Category Archives: motherfuckers

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Mastering the Art of Embracing Your Inner Zombie

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Happy New Year, my interweb angels! Hope you are enjoying your righteous January resolutions as I am mine. Drink more whisk(e)y, is my top one. Apparently brown drinks are the answer. To what question, I’m not entirely sure.  It was on my Facebook newsfeed that whisky prevents cancer and has less sugar than wine so it must be true. I’m over that whole Juiceless January cleansing ritual, it’s for amateurs.  You end up with too many lucid waking hours with more time to feel guilty about being alive and not doing the things you said you would do when you were drunk, ie. a 4 hour Zumba class for Syrian refugees at the local rec centre on a Saturday afternoon (there is no way).

Also, for Christmas I got a cast iron pan which is a first for me believe it or not, so I can make a proper steak and these taters I am very excited about. Fuck you and your kale smoothies, your lazy ass colon frightens me, do you know that whisky makes you poop? THIS gives me a starchy lady boner:

And speaking of fear, why am I zombied up, you ask?  Evangeline did this to me because she’s been bingeing on The Walking Dead for the past few weeks which I just can’t with. I tried the first episode but it did not grab moi but because she watches it in the living room (to be close to mama because she’s too scared to watch it in her room) I have the soundtrack in my head constantly. There’s hardly any dialogue on the show, a bit of hillbilly babble and the rest is all just low level guttural monster groaning/snarling/gurgling interspersed with silent bits and then bam! some really loud growl and screaming (Evangeline). You could set your watch by the ebb and flow of zombie moaning. Freddy, when he wasn’t downstairs engulfed in his own rattle and hum cocoon of PlayStation, we would huddle in my room and laugh at the predictability of it all. Then when she was done watching it on Netflix, she watched it again! AMC actually aired a 24/7 marathon of it on natural television after Christmas, and Jesus and Jose in the manger, there was nowhere to hide. Also! the hot dude with the cue cards from Love Actually is now her tv boyfriend which means there will be more zombie groaning in the future.

Normally I would rather talk about stupid vampires than entertain the mythology of  the ridiculous zombie apocalypse but I softened after seeing how pretty a zombie I am. Dem eyebrows tho! I should change up my eyeliner game and wear darker lipstick, no? According to the girl, the modern obsession with zombies is a tabula rasa for us to project our collective and individual fears upon. Zombie Apocalypse can be representative of a number of paranoias and dystopian disturbances aside from the obvious disease and death, let’s randomly list:

  • global warming
  • terrorism
  • Isis
  • people in general
  • North Korea
  • Labradoodles
  • aliens!
  • guns
  • ‘Murca
  • Tinder
  • Internet cookie trails
  • LinkedIn
  • Donald Trump
  • butt plugs
  • Zumba *shudder*

It turns out all my zombie fears are within my own skeletal base, I discovered this by accident. Aside from the frying pan, I also got a massage certificate for Christmas which I was so excited about since I no longer get these things covered by insurance. I know I can just bite the bullet and pay for them but I’m not wired that way. So I booked an appointment last week with a burly Mexican dude name Juan, and since it’s been awhile I thought I would opt for some deep tissue. I figure man hands are clumsy but they can dig mightily and it never occurs to them they might be hurting you when they prod into your organs. I don’t like to be a wuss so I always take the pain and let them have their way. It’s usually beneficial in the end because when it’s done, you feel so much looser. This time I should have maybe cried uncle at some point because Juan was a fearless deep sea diver of a massage artist and he probably should have left some knots stay clenched tight.

It started out fine, he let me lay face down and he poked over the blanket me like I was an interesting beached mermaid with legs. He pummelled his fists down my spine up and down and then he got the point of his elbow and jammed it into my right ribcage and exclaimed, “Oh you’ve got quite a knot in here!” It isn’t a fucking knot, I wanted to say, it’s emotional scar tissue, but I let him keep digging while the rest of me snap, crackled and popped. This spot in the middle of my right ribs is my trigger area for a repressed memory that I once buried and would have completely forgotten about if my mother hadn’t asked twenty years after the fact: “What really happened that night you came home covered in sand?”

So this happened, and I did forget about it until my mom reminded me, and it’s not a huge deal in the scheme of things but it goes to show you about how times have changed somewhat, maybe, in that if it happened today I probably would have said something instead of kept it a secret. Anyway, I was 16, my parents took me to Florida for a vacation in February. I got a sunburn at one point during the week and I slathered on baby oil that night to ease the pain, which is stupid because I think it fries you some more, but we did dumb things back then. At night on the hotel strip which was on the beach, there was a 7-Eleven and a small playground. That greasy night I went out on my own and sat on the swings and a group of young dudes were hanging out trying to score beer from the store. I don’t know what the age limit was but I had been buying beer at the bodegas in Quebec since I squeezed my first zit. So I volunteered to buy it even though I was younger than all of them and sure enough I didn’t get ID’d. It’s all in the attitude and maybe my sunburn made me look 40.

So I made a bunch of friends that night, we drank the beer in the playground for a couple of hours. One dude seemed to like me. He was one of those strapping cornfed first generation of ‘Super Size” American boys with a baseball hat over a mullet. I told him I was Canadian and he said his favourite band was Rush. Ugh. In my personal opinion, Rush was the original Nickelback, that trilling Geddy Lee voice over those synthesizers was enough to me lunge for the radio dial and kill it, blechhh, ear rape. I might be wrong, so sue me, but I was into punk and was obsessed with Blondie, Bowie, and the Stranglers back then. This dude did not interest me at all but when it was time to go home, he opted to walk with me along the beach, which I think I thought was  gentlemanly.

We got to a dark spot on the beach and he asked me if I would give him a blow job, but without a question mark. “Give me a blow job,” he said.  I’m like,” WHAT? No…what are you even thinking? I don’t even like you!” And he got all weird and he tackled me.  I was face down in the the sand and he knelt on top of me, his knee pinning me down in THAT VERY SPOT merry massage therapist Juan was gleefully untangling some thirty years later. I was winded, I remember panicking because I couldn’t breathe and I was sure he broke a rib. He managed to get his pants down, and thinking back now, was he not afraid I was going to bite? Oh, I’m going to just take one look at his fructose fatty chode and want to tenderly place it in my mouth? My dad always said if I got myself in such a predicament to grab and squeeze and twist the balls, which I did, he squealed like Geddy Lee and I managed to slither away, all slippery from the baby oil still, and run home.

My mom asked me then why I was covered in sand and out of breath and I said I just tripped on the beach. And I really forgot all about it until she asked me again a few years back. Anyway, flash forward to last week and fucking Juan and his grind happy elbow and me face down on a massage table, my face smushed in the cradle, trying to breathe through the intense pain. I started coughing, which is the worst when you’re getting a massage, but he finally eased up I got to flip over which is the best part anyway. But no, he jostled something out of me, like my growling inner zombie child, and I started hacking up a lung. That was an entire week ago! I haven’t stopped coughing for fuck sake. And my fucking ribs are killing me.

I can’t tell if the experience was cathartic or what. “You prolly have pneumonia,” my ex-husband just said.  Great, and me without a drug plan. All I know is the next massage I get will be from a lady with sweet soothing fingers. I’ll leave those man hands for other things.

 

 

Mastering the Art of Being a Passive Aggressive Ghost According to Adele

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HALLOO FROM THE OTHER SIDE!

Don’t get me wrong, I love Adele as much as y’all but someone please help me get that ear worm out of my noodle bowl. Also I belt it out all the goddamn waking hours of the day AND IN THE EQUIVALENT OF CAPS BUT IN ACTUAL NOISE and I forget I am committing a crime against humanity when I sing out loud.  Also I need to tell you I hate the lyrics to this song. Normally I don’t pay any attention to what singers sing except for maybe Morrissey because he is me and I am him, all happy in the misery in the haze of any given drunken hour but! I have a feminist daughter who is in a band with two other young women (don’t call them a “girl band” tho! )  and is all about empowerment of the female voice. She’s okay with these Adele lyrics but I will defend my case later. She is not okay with Robin Thicke, obv. This is a good story for the usual preamble tangent I’ve been known to take you on:

The other night she and I went to our gym’s Christmas party. We drank a bunch of wine and ate some turkey buffet, saw some prowling peeps we haven’t seen since last party on the same mission as every year. It’s an annual event worth partaking for sure. Good times. After dessert and some low noted fart seepage, I could have ended it right there and Ubered home to blast some big trumpet tunes in my sweat pants but there was an actual live band that came on. ‘Twas this configuration:  3 ripe middle-aged dudes in fitted dress shirts, unbuttoned just so and wearing those kind of jeans with bleached out whiskers around the crotch area, you know what I mean. Like none of you boys is Tom Jones so you have to visually fake a bulge by implying one exists the same way a Kardashian has to fake a contour with ten pounds of slap along the nose and jaw line. And but of course, they played “Blurred Lines” maybe the second song in and everybody rushed up to the dance floor. This kind of shameless spectacle fills me with an unsettling mix of intense embarrassment and pure voyeuristic delight, I love it so, so I puckered up my sphincter for more festivities. Young and old, the gym folk, who all clean up remarkably well by the way, were gyrating as awkwardly as those vapid topless supermodels in the video.

YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT.

Well, well, well, you could see a beehive of bees buzzing in the bonnet of my righteous daughter, who by the way just turned 22, happy birthday, my baby.

This her shouting while we were sitting at our otherwise abandoned table underneath one of the deafening speakers:

“Why the fuck are they paying this song? I’m so mad! It’s basically saying promoting violence against women!”

Huff, huff, puff, puff, blow the house down, she went on:

“The lyrics: ‘Tried to domesticate you!’ Ugh! Of course you fucking dickhead!” Steam coming out of her ears.

Who listens to these things this closely? Then she said something about something being “so big it can rip your ass in two.” I am so old now, I’m hard of hearing but that sounds like good times to me. But I let her have the floor.

Turns out there’s a million things she pointed out against the lyrics of this douche ditty but you cannot fault it on its catchy tune, right? But no, she put on a deep prick voice and even made a mockery of the cute “hey, hey, hey” chorus. I love that part! “Hey hey hey!” I used to croon in my room, whipping my crumb encrusted bra off at the end of the night, as a slave to its commanding presence as the ear worm of the summer of 2013. Also because of this song I can partially answer the age-old existential question: When a tree falls in a forest, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Maybe a subtle noise… just because sound travels and echoes and whatnot, but! When a tree is dancing alone half-naked, is she visible?  If her room is brightly lit and it’s night and the blinds are see-through, I think for absolute sure, she can be seen by the unknown passerbys under the soft dewy glow of the moon. And she obviously has problems.

Anyway, as soon as the band took a break (they played resort reggae! LOL: “One Love” holy god), she marched up to them and gave them a piece of her mind, ripped them each a new one with her searing asshole blasting rhetoric. That’s power, sisters. I was far away, I didn’t hear the exchange but one of them looked like slightly scared albeit dismissive and she came back to the table all mad as fuck. “This is a losing battle,” she yelled. I think we got more drinks, this night wasn’t over yet. Then shortly after, the band guy with the least amount of whiskers on his jeans came to our table (which at first I thought was nice) and said: “I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think I wasn’t listening to what you had to say, I have two daughters myself… blahhhhhh, blah,blah,” Oh yes, righteous dude, play the your-precious-jism-spawned-a-female-child card, and then his words started to melt into a bunch of dumb man gibberish about how he *pounds chest* has to make a living and therefore must play the songs that the people want to hear. Maybe a valid point but I’m pretty sure dude has a day job as an electrician or something. This gig just feeds his “soul” aka banana-in-his-pants-ego. Plus the people were just as happy to sway along to their white man reggae abomination as anything else. Bob Marley never offered anything but a big doob and an honest bone in his single bed, which was prolly only half chub and wasted, can’t be complaining about his lyrics being degrading to women. And please do not ruin Bob Marley for me and nit pick through his catalogue and send me something like “skanky woman” means something terrible, nobody understands what he is singing about anyway.

So anyway, I’m proud of my daughter for speaking out against the douchebaggery messages we have to put up with in the mainstream music and entertainment industry. She has her mother’s moxy! I don’t know what that word means either, but it sounds very Barbara Stanwyck-y, my role model, google her if you’re too young to know who she is. And she is the opposite of passive aggressive. She is just aggressive, period. Which I love! Passive aggressive people should stick to their own kind and play their games in their own leagues because I cannot deal.

Which brings me to Adele’s “Hello” lyrics. Again, I don’t generally care what people are singing about unless they’re funny. I hate funny songs, comedy belongs elsewhere not in my car radio or my ear worm salads. I only like angst ridden lyrics which seems to be most songs anyway, and definitely all Adele songs, duh. And here is “Hello,” and pay attention to the last line:

Hello, it’s me
I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet
To go over everything
They say that time’s supposed to heal ya
But I ain’t done much healing
Hello, can you hear me
I’m in California dreaming about who we used to be
When we were younger and free
I’ve forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet

There’s such a difference between us
And a million miles

Hello from the other side
I must have called a thousand times
To tell you I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I’ve tried
To tell you I’m sorry for breaking your heart
But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore

Hello, how are you
It’s so typical of me to talk about myself I’m sorry
I hope that you’re well
Did you ever make it out of that town where nothing ever happened

It’s no secret that the both of us
Are running out of time

So hello from the other side
I must have called a thousand times
To tell you I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I’ve tried
To tell you I’m sorry for breaking your heart
But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore

“But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore” THAT!!!

WHAT THE FUCK???  Has this ever happened to you? Someone assumes how you’re feeling or what you’re up to and they state it like it’s a fact. They call and leave a message and they say something presumptuous like “oh, you’re probably out having an awesome time with all the beautiful people at some rooftop hotel pool party drinking absinthe or having sex with the hot guy from the gym” or whatever, of which none apply. You missed the call because your phone slipped into the couch cushions while you are watching “Portlandia” in your sweat pants , drinking leftover Pabst that some Tinder ape left the last time you actually had sex 3 car washes ago. That’s how I keep track of time these days, by car washes. I’m stretching them out now, letting the rain take over, so the proverbial toilet roll, time’s other metaphoric unit of measure, slows down because fuck!  It’s a slippery sleigh ride to the ice floe, isn’t it?

And it’s possibly the worst when someone who dumped…oh, hang on, no they goddamned ghosted you because let’s face it, that’s how Team Passive Aggressive rolls, calls you up after 12 car washes, 164 rolls of toilet paper….In fact they wait the entire time it take you to get over them down to the last square, somehow their spidey senses know  you’re finally done, so they swoop back in: “Oh hi!  I’m sorry, I hope you’re well, blah blah, let’s meet for a drink, I miss you and your little dog!” And before you know it, you’re in love with them again, because you had a weak moment where you convinced yourself they were probably just going through some inner turmoil that had nothing to do with you. Bitch, please, their “inner turmoil” was just their dick pointing in a different direction.

“I must have called you a thousand times”….oh really??? A thousand fucking times? How so? Because I have call display, and if you had tried to call that many times, I would have blocked your ass. Oh, I never seem to be home? If you’re calling me on my landline you know for a fact I never answer that phone! Somebody’s pants are on fire here. And if you had any moxy at all, you would show up at my doorstep and brought me a fucking bucket of Popeye’s thigh meat because you know I love that shit and you wouldn’t be writing an annoying zillion dollar platinum zinger hit song for everyone else on earth to hear oh, what an amazing singer you are and how goddamn faux-sorry you are. BECAUSE IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU.

Anyway, I hate these lyrics, they are the anthem of every passive aggressive fuck boy and the only reason they are daughter-approved is because it’s sung by a woman. “She’s the one who broke the heart,” she said in defence, like it’s a good thing, which admittedly it kind of is. But why is she trying to claw her way back in then? It just means her passive aggressive dick is inside out. And also, why would anyone call a thousand times and not just send a text? That’s a more civilized approach to getting back in contact with someone you feel bad that you fucked over. Still, it’s a good tune and Adele is awesome and I wish I could master that winged eyeliner game once and for all. HALLOO!

 

 

 

 

What Happens In the Cornfield…

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So I’m back from my week-long trip to Middle of the Cornfield, U.S.A. It was actually an epically planned date from a 3-month-long intense OkCupid romance in case you haven’t been following (scroll back the archives) and if you have you are probably wondering: Can long distance romances work?

Yes they can! They are awesome! Because when the dude, in my case, he who shall never be named outside my therapist’s office (which is the liquor store), decides he has the right to change his mind and spontaneously go all iceberg on you, he can just stealthily disappear into the ether after he dumps you at the airport. There’s no luxury of driving by his house and maybe knocking on the door to ask what the fuck just happened. WHERE HAVE ALL THE HEART EMOTICONS GONE? You won’t be running into him foraging at the Walmart, you won’t get to push your cart into his accidentally on purpose and maybe knocking him over in the process, fucking spineless asshole motherfucker.

No, none of these things will happen. Instead, because he is a trillion miles away, you can just pretend he got abducted by aliens, saving him from his dreary beige life in the bleak cornfields, and you can telepathically wish him well and that his anal probes are lubed with precious Astroglide.

HOW DO YOU MEND A BROKEN HEART?

Bitches need closure, right? Well not this ho. This isn’t like calling up an employer after a job interview to ask why you didn’t get hired and they tell you it’s because you are still rocking the dusty DOS and you better fucking upgrade your computer skills in this century. That would actually be helpful in your future endeavours. My daughter, who just turned 21, with all the bravado of youth, suggested I call and ask what went wrong. Because mature people do that sort of thing, they have civil conversations while they perform their love autopsy, then blithely move on to the next disaster, this time chewing with their mouths closed or trimming their pubes.  But I’m an old woman, I’ve been around the block before, I recognize the tree. There is no fucking point in closure. If a dude wants to slink away without saying goodbye, then let him go. You may have stepped on the wrong eggshell at some point and go over and over in your mind what you could have said or done that was wrong but why would you want to? If you have to worry about leaving a proverbial crumb on the counter (which could have very well been my crime) or measure your words before they plop out of your pie hole because heaven forbid if you sound like a smug ass know-it-all, then fuck him. This is fear-based behaviour because he has issues beyond the abilities of what pharmaceuticals can fix and it’s not my fucking problem, it’s his.

What lay beneath him wasn’t quite what I thought but lucky that I am an old bitch because I kept an inventory of all the red flags in the back of my mind so none of it really came as a surprise. Don’t get me wrong, on the surface he was a gracious, generous host and polite and gentlemanly but sometime around Day 3, there was a palpable shift like something died and was replaced by a barrel of insidious simmering anger in the form of snark. Frederick’s of Hollywood could not save this fantasy.

But! Whatevs. Here are some trip highlights because I actually had fun despite the inner turmoil:

1.  The town diner. I ordered a club sandwich and a bottle of Bud. I GOT CARDED BY THE WAITRESS! I’m like what?! Maybe my infantilizing fuzzy pink scarf is covering my baggy neck but I handed her my passport, and she was like huh, and I said I was 51 in dog years. We laughed, and he who shall not be named was incredulous. This happened only one time though. I drank half the liquor supply in the state of Illinois, you know, to soothe my feelings, and no one else batted an eye. I think I aged about 10 years that week.

2. We went to roadhouse-type strip club which I ended up loving so much I even Yelped about it. It was kind of retro with 50s pinup girl posters and real rugged dudes sitting around the bar being served 8-dollar pitchers of beer by a crusty but friendly barmaid. The girls were young, plump and cornfed, with real swaying boobs and cotton underwear. After they performed on stage to some hair metal band song, they would go around the bar and shimmy up to each of the patrons, and offer to squish their titties up in their face for some motorboating for a mere dollar. Seriously a dollar. It’s like you can’t afford NOT to partake in this.

3. The Santa Claus Parade in the town square where Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglas held their first debate. I became interested in the history of this and even wiki’d later when we got home. You won’t click that link because you just want to read about stripper tits but it’s not all about sex you know. The town was really pretty with lights and festive citizens (100% whiteys) and the parade was rocking. Then we went to see a movie at the local theatre where he who shall not be named found 2 dollar bills on the floor which he snatched up AND RETURNED TO THE CONCESSION STAND. Really? In case some kid lost it, he said. I know I should have thought this was a noble gesture but no, it was just dumb. I think by then I was starting to hate him as much as he hated me. But onwards.

4. Chicago. We went to the Billy Goat Tavern that is the basis of that Belushi “Cheeseburger, no Coke, Pepsi” sketch from SNL. If you are old, you prolly remember, but if you didn’t retain the seventies because of all the coke, here it is, it was CRAZY FUN:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y1tFx5xKrSI

5. Deep-dish pizza. Yes, please. We actually had a squabble at Uno’s, the original place where it was supposedly invented. It was about the toppings and I won’t go into it but he let me “win” and probably that was the last nail of my coffin. Still, deep dish pizza is heaven in the pie hole. Pro tip: It is better heated up the next day.

6. Television. You’re going to think this is lame but American TV is fucking awesome. But in particular and PLEASE DON’T JUDGE, I have discovered why lowbrow Americans love the Kardashians. I am not even remotely embarrassed to tell you I watched marathons of “Kourtney and Khloe Take the Hamptons” no less than 4 times. So what. I don’t say anything about you watching “Downton Abbey” which is the same thing only without itchy vaginas. But see how much time I had on my hands?

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So, I got home safely, but profoundly sad that my hopes of living happily ever after in a small town exactly like Stars Hollow on the “Gilmore Girls” would lead to a life of domestic bliss and inspiration to write the Great American Novel once and for all. I cried for two days. But not two solid days. In between the bout of tears was some fits of rage that got me inspired to do laundry and stuff. This is the only way you can move on, you have to feel it, as deeply as you can, otherwise you just swallow it up and get all wretched on the outside. Just saying.

The cool thing that came out of all this has been how all my friends rallied around with all their support and thoughts and theories. The best one was from my resurrected ex who said something like: “Guys do not know about their emotions. That’s why they keep quiet and just disappear.” And they only come back married to someone else. I am doomed. But I have friends who love me. Heart emoticons abound.

So what now?  Restore OkCupid account. Scroll, banter, kik. Lather rinse repeat. SIGH.

Oh! Also: He totally lied about his height.