.

“Use one to anchor it and get it in between your toes!” he says, pouring more baby oil on down. Twenty minutes, my thighs are burning, no joke, my upper thighs are shaking like that time I gave birth for 14 plus hours.  It’s then I realize that a dude with a foot fetish is not a 60-year-old British gentleman named Alistair whose only desire is  to paint your toenails a subtle shade like “Pink in the Afternoon.” A true foot fetishist isn’t about what he can do for your feet, it’s more about what your feet can do for his dick. Jesus Christ. If I wasn’t all about cross-training and shaking up the work-outs I would have stopped at the 10 minute mark but instead I forged through and serendipitously during Dave Chappelle’s stand up he talks about his foot fetish, I’m just going to leave this here and say good night, sweet dreams:

 

Mastering the Art of Not Getting Sunday Anxiety Syndrome Because Your Job Sucks Balls

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Yes! I’ve miss you too, my internet kittens, but I’ve been getting my act together and whatnot. I’ve been soooooo super busy being blissful, I’ve forgotten how to blog. It’s not that I don’t need you, it’s just that my day is fulfilling enough for the occasional Instagram #doggo post. Just let me take off my pants and settle in my sweats….oh wait! I don’t have to! I am already in my fucking sweat pants and have been for two whole months! Every. Single. Day. Don’t hate me because I’m so comfortable.

Okay so last we left off, I was on a job hunt where I had a weird group interview for a small “startup” company where we had to describe our spirit animal and try and sell a glass of water to the hipster CEO. Scroll back one or click here because it was strange and maybe this is how the world works now so heads up.

Last year I had a couple of short term administrative office type jobs that I didn’t tell you about because it’s best to keep these things on the down low BUT! I will say that what I got out of both experiences was that working for small businesses that are run by completely insane people sucks balls. I would get Sunday night anxiety on Saturday morning, working was that bad.

One job, the boss was a woman from South Africa who would yell orders from her cell phone in the car. I’m not really used to talking on the phone with anyone since texting became a thing. I talk to my mom but I’ve known the cadence of her voice for over 50 years. I know her sighs and mumbles and can piece together the conversation (prolly about the weather) without have to say wut? all the time. This boss lady would scream into the speaker phone with her A/C and radio on and tell me to do something in her South Eeh-freekn accent and I’d be like, excuse me, what? Sorry, I can’t hear you, the phone is breaking up. And she’d screech even fucking louder and more shrill so I’d understand even less. My dentist has a South African accent and I love him so much, I would open my mouth as wide as my jaw would allow for him just to hear him tell me not to brush more softly so my gums don’t recede. He croons, she squawks, that’s the difference.

She also had one of those narcissistic personalities that I can’t resist fucking with, so I’d pile on the compliments, “Oh, I love your dress!” “Oh, I thought you were way younger!” It’s kind of like putting too much air in the balloon to watch it explode. I think this type of trolling is what the Trump administration is all about, they’re all just waiting for an orange A-bomb to erupt. For shits and giggles. Trolololol.

Anyway, I dreaded this woman but thankfully, it was a short-lived gig but the next job was longer and although less scary, the boss was clearly losing his marbles. I did his excel spreadsheets for his accountant. It wasn’t good (*whispers* I would have run away to an island somewhere if I were him and oh well about his wife and kids, they’ll survive). But! Zero fucks to the wind, he spent most of his time on the internet shopping for cows for his hobby farm. That was his porn. He was British. I feel like that explains it all. British men are all about fetishes and weird avocations. Also he mumbled. He always thought I wasn’t listening but it just took me about a four second delay to scramble his blathering into a coherent sentence. I totally would have dated him if he wasn’t married. I’m pretty sure he had a kinky side that wasn’t being fulfilled, hence the bovine obsession. By the time I finished that job I bought 8 boxes of Girl Guide chocolate mint cookies from his daughter. So it was worth it for that.

Anyway, so recap of last year: I was unlucky in jobs but lucky in bone, whatevs, but this year has been a switcheroo. Now some of you read this because you actually like my dating stories and that’s cool, I hope to have some more soon BUT! It’s been winter and it’s CUFFING SEASON y’all and I missed that boat, so once the warmer weather comes around so will my mojo, I’m sure. So hang tight. I have sweet repeat leftover from my Tinder days who, as it turns out, has a foot fetish! And he’s not an old British man! That’s something to look forward to, right? A “pedicure?” There has to be an urban dictionary explanation for that. I’m not sure what that entails or entoes lol, I’ll have to google, I’m pretty sure it’s easier than most of the other things on the menu these days. Hopefully because I’m having some dental work done later this month and I want to keep things pristine above the neckline. I’m that kind of girl.

So yeah, a couple of months ago I applied for a job with a dog walking company. It’s  2017, this is now a legit business that people thrive from because fur babies are people too. I don’t have the wherewithal to put up flyers and think of a cute pun name like Your Woof Is My Command Pet Service (that’s up for grabs now, you’re welcome). When it comes to work, I just need to show up, have someone tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I’m efficient, prompt, and customer service orientated. I don’t take a lunch and I poop at home. The latter business was an issue with the last boss who actually moniturd (lol) how long this one dude took in the bathroom, which was a half an hour every morning from 10:30 to 11 and he would say to me: “I’m paying him to take a shit every day!” Then mumble-mumble something else with an up intonation that I was supposed to respond to, probably with a “yes, I agree with you nod” or maybe a SMH, who knows? See what I was dealing with?  Oy.

So Dog Company replied to me and I had a phone interview with one of the owners of a family run business. She and I had a great conversation. We both are obsessed with Pomeranians, she has one, and I have a half of one in the form of Betty! They have a private dog park in the neighbourhood! It’s all local! It’s basically a dog taxi service. Pick up dogs in the morning, drive to park, play with dogs for an hour, bring dogs home, and do it again in the afternoon. I WANT THIS JOB SO BAD.

I had an in-person interview for the next step. Dog Company has a dog-boarding loft kitty corner from my gym. My gym is my second home. I do not poop there but I shower and all my secrets live in my locker. This is geographical perfection. The interview goes well! I like both the owners, they are a married couple. Do you ever notice how sometimes, more often than not, marrieds are mismatched? Like you can like one but not the other, she’s sweet but he’s a dick? Or he’s funny but she’s a shrew? Or he’s quiet but he’s a control freak? Or she’s normal but she’s got issues? It’s refreshing to meet a couple who are equally cool and fun and easy to talk to AND LOVE THE DOGS.

It’s all about the love of the dogs that makes the pack leader. And so I got the job. It’s been over a month. I’m in love with my dogs. The park is like a little Utopian canine confinement near Cherry Beach where they can run and hang with others of their kind. Or mix it up. Sniff some butts. Chase balls, fight over sticks. At first I couldn’t tell some of them apart because they were the same breed. I’ve got 3 Vizslas in my morning crew and at first I had to memorize them by the colour of their collars. But now they could be roaming in silhouette and I can tell by their mannerisms which hound is which. One of my dogs is this giant intense scary looking mutt with soulful eyes. Sometimes I think he is human. Every time I look around the park he is always standing a distance away staring at me like that one dude at the gym who I hooked up with but it turned to shit and that’s another story. It’s like we were star-crossed lovers in another life. It’s hard not to anthropomorphize the dogs because they have such distinct personalities. And I’ve been bringing Betty with me. Take your dog to work has never been more appropriate, and she is loving it. She gets to throw her weight around and bark her hoarse smoky bark without being the most obnoxious asshole because there is always another dog with a more annoying voice. But to be honest, barking is music to my ears. Compared to humans on the phone.  And if the worst part of the job is picking up shit, then at least I don’t have to put up with it. Woof woof, muthahfuckas, I can’t wait til Monday.

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Selling a Glass of Water to a Hipster

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Happy New Year, Smiley Faces, Tongues Hanging Out, Hearts For Eyes, and you all other round faced emoticons, especially you, Eyes Closed Cheeks Blushing ❤ (call me)

I know! Already over half January down the pipe so the new year is already yesterday’s news but I still feel like I’ve been frozen in time since I threw out my Christmas tree last weekend. That was a sad day because Freddy and his fish friend, Frankie, went back to school on the Greyhound that day. I hate it when he leaves because then I go into an existential funk. Also I have a very bad lingering cold so I haven’t been on Tinder either (my nasal passages are blocked!) so new stories to report but I have been on the job prowl (new year, new me, hahahahaha, same fucking shit, same old boring ass me) and I think you’ll groove to this interview I went on last week.

I found this job posting for a “start-up” company  which is in sales, I want to hone my pitchman skills. I think being able to sell is a great trait in all aspects of life no matter what kind of job you have, including dating and relationships, we’ll talk about that in the future.  Anyway this job is selling space to realtors on a website  that allows them to farm their chosen neighbourhood with free local business ads and sale promotions. The internet is chock full of website clickety click clackery and fuck knows what is smart and clever from what is funded by somebody’s dad and the cocaine dreams that only a millennial with a weed pop in his mouth could come up with when “adulting.”

And I put “start up” in italics because that was how they advertised themselves. “Start-up” always sounds genius and sexy no matter what. Exposed brick loft offices with a beer fridge and bean bag nap chairs and a low maintenance dog that mostly sleeps and wanders around occasionally for petting purposes. Team building parties where you get to throw axes. Loosey goosey time clocks. Sweat pants. Swearing. Probably even farting at some point.

I applied to the job and had phone interview with one of the two owners. She seemed nice and we role played me selling her something, anything, the first thing that comes to mind. I just parked the car so I ended up selling her the Green Parking phone app because now there’s no excuse for getting parking tickets. You just pay for street parking on your phone by punching in the meter’s code number.You want to stop for ramen after shopping and need an extra hour?  Easy peasy, you add more time on the phone app wherever you are, and when the parking gremlin punches in your license plate, it shows you’re golden even without having to put a ticket on your dashboard. Somehow we’ll be paying for the lost revenue in taxes or road tolls (!) but it really does feel good to renew your license and there’s no forgotten tickets on your annual fee. Sold! She said.

She invited me to the next step, a “mixer” which is like a group interview with food and booze. “To see if you fit in with the family.” As long as there’s booze I’ll fit in anywhere, pretty much. The family could be the Carleones or the Mansons and I would be cool with a cocktail. So I think.

The Glassdoor-dot-com employee reviews of this company are a mixed bag though. Raves: “Best place I’ve ever worked!””The only complaint I have is there’s no office dog!” Some of them are scathing: “Run, don’t walk!” “Slave drivers!” “They don’t pay you!” “Those good reviews are fake reviews!”

These are the red flags I ignore for you people, my readers, because I love you so. One day I’ll tell you about the massive red flag role playing Tinder date I had but I’m still recovering emotionally from it. Anyway, red flags =  blog fodder. I’m in. Also the pay is great, if they actually pay.

The job ad describes the website as being a cross between Yelp and Groupon which, when I peruse it, makes no sense at all. For one thing, it looks like a template of some website from the mid aughts, kind of corporate and confusing to navigate.  Basically the concept is to get realtors to purchase annually for $5000 his/her business card on the page of the neighbourhood you choose to click on. Only one realtor per neighbourhood. It is up to that realtor to go out and drum up local businesses to advertise (for free). Amazing right? The realtors pay a hunk of money for cyberspace but they also have to do all the goddamn grunt work. You know they can do this perfectly well on their own websites and farm all the neighbourhoods they want and prolly get a better optimization of search engines, even organically. Talk about modern day snake oil.

So for research, I looked up my neighbourhood on Google to see where the website would come up (page 6! Much scrolling after Yelp and dozens of other actual realtor sites) so when I clicked on it, lo and behold, there was a picture of some hapless realtor on one side of the page and the other, a coffee shop was having a free refill for every muffin purchase. One fucking coffee shop. Whoa. A cross between Yelp and Groupon? More accurately like if Yelp and Groupon smoked crack all day and passed out on a park bench. The only thing to do here is to just scroll on by, you have no reason to look at that shit.

Anyway, a mixer! What fun. I’m sure to be the oldest bat there based on their youtube video their CEO made about work culture. So fucking fun! He F-bombs on camera as he passes all the employees sprawled out on the bean bag chairs I accurately imagined.

The mixer started at 5:30 in the twee neighbourhood of Liberty Village. For those who live in Toronto, you know what I’m talking about “twee” but if you don’t, the is  chunk of no man’s land west of the downtown core if Disney designed Hipsterland. Old warehouse buildings and brew pubs and cobblestone roads and the usual Stone Henge formation of condo high rises looming over, spoiling the view. It just tries too hard. Luckily I found parking at a Green P! So I used my app at the exact 2 hour mark that the mixer promised to last. If it went longer, I could add more money….see isn’t that clever?

I find the fucking place, I say that with annoyance because there were multiple entrances to the building and some of them led nowhere and even when I got to the right place I was sweaty and dry mouthed, this is my bronchitis witching hour. I’m pretty sure there’s not enough saliva in my mouth to form a hello.

So yeah, as I predicted, I was the oldest person there. And I’m using the word “person” loosely because this is precisely the kind of social anxiety riddled situation where I go out-of-body and become some kind of robotized version of a human lady. I walked in the office and everyone was already mixing, with beers in hand and name tags on. It was loud and people were already yelling. Most of the employees were there, 15 or so. Someone hands me a warm bottle of Stella for which I am grateful because my mouth just made glue. Glurgh.

We mingle for a few minutes. It’s a bro club, there are only 2 women, one of them is the owner, a haughty blond babe, the one I spoke to on the phone, and the other is an Asian girl. She stands out. More on her later. Everyone else is a white dude under 30. There are 8 of us, the potential recruits, 3 women including my old ass, and 5 bro-lings, 4 of them you could easily set free in that fish tank and they would fit in swimmingly. One of those dudes, not so much. He is awkward and talks a lot. He’s telling us about how lucky he was to have a pair of corduroys in his car for the interview because he lives 2 hours away. Oy, can you imagine having to commute 2 hours a day to get to work for 8 and leave at 7? Oh yes, those are the hours, it’s an 11 hour day. You might as well sleep on the park bench outside the building.

One of the women candidates is a tiny, pretty Indian woman, maybe mid-thirties. She’s talking the most and the loudest. She was a dancer and she let us all know it. “I’M A DANCER!” she said swirling around the room randomly. I’m not kidding, it actually happened.

So the CEO dude finally wrangled this mess into order and told us all we would be “speed dating” with the employees and himself. So each of us 8 folk would go from station to station and have 4 minutes to talk about whatever we wanted and then switch. You might think this is weird but I think it’s brilliant and I like one-on-one, not those circle jerks where one person hogs the floor, talking in tangents, and you know that Tiny Dancer had the attention whore qualities for type of shenanigan. There’s more employees than candidates so some of us will be doubled up, the CEO explains, and Tiny Dancer yells out: “I LOVE  THREESOMES!” Oy.

I breeze through the first 3 dudes and do most of the asking of questions because that’s how I’m wired. One guy is British! He’s on Tinder! But he has no time to actually date because he is always at work! Another dude loves working there and even goes in on the weekend! One guy is very good-looking and asks me the first three things I do when I wake up. I’m like whoa. Do you really want to know? We laugh and talk about my tattoo instead. I would totally date him.

The fourth speed date is the CEO, the F-bombing dude from the youtube video. I’m in total date mode by this time and he’s the kind of guy who thinks he’s cooler than he is in an ironic way, somehow, it’s tricky to explain, it’s almost like a snake eating its own tail. Prolly on his Tinder profile, he describes himself as a “geek” because some girl he wanted to smash lied to him in second year uni when he tried to lose his virginity and told him geeks are sexy but she has boyfriend (not really) so they didn’t actually do it because geeks aren’t that sexy (depends on the geek tho). Don’t cry for him, he got’er done finally in third year with her roommate. He really thinks of himself as a cocksmith. But he’s really a garden variety nerd/ hipster hybrid. You know that kind of dude? Not. My. Type.

He’s in his office, not a cubicle, and we say hi and then he says to me: “Sell me this glass of water and you have one minute.” First of all, what fucking glass of water? Oops, he pulls  it out from behind him and sets it on the table in front of me. Jesus Christ, is he really asking this? It’s sooooooooo cliche.

There’s a partially finished puzzle on the table. My Rain Man instincts are taking over and I just want to hunker down and put the pieces together. But first I want to set this hipster Glen Garry Glen Ross operation on fire and see how many glasses of water I can sell this Geek.

But I comply. I ask him how much water he drinks in a day? 2 litres (liar). Does he like filtered water? Yes, from a filtered system. OH! Snap! How much do you think you pay per glass? 2 cents. How about if my filter system can save you up to $200 a year? How so? Then I made up some math statistic that my water would come to .04  a glass. I blathered on as my outer-body self hovered over my human lady self and watched me do this and oh, how outer-body laughed. I  downed the last of my warm beer. My minute was up. Ugh.

Next. More bros. We talk about our favourite shows. I don’t have time to watch, one of them says, I’m always here working. But I really like it here, he assures me, why be at home when I can be at work. His nostrils twitch. Huh.

My last speed date is the Asian girl who is doubled up with a bro who is scrolling on his phone. This is extremely rude. So when she asks me a question, I answer her but look at him. He’s completely ignoring me, wearing a ball cap pulled down. I’d like to slap it off his head, go finish the puzzle, THEN burn the place down. The Asian girl is probably the dumbest person on the planet but she’s wearing glasses so she looks smart. This is how our conversation goes:

AG: If a month went by and you weren’t making any sales. What would you do?

Me: Well I understand that you can have off-days or a week now and again but I probably wouldn’t let it get to an entire month. I would want to ask for feedback and further training.

AG: But what would you do?

Me: I understand that you have sales training available her so I would look into it.

AG: (genuinely puzzled by my answer) But what would you do?

Omg. I answered the question did I not? Does she want me to pet her head? This was the point I realized they might not have an office dog but they have an office Asian girl who probably eats less than the average Labradoodle.

After speed dating, we had a group circle time. I almost slunk out but! Someone handed me another beer. These sorts of group discussions are my kryptonite. I am going to shut my pie hole and speak only when spoken to. The only thing I wish is that I Snap Chatted the whole thing because some of it was pure comedy gold, mostly thanks to Tiny Dancer. She’s a snowflake, that one.

CEO: What is your spirit animal?

We go around the room. Amazing that most people are woodland beasts: Bear, wolf, snake, coyote, even I picked an owl, wise and carnivorous. Good answers, good answers. We get to Tiny Dancer. She talks in caps at all times, so it goes like this:  GUYS, GUYS, I’M SORRY BUT I’M NOT JUST ONE ANIMAL. FUCK NO. I’M THREE! FIRST, I’M A BUNNY. (pause). I’M A HORSE (another pause) AAAAAAND I’M A WHITE TIGER! HOO HA! (I swear she said ‘hoo ha” like Al Pacino in “A Scent of a Woman.”)

Okay, at this point I’m looking around the room to find someone who’s eyes I catch so we can roll them together and maybe meet up afterward and have a real drink but no. The dude beside me, the twitchy-nosed employee who spends all his waking hours there, has a note pad, and I’m think he’s going to jot down what a fucking nut bar but no, he starts drawing a bunny, horse, tiger cartoon thing. LIKE HOW CAN YOU BE A WOODLAND, BARNYARD, AND JUNGLE BEAST ALL IN ONE? DOES NOT FUCKING COMPUTE. I can’t hate her for trying and everyone is all enthralled with the explanation of her answer as bunnies are cute, horses are strong, and white tigers are basically unicorns so why not just be cute and say a unicorn which is basically a horse with a horn?

More inane questions, like what would make you work through lunch? What? Mr. Corduroy Pants shut that down quick with his: “I’m on an eating schedule because I’m diabetic.” Good fucking answer, we all nod, then all of us claim to have blood sugar issues as well. But! Tiny Dancer pipes up that she is a foodie! She eats everything! Believe or not! She twirls around and reminds us she is a dancer in case we forgot. But! She will work through lunch so she can afford 3 lobsters instead of 1. Again, I look around the room for a comrade in eye roll and once again, nothing. I’m now dead inside.

The mixer wraps when CEO asks if we have questions. Mr. Corduroy asks what the future of the company is and CEO says expansion! More cities in North America, more countries, and Europe! Also! They are going to target dog walkers. I snort involuntarily. Nobody feels bad about bilking realtors because that commission cash tho….but why dog walkers? He says they are friendly and like to network in their community. Ha! Dog walkers hate people and proof of that is their willingness to pick up dog shit rather than work in a damn office like this one.

Tiny Dancer asks: WHICH ONE OF US ARE YOU GOING TO HIRE? Finally CEO gives her the look I was after, like what an incredulous crazy bitch, and  he hesitates and umms, but she’s persistent: COME ON, WE’RE ALL GROWN UPS, WHICH ONE? You had to love her lack of filter. And who knows, she may have actually been a contender but when she rephrased her question to what 3 qualities were important in a candidate, he said something like trainability, confidence, and drive but seriously folks, look around the room and the answer is under 30, white, and male. Why mess with a winning formula? Right, boys?

Finally, a twentysomething ginger boy asked the most important and pivotal question of the evening: Where is the bathroom? And that’s when I made my Irish exit. Slink right out the door and into the elevator and back in body, old as fuck but happy in my own skin.  So! If you’re looking for a dog walker, call me!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Millennialing 

Nobody loves Les Millennials more than I, but I’m getting seriously weary of them. Also, I have to constantly spellcheck how many L’s and N’s there are in “millennial” proves I am failing with age, so annoying.  Let’s just call them “Generation Entitled Bratz,” which would be more fitting, I think sometimes, and then I shut my pie hole because they are our future and I don’t want to be one of those old people who say “in my day” when “my day” wasn’t so long ago in the context of modern history. Seems like just yesterday that I blossomed into puberty at age 14 and eventually bloomed into the beautiful cactus flower I am now.  I can even remember my first tampon, it was made out of balled up synthetic Santa beard material with one of those sharp whale bone applicators that you had to worry about your fertility each time you used them, and then to be warned in the early 1980s about toxic shock but not so worried you would ever go back to a bulky-ass belted pad that would give you a big, bulging camel tongue in those high-waisted denim flares, remember those, my old bitches?  Oy, so wish we had Diva Cups back then, could have gone swimming in a white bikini AND gotten eaten out by the pool boy and no one would be the wiser.

When I’m fraternizing with Les Millz, I borrow their lingo. I don’t let them know that technically speaking, born in 1963, I’m the flying flea escaping the tail end of Baby Boomers, as I was way too young for all the cool LSD trips and groovy hippie festivals. But! I am loath to pretend to be a Generation X because I don’t get the appeal of honky “rap” that is the Beastie Boys AT ALL. I grew up losing my virginity and trying to grasp my sense of adult self whilst enjoying the musical stylings of The Talking Heads, The Cure, and The Smiths. I enjoyed the 90s and the early aughts of Quentin Tarrantino’s heyday until I went into a pop culture coma at some point after they cancelled the O.C. I missed many things and now I do not know who Ariana Grande is from Rita Ora and why is Taylor Swift even famous? Got reborn just recently because there are so many places to get ramen noodles these days, why slip away now. I can Instagram my noodles. I’m Generation Whatevs LOLCats, and if you’re reading this, you probably are too. Here in da clerb, we are all fam. Right? Don’t worry, my children, I would never say that phrase out loud EVER (maybe never).

I gave birth to two of these millians (that’s grammatically cool, right?) and they and all their friends are loads of fun to be around. The millians, also technically known as Generation Y according to Wikipedia are born in the 1980 to the early 2000s so most of them are Of Age now. Fair game, yo. As you know from reading this blog, I am unapologetic that I like to swipe right on “mature” millians (and sometimes their younger brothers) on Tinder so I have a range of millennial insight and understanding in the way their minds work. But! I’m still an interloper. There are so many things I admire because young people are awesome in their enthusiastic view of the world. However! Some things not so much.

For example, the old timey baby boomers who are bosses of  big companies are enamoured to the point of worship with the millennials, “Let’s hire them! They can do things on the computers that we can’t!” And true, many of them are Aspergery as a product of old man’s overripe sperm (pssssst: millians’ parents are Baby Boomers!  Mick Jagger is still spreading seed! Gross! Stop! Don’t get me started on this topic, just because you can, doesn’t mean you should). The hippie generation call their millian spawn “Indigo children” because of their otherworldly “blue aura” which is whatever, eye roll, I don’t judge but *whispers* autism spectrum, most likely. It’s cool though, we need hyper focussed people in society, nothing is more fun for them than cracking binary code. They are precious children who we love even though they can’t let the peas touch the carrots otherwise armageddon and a Big Pharma Ritalin situation ensues.

But the rest of them are just faking it. Geniuses they are not. Sure, they’re nimble with their fingers on their iPhones, all whip doodly, tap, tap, getting their Uber in seconds whilst my ancient gnarly hands try and fish in my purse to get my lipstick but all I can find is a broken tampon that I don’t even need under any type of moon configuration ever again. Tappity tap tap tap, they go, look at me with a puppy filter over my face lol. Jesus Snap-fucking-chat Christ. Why are you doing this?They’re as clueless as the rest of us. “Oh they’re so good at social media!” says Kevin O’Leary, that Canadian Trump wannabe from “Shark Tank.” Are they, Kevin, really? Can these youngsters even spell, let alone construct a sentence? Look up at that conversation I had with that young dude who was half-assedly trying to fulfill his bucket list. He couldn’t even say hi, he just sent me a question mark. I was so annoyed, I trolled him, I don’t feel bad about it at all, my haters. Then he disappeared without a fight. How un-hot. And he’s not a special unicorn or anything whose disappearance makes him seem magical, he’s a common insect. Here’s a typical conversation I have on a dating website on a daily basis:

He (at 9:04 am): Sup

Me, looking the dude’s profile pic over while I start my car and put it into reverse then put my phone down like a responsible driver and to go to (shhhhhhhhhhhh) McDonalds for the (shhhhhhhhhhhhh) breakfast Mc (shhhhhhhhhhh)Muffin where I eat it (shhhhhhhhhhhh) in two inhales in my car. This is the best moment of my day, by the way, and my guiltiest pleasure. I will proudly publicly talk about my ability to squirt now but this McSecret I am confessing is with the greatest of shame. I get the McMuffin with the sausage (shhhhhhh).  Anyway, I click back on the dude’s profile to possibly respond and I have already gotten this:

He (at 9;20 am): I guess not lol.

I GUESS NOT LOL.

I have not even had the chance to say “Whatsup” with an eggplant for a question mark back and I have already been dismissed.

Older men of any other generation, be it this lot: X, Flea, Boomer,  or even a World War 2 war vets, do not say “I guess not lol.” They sit and wait like gentleman. If you don’t respond to their first cockadoodledoo, they don’t take it personally, they keep you on a back burner while they fry a hot little egg on a front burner. They don’t care, they have all the patience in the world because they know meat is better when you brine it off to the side.

My mama just told me a cute story about how she started dating my dad. It was just after the war (WW2, the big one) She was working in a diner and he used to come in and order waffles. He always wore his uniform and was shy and quiet in contrast to my mother’s chatty nature. Ugh, this dude, she thought, why do I have to do all the work here? Hinting and making her interest known like a lady. Finally he asked her to the Saturday night dance and she hesitantly said yes but! She would meet him around the corner from the dance hall. Her fear was that because he was a farmer from the rural part of Manitoba, he would be dressed like a hick and she would stuck with him. So she approached him the other side of the street. If he looked like a hillbilly, she could bolt. But! When she saw him that night, he was wearing a suit and looked super handsome (“He had such a baby face!” I’m a sucker for those too, mama) and so she crossed the street. If these two young peeps in the late 1940s were living by modern times mating rituals, my dad would have sensed her apprehension, shrugged and said, probably under his breath because there was no Internet back then:”I guess not, 23 skidoo.”

And I wouldn’t have be born! And my mother would have tried to make it work out with her boy “friend” who hung out at the bathhouse at night and chased her because he liked the way she walked. “We didn’t know they were gay back then.” She might have had little beard babies. And I wouldn’t have been born! That’s so sad to think about.

As for the millennials in the work place, they seem to have the life span of those shadflies that crash and burn on your car in the spring when you’re driving near lakes and rivers. They move from job to job, they get bored easily, decide to travel and when they come back maybe apply to grad school but then decide it’s too expensive, so they get another job again where they splat again on the windshield.  And then replaced by the same thing. Their value might be a little over-rated and maybe there should be a little more age diversity considered when hiring people is all I’m trying to say. I’ve been keeping track of this one particular “young and hip” digital marketing company that posts regularly on the job boards for various positions, that I have been ignored for of course, and what’s interesting is to read the ratings and comments. Nobody gives them more than one star out of 5 and the comments are “run by kindergartners (sic)” “working here is like being in The Lord of Flies. Unorganized anarchy” and on and on.  Job boards are my porn and this particular company is my Sasha Grey, a great big anal prolapse waiting to happen.

 

Millians, I have noticed, are more sophisticated then any other generation before them. Their first apartments are in downtown highrises with recessed lighting and granite counters. They’ve done things like eaten raw oysters and visited Iceland that the rest of us took our sweet time doing or haven’t done at all.  In the olden days we used to go to “bases” when we dated. Not sure what base was which but a home run was basic starfish missionary for sure. Millians are playing baseball, football, and ancient Greek wrestling all in one night.

They also drink high end liquor. This is what I can’t ever wrap my mind around. They do the pre-drinking at home, yes, that’s what my fellow fleas did back in the 80s, smart hockey, so then you can ride your drunk while nursing a beer at the mosh pit. My mama told me at that Saturday night dance, they used to smuggle in a mickey of gin and pour it into an Orange Crush, even smarter hockey. But these little bitches go to the clerb and order bottle service!!!! What? Another thing, they drink the Grey Goose or Belvedere vodka and they mix it with Diet Coke!!! Are you kidding me. High end vodka, aside from being over-rated and eventually very expensive piss, needs to be sipped with a twist lemon on ice, and shitty regular ass vodka can be mixed with anything clear, soda or tonic, or a citrus or cranberry juice. But Diet Coke??? They probably dump their Hennessy in that shit too. This makes me cry real tears.

Millennial girls have been getting their nails professionally done since they were toddlers. I was pushing forty when I had my first pedicure but these young women are put together by a team of professionals like those bitches on Downton Abbey. One thing about every older generation will balk about is how the younger ones do their eyebrows. Girls of my generation used to pluck their brows with tweezers to a millimetre of their lives so that some never grew back. Our mothers, with their penciled-in Joan Crawford eyebrows, would yell at us. Thankfully I was never that stupid as my natural brows were my thing although occasionally I hear voices and shave them off completely but that’s another story. But what is happening with the millian eyebrows? They need mulitiple tools and 5 different products to craft those disturbing airbrushed looking caterpillars that they post on youtube.

Millians have coined the cute term “adulting.” Like when they do something on their own that seems grown up, they will post it on social media and say something like “Look at me adulting!” It’s a selfie of them at a farmers’ market holding up a bunch of kale. That kale is their storming Normandy and needs to be documented with a hundred hashtags and monitored by how many likes by their hundreds of followers. How does one unremarkable shadfly of a human being get so many followers I will never know, but there you go.

This is a good thing though ultimately. I think millians are way better at making food choices and when they Instagram their meals, it raises the bar a little. I am going have a kale smoothie one day too. Hahahahahahaha, not! Unless it’s called  McKale and it has sausage in it lol.  #eatlikeshit

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moisturizing the Art of Squirting

splashing-sweat-symbol

Ha, ha, see what I did there in the title? I managed to make you squirm in your crotch chokra. You’re thinking: “What is she talking about? It’s got to be insightful information. I need to keep reading.”

Yes, LET’S LET THE OLD LADY SPEAK, go grab a cup of coffee and take your lap top/ tablet/phone  into the can and pull down your pants, plunk yer arse down for the 5 minutes it takes to read this whilst the others blow dry their hair in the bedroom.

Close the door.

*********************************************************

Okay, so! The story starts:

It was before I had kids, which means over 23 years ago, holy mother of God which would have been in 1992 that I read this article in the lifestyle section of the Saturday paper! Fuck knows which one because who even remembers newspapers in their old timey form but! It was this article about women’s sexuality and it was talking about female ejaculation during orgasms, which of course, current porn culture knows as “squirting” but this was before it was a thing. Ladies did NOT squirt back then because there was no internet to prove it. The article stated that that some women could ejaculate a litre of whatevs (piss? human mystery moisture? no one knew!) whilst achieving an orgasm. When I read this I was blown away! Like what fresh heaven is this? I have never had such a thing. I called my friends immediately.

The first friend, who I sadly don’t know anymore, was a single lady at the time but dating a bunch of dudes like a futuristic Tinderista. She had no clue either. Vaginally dry as crumb cake but emotionally moist as a cranberry bog and letting it be known. Sex is a trade off for modern family values. She confirmed it must be a myth. Another I called, who was just freshly engaged to a man she would inevitably get divorced from actually said yes, she ejaculated those reported buckets all the time. Sex was amazing! 10 years later, she admitted she lied, she was just “image crafting” like the hoes do on Facebook when they have to convince themselves their love is real by posting their Cancun vacation photos.

Anyway after reading that 1992 article, I had always kept it in the back of my mind that this was a phenomenon that could occur to some very special women. But not me :(. I was okay with that though. I’m a simple sexual plebe. It’s all about the check mark of getting it done. I want to hurry things along then get back into pyjamas. That’s a normal sex life when you are mothering small kids and have succumbed to  self-loathing body issues because of cultural pressures/standards. Oh! Yes, I see your eye roll and I raise you a perineal raphe reconstruction. Twice.

Then! When I got my mojo back because of a hormonal surge in my mid 30s, I had kept in mind that elusive female ejaculation fairy tale. I was at my absolute hottest in my own mind, but in retrospect, that’s debatable. Now that I’m older, I know it’s how you own it, even if it’s utter crap. If you have to trot around like a show pony, wearing outfits that require pantyhose, then you’re probably not happy with yourself, let alone squirting.

I had some nice poundage in my heyday. I was cared for and taken uptown, midtown, downtown, til next Tuesday, whatevs, and was appreciative of it all. I actually love men and what they do and how they perform. Most have all been so sweet to me. One guy I used to bone (and you know who you are and I still love you, too)  told me that he read in Men’s Health magazine that the women’s ejaculation was just pee. And even the Gspot was a myth! Holy balls-skewered-on-a stick, that is just ridiculous! Conde Nast! That’s some misogynistic propaganda right there: Let’s write articles dispelling all the amazing research in female sexuality so we can just bang bitches and tell them it’s all lies so our failure isn’t an option. It’s your body that’s the problem, bitch.

Motherfuckers. So, I spent the last decade, my 40s, basically rotting off the vine and doing nothing per se, but waiting. This is it. I thought. I need to find a man mate, a companion I can go to my beloved farmers markets with, who can enjoy my banter and is cool with my late night farting situation. He doesn’t exist, I realized after a decade of being comatose and unviable in a fairy tale belief system that doesn’t allow old bats to find romance. Because men my age are only interested in younger women :/

SO.  I will trade all that in for the elusive squirt that is probably just another fable anyway. Yes, by now I have seen the porn stars do it. They probably have little bags of fluid stuffed in their vaginas that they popped opened with a jagged nail. I am an almost complete disbeliever. But you have always to hold on to hope, am I right?

I try. I have a couple of toys that I play with. But when I fire them up, I get very depressed. At first things are good, but then there’s a feeing I can’t describe, like a weird thirst then a melancholia that goes deep into my soul and it make me so very sad that I “edge.” I just can’t do it on my own.

Fuck me. Literally. So that’s why I turned to on-line dating and my current state of sexual exploration at the age of 53. Judge if you want, or read and let me explain and hopefully give others some power to also get down on it, here goes:

Holy God. I’ve been on the Tinder and OkCupid  for some time now, and have met some great guys, opened up, all is good, I’m a lady of a certain age fraternizing  with some young dudes, yada yada, self esteem is getting there and mojo is back on track. Go scroll back on the the other blog entries if you care or TL;DR: Lots of bone.

Then! A Tinder dude that we’ll call Tinder Dude changes my life forever a few weeks ago. We’ve been messaging for a couple of weeks prior to meeting, which by the way, is how I like it. I enjoy banter, and I think most women do, even the easy ones. Other dudes out there, just saying, we need mental lubrication more than anything.  Tinder Dude seems cool and has game, and when I say “game” I mean the moves, I like. I respond to some aggression in a guy because I’m not naturally dominant or bossy. I need some cockiness to get the show on the road.

So Tinder Dude comes over after his day of work. He’s cute for sure, tall and lanky, which I love just as much as short and stocky. He’s old, 29 lol, but he looks 20, and he tells me he constantly gets carded at the liquor store. He’s a beautiful man/boy? and he plops himself down the couch and I give him a glass of wine after his long day at work. We banter a bit but he’s more he’s quiet and shy in person and I’m a shrill crazy lady when I’m not being bossed around and I have no idea what to do as the obvious designated host of the situation. I keep talking and offering him stuff, drinks?  Pretzels? Until he says he wants a massage. Fucking cool. That I can do.

So we go into my bedroom and he takes his shirt off and lays down. He’s more muscly than his lanky-ass frame takes on in clothing so I ask him is it okay if I use Body Shop Cocobutter body cream? And he says, what? Are you a racist? I’m like, wait, what? I use this everyday, what the fuck? And he laughs, just jokes. Because he’s black. Sometimes I don’t get humour and the appropriation situation. I’m aware of that so I’m slipping that bit in so we can rest on it and groove to what transpires next.

Anyway so I massage his back and he’s still wearing his pants! So I say slip these thing off, please. I’m cool with the nudity and when guys don’t whip it off straight away, I’m thinking they’re not interested, that’s where I’m at these days. So he tentatively takes his pants off and what? There’s another layer of shorts (not underpants) yet to peel off. So I say, WHAT WHY are you wearing shorts underneath your pants??? And he says: It’s a black thing. Oh lol. Snap. Again.

I thought at this point, things were not going to fly at all. All these blackish Amish layers of clothing and he’s so shy and I’m so sub and dumb, it’s like going to be like all the hots and hammer of trying to jam a ripe banana in a defunct phone jack. I’m thinking let’s just do this and call it a day so I can put my pj’s on. So I dutifully pulled my shirt off, pants off, and bra which if you’ve ever seen that is a sight and a half. Two flap flap jacks on a plate with no syrup. Hurry up.

THEN.. This boy>man rolled on top of me and started to suck on my neck (you know I’m a vampire, right?) in a spot that made gasp. Holy shit. I arched my back. With his his fingers, he softly played with my clitoris, which I hate more than more than sorting socks. I need to be manhandled like pizza dough. I put up up with that for a few breaths of old crusty lioness til I kicked his ass in gear.  Tinder Dude got the message and he plunged his two magic fingers inside me and while doing so and in one, two, three, four, five, hit some spot, six, seven, eight and I’m fucking screaming,, nine seconds, ten seconds then I felt a gush. He laughed, yes, like a boss. And I was like, what just happened. There was a puddle on my sheets.

Is this for real, but Harry Potter Tinder Dude did it again  few minutes later, and a pile of liquid came out again. And he did it again.

And again. And another time again. And again.

And then another time again. And again.

I’m a squirter now, Harry.

PS. It’s not definitely not pee. And girls, you never know who your hero will be so keep swiping right.

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Now wipe your bum and don’t be late for your brunch reservation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Catching a Catfish

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This is why I need a man in my life: To recognize famous hockey players’ mugs on Tinder to protect my stupid ass from being catfished. But then of course if I had a man in my life, I wouldn’t be on Tinder. Or would I?

Hahaha, of course I would. This is a cautionary tale, but a funny one with a happy ending so don’t worry about me, not like you ever would. A few weeks ago I swiped right on a very handsome blond Tinder dude who normally I would have casually flicked over to left field because he was too much BUT! I started to think I was being too reliant on a type. Clone dating is so close minded. If you gathered the crops of my summer of bone salad in a waiting room you’d probably think it was a casting call for some Jesus Christ Superstar revival, all those soulful dark eyes and luscious black beards, oh my God. Even that Jersey Boy clean shaven one, not like the others, was only one long weekend camping trip away from his brothers’ aesthetic. Swarthy, hairy dark young motherfuckers. Oof, me likey sooooo much. Not a blond or a ginger in sight.

But isn’t this a fun thought for us all to mull over? All the bone, the one nighters, the casual dating, the exes, all gathered in one room at one time. Something to ruminate about in the middle of the night instead of  the usual minutiae like that dental appointment tomorrow, ugh, and when are you gonna finally make banana bread out of all those rotting bananas, like never, and how many heaping utility bills are gathering in the mailbox, help. Instead of that thinking about that shit, my fantasy is to gather a group of random lovers in a room like a focus group with me behind the glass wall and see how long it takes them to come up with the common denominator, if ever. I’ve actually thought about this scenario for years even before my insomnia phase. University boys would take two seconds to figure it out because people actually knew each other by actual name back then, not by gaming avatars. Even with the few rogue barflies tossed in, they’d all be from the same town and seated in the round table looking at each other’s white boy faces, guffawing about Reagan’s Star Wars defence plan . Then one of them would have said something about Star Trek the original tv show which would inevitably been the missing piece to figure out their common bone hole. People were smart like that back then.

That last focus group though, would be sitting in silence, sweating their sweet pheromones, too scared to talk, stroking their beards and their cell phones, probably thinking they got stuck in a room because they’ve been put on a on a no fly list, so paranoid from all the weed they smoke. The lack of locker room talk would be so disappointing, I’d be yelling behind the soundproof wall: “Talk about facials, you dumbasses!”

Anyway, thinking about that I probably should to shake things up and expand my palate and see what the fairer boys are up to these days. I tried to go for the ginger beards early on but now I am thinking they really are all tricksters and trolls, they bark and text their junk out there but don’t bite because it hurts their pale sensitive skin too much. I am so drawn into their world but I need to stop for the sake of self-preservation. As I write this, I’m currently distracted by a certain rojo caliente with a flaming red beard and hair that looks like it’s on fire. SO HOT. So Medieval. I’m flirting with him on Tinder text and wouldn’t you know it, he unmatched me mid-conversat-

Can you believe that? I was forming a cute taco joke and suddenly my screen shook and poof! he disappeared. Like he was bored? I don’t see how. I’m the best sexter you’ll ever want to send an eggplant emoticon to. I’ll probably keep on trying rojo wrangling just for the sake of the bucket list but sweet mother of God, they are a slippery bunch.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, I swiped on this blond dude, and matcharoo. Very pretty. Chin bum. I don’t know what is the evolutionary point of a chin bum but it seems handy. Something t0 stick your thumb into when you’re fidgety and shouldn’t put it in your mouth because your teeth are too perfect. Eyelashes too, maybe it’s Maybelline. One eye looked green and the other blue. I LOOKED AT THE COLOUR OF HIS EYES. I never do that to anyone. Couldn’t tell you what colour my kids’ eyes are even. Not even sure of my own. He’s also holding a poofy red Pomeranian in one of his pics. I am charmed as fuck.

Profile said he was 6’3. Height is nice but not a thing for moi. I like short and stocky maybe the best only because I like to look down when vertical.  Dom tendency maybe that I have yet to explore. Damn, I have so much to do in that bucket, I may need a mop.

So blond dude, we’ll call him Franck because that was his name on the Tinder. Franck was born in Sweden! Makes sense the wonky spelling.  Works in “sales and marketing.” Whatevs. Likes to golf, as though that makes a lady wet, not. But! he surfs so what was up with that? Turns out he went to Hawaii last year and his dad lives in Florida. Where is his mom? He doesn’t respond.  I am his mom. Franck loves older women. This does not surprise me the way it does other people. It’s the very skilled dudes that are into this MILF business. Hot dudes of Franck’s ilk are not usually skilled however because THEY DON’T HAVE TO BE. But he could be a unicorn of sorts and who am I to judge someone on their looks? Hahaha.

I showed his picture to my daughter. Her face did that disapproval thing. “Mother, he looks like a douche.” Not like a Trump son (shudder)  but like a Abercrombie poster boy type. Meh, I’m okay with that. Pretty boys are people too and maybe he’s lonely because he’s soooooo good looking. Like people assume the hot girl has a date to the prom but she doesn’t because everyone is too afraid to ask her out.

We banter a bit and decide to switch out conversation over to another medium. Kik, the one where the phone number is concealed, smart hockey, but you can send photos. RED FLAG ALERT THO. Franck gives me his kik nom de plume and it’s not his name. It’s Jordan with an underscore and a random number, prolly the number of beanie babies sitting on his pillow when he made his account,  I get the fear when I look at his avatar, it’s a 12 year old boy.

I say back on Tinder: What the fuck, I just sent a message to a child, is that you? And why is your name Jordan?

He lol’d and said Jordan was his middle name (!) and I missed the DOUBLE underscore but the random number was the same. Logged back on and lo and ho! There was another account but with a blank picture. So many stalkers, he explained, that he had no avatar. Of course! Whenever Franck entered the Internet, the lurkers flocked to lay their eggs in that chin bum. And of course Jordan-underscore-random number with the 12 year-old-boy profile pic had nothing to do with Jordan-DOUBLE underscore-same random number who was a hot dude on Tinder who swiped right on old broads. No red flags here at all.

We swap some pics. I demand a picture of his feet and he sends one right away. I believe that the feet are the base of health and beauty and his of course, are perfection. Long, big and vascular with the second toe longer than the big toe. Also I am satisfied because the feet seemed to match the face and the previous dick pic he sent. The red flags were waved away.

We make a date to meet later that week. You’d think I’d be more excited but Franck, in all his physical glory, does NOT make me that hot. For one thing, he’s a terrible texter. I don’t mind a typo here and there but he has no idea how to punctuate. And his sexting is awkward and too graphic. Like where he wants to place his finger, DON’T TELL ME NOW, just do it when the time comes. Our date day comes and I hear nothing from him to confirm and I don’t bother either. Phew.

But then a couple weeks later, he kiks me a message: Why are we such losers that we didn’t meet?

That’s so cute, I’m charmed. I scroll back and look at his feet and I’m in again. More banter and I asked to see his chin bum. He sends me a pic of his face that looks like a professional shot, not a selfie. You can tell by the lack of strained shoulder muscles and the depth of field in the background and hot damn, he is smiling and his teeth ARE perfect, and he looks like a model. I’m nervous now. He says oops, wrong photo, and he shoots me another and says: This is me now. He has a beard! It’s covering his chin bum and it’s blond but it’s still a beard. Okay, now I am smitten, I can work with this.

We make another date again for later on in the week. This time he texts all day how he can’t wait to see him. Again some awkward talk of where he wants to put his fingers but I let it go. But, the day before our date, I can’t get that photo he accidentally sent out of my mind. It looked like one of those sports player’s face pics that they use on score boards. And then I remember I have google reverse search as an app on my phone.

I copy and paste the photo in the app and tap on search and wouldn’t you know it’s some Swedish hockey player named Mantas Armalis. This little Jordan dude stole all his Instagram photos, even the Pomeranian one! Also the real Mantas Armalis has some hot young Russian looking girlfriend because of course he does. I ran the dick pics through and they came from various porn sites on Tumblr. And the feet pic, too! Wasn’t even his. Someone actually has a Pinterest board titled “Men’s Feet” which I promptly followed.

So I messaged him, calling him out. I’m not even mad, bruh, I said, in fact I’m more amused than anything. And he said he was sorry but girls don’t want to date him because of his age. Which he claimed was 18. He told me he had a girlfriend who was 35 but she moved away and asked me if I had any interest in dating him. Hahahaha! I almost asked him to send me a picture of his feet but thought the better of it. Rascally catfish probably can’t even grow a beard yet. Soon though.