Category Archives: okCupid

Mastering the Art of Spring Fever

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There’s a particular spot on my front lawn that randomly grows a bunch of mushrooms. It’s been happening for years, same bat time, same bat channel. Like wtf, I mow them down and they sprout back up again. Once a few years ago, some super ancient dude neighbour passing by carrying his liquor store bag of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, don’t knock it, saw me stomping on them and stopped in his tracks. My mind was about to be blown.

“There used to be a big ol’ oak tree in that there spot,” He said in a cute Mark Twain-y old man way.

I’m like, ah, smiling politely, stomp stomp.

“Even though the tree is gone, the mushrooms will still grow where the stump was,” he said.

And I’m like, huh, interesting, and thinking go away, stomp, stomp.

“That’s not going to get rid of them.”

“But they’re so gross, they’re like lawn zits!” Really, more like grass dicks. Nature’s pornography.

“Well, miss,” he smiled all twinkly blood shot eyed, “You better get used to them. They always come back.”

Stomp, what. When? Sigh.

He just kept standing there and then went on to say that lived around here all his life, from back in the day when the neighbourhood was all boarding houses for horse jockeys, prostitutes and Anglo Saxon street gangs. The neighbourhood was like Pottersville in George Bailey’s alternate reality in “It’s a Wonderful Life!” I remember when there was a horse race track down the street, which is now a 20 year old development wryly nicknamed “Pleasantville,” but given the current price of real estate, I did not know the neighbourhood was once so dodgy. I would give anything to time travel! Anyway, the old man was born in the same house he still lives in to a teenage mother and his grandpa was a longshoreman. Gramma worked at the hospital and his teenage mom facked off to join the circus when he was 2. They had jockey boarders and there was brawling #porchlife 2.0 and even the children drank beer because the water was so dank.

I love the stories of yesteryear! I asked him if he wanted some lemonade and he looked me up and down and said no, he had to go home and feed his cats. Maybe another time, he would bring his Harvey’s Bristol Cream if I could supply the ice cubes. I never did see him again though. But he was right, the mushrooms multiplied. I think the mighty majestic oak tree and recurring phallic mushrooms are metaphors to a life lesson I have yet to fucking learn because years later I am still stomping on the grass and chopping down trees on Tinder.

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Anyway spring fever hit me with its pointy mushroom cap head. It’s hard to say exactly when because the weather so was so dodgy. Warm one day and snowing the next. About a month ago, there was a full moon waxing and a decent day and I finally woke from my Netflix coma and decided yes, I am ready. I poured myself a Bristol Cream! and texted some young dude from my Internet Dick Farm, or IDF. These are the fresh fellows in their prime without any important baggage from dating websites who are all about the messaging. They don’t actually want or expect to meet you in person because scary and work and messy and bodily fluids, blechhh. And this particular dude especially. He would always text at like 2 pm on Sunday asking me to drop what I was doing and come over when really he was at the laundromat bored, waiting for his Tommy Hilfiger cotton staples his mom bought him to finish twirling in the dryer. I think he appreciated my quick wit and prose. I like to pepper my sexting with actual real life descriptions of blocked nostrils and embarrassing farting sounds. I am always game to hone my writing skills but the boys on my IDF are not ones I want to actually meet IRL either. I usually message them for about 3 days or so and then we mutually move on. But this particular dude hung on for the past year or so. He’d like to tell me about his dates and stuff and all the girls he banged. I’d make him tell me about their apartments and what kind of sheets they had, did you stay for breakfast? What was her French press like? And the stuff in the background of his dick pics, I would actually zoom in on and assess. Once I thought this black blob was a cat and I got excited, what’s your kitty’s name? But it turned out it was his gym bag, lol. A couple of months ago, I wasn’t my usual self, I was kind of depressed, not sad per se,  just flat and bored, and he suggested I go get my thyroid checked! So cute and sweet! He said his mom had a thyroid issue and it affected her mood also. So last month, I did book a full body hoe checkup. My tiny doctor, who shops at Gap kids does not drink or even eat, asked me about my alcohol intake. I lied like a rug and told her I averaged 15 units of spiritual beverages a week, her jaw dropped to the ground, luckily it was carpeted with mendacity, and she booked me for a liver scan. Apparently women are supposed to have 8 units maximum! Bear in mind there are 6 pours in a bottle of wine. Let’s do the math. Can you imagine? That’s like one bottle of wine and 2 beers in a week!!!!! What the hell. I’m of Scandinavian descent, my liver is basically made whale blubber and black tar. Can you give me a medical marijuana card at least? I have the perpetual condition of menopause and rapidly growing chin hairs, FFS. She’s like, no, that wouldn’t be good either. Jesus Christ, the indignity. That’s whole other blog post though. Thyroid is fine however. And liver has some good decades left, told you so, Dr. M, skál!

Anyway, back to dude and the full moon. I decided let’s do this or this texting will have to die soon, the next girlfriend this dude gets, he’s going to have to marry, I’m sure his mother would agree. So I made a booty call. I actually never do that. Yes, I beg and plead for a certain faraway peeps to hop on a plane and make my dreams come true but I NEVER casually text someone in the deep 6 to come over for good times. Not because I am a rules lady but only because I fear disappointment. So I texted him some nonsense I forget and since deleted and he texted back that he had to go to some birthday party (right?) because you know how millennials love to celebrate their birthdays like they are all second comings of a twisted entitled version of Jesus Bieber. So I said ok, no problem and went to bed and fell asleep and in my Bristol Cream dream haze, my phone actually rang. Like real phone, not just dopey text alert. Somebody has died! But no, it was dude and he wanted to come over! In the middle of the goddamn night! It’s like 3 in morning but I’m so stupid I say yes and he takes the address and slurs it to the cab driver. And I say, why don’t you Uber? But he has moral principals about the taxi industry, he tries to explain but goes off on another tangent, something about a fight he had with one of his Ninja Turtle buddies, prolly about a Pokemon battle. I am fully awake now but wearing a men’s XXL 3 wolf moon tshirt, appropriate but ugly as fuck, and pyjama bottoms, the bad ones I have! They sag at the ass and I have been working on it so diligently! I have slept on wet hair and I have too much to deal with including a bunch of dogs that I am dogsitting because it is a full fucking moon. And ladies without proper menstrual cycles attract small needy house pets when everyone else is out howling, prowling, and working it all out, sexy times, U.S.A.

It took him forever to get to my house because when the cab driver let him off, he couldn’t figure out which way the numbers went and he kept walking in the wrong direction as the numbers got smaller. Oh my God,  in all my Bristol Cream hazes, I have never had this problem. Odd numbers are on the south side and even numbers are on the north. The spine of the city is Yonge Street and if you are east of it, the numbers become greater as you head toward the rising sign, more east. They don’t go randomly like 17, 15, 13, and oh 35 is next!  It’s not hard, dude (that’s what she said). I had to go out in the street BAREFOOT IN MY STUPID PYJAMAS to find him, he was heading west, the house numbers were getting smaller but he just didn’t get it. I waved at him from the distance and went inside and waited. Somehow he crossed the street and was heading more east, omg. Then when he finally staggered in, all the dogs ran out of the house and onto the neighbour’s front lawn. Okay, there were only 3 dogs in total but that’s still a wrangling situation that was probably as hot to watch as that episode of “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” where the whole fat family chases their pet pig in mud.

And this is where all time stood still. we were standing in the front hall, dogs barking and jumping. I told him to take off his shoes. It stared at the ridiculous dogs, it took him forever to move, do something, say anything and when he finally did, he looked over at me and said WITH AN UMISTAKEABLE SNEER: “You have some white stuff on your face.”

And I’m wiping my cheek, “Oh! it’s toothpaste…whatever…” And the worst sinking feeling of disappointment started to flood in. He was probably expecting me to be dressed like a slutty version of his mom in a Talbots sweater set and spike heels.

“I think I’m going to go,” he said with that creaky vocal fry tone, emphasis on the word “go.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Am I that bad? It’s just toothpaste,” I swear I was about to cry.  Somehow I channeled an episode of “Sex and the City” where Stanford get rejected by meeting an on-line date on a street corner and the guy just looks at him and sniffs dismissively, “this isn’t going to work.”

“I think I’m going to go,” uttered by a drunk dude instantly translated into me thinking I had my last fuckable day like that skit on “Inside Amy Schumer” when they sent Julia Louis Dreyfus down the river. Mine could have been sometime in October of 2015 and I didn’t even know it!  If I did I would have celebrated when I had the chance. FML.

‘I don’t want your dogs to kill me,” he said, trying to mask his disappointment.

“Oh my god, I warned you about the dogs, they’re just precious little woofers…okay go, then. Just go.” Like go home and microwave yourself a pizza pocket, son. Ugh, I’m too old for this.

Some more stupid conversation/negotiation ensued and yes, normally I would have been down for what he suggested but I could tell since he could barely cross the street that his aim would be off so I said forget it. Empowered by my own righteous ugliness, I shuffled him out the door. I was just pissed off by that point. Fuck that guy and his lofty expectations. I watched him walk the opposite direction of where I told him to go, I mean I even pointed with my gnarly finger GO THAT WAY to the main road and he literally skewed 45 degrees toward the graveyard. Part of me felt bad for him because clearly his pathetic sense of direction will lead to many needlessly expensive cab rides but then again, that’s what you get for being a dick. STOMP.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Mastering the Art of Living IRL (In Real Life, duh)

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It’s Springtime here in the Big Smoke, my pretties!  Except it’s still as cold and gross as the mysterious crusty smears on the sleeves of your parka that you need to get dry cleaned and thrown in the back of the closet. Like today. It’s your fault it’s still cold outside, you keep wearing that wretched thing and the weather complies. My friend from another village a five hour train-ride away came to visit last week and remarked, “Why is everyone here so fucking ugly?” That’s a good question and you can blame the wind and the baa-baaa black sheep wearing the same goddamned Canada Goose parkas but I think the ugly runs much deeper. It’s so metaphysical that it’s hard to pinpoint the exact root of the pustule but I’m sure it has something to do with mass sucking of The Man’s D (whoever that is) for the sake of obtaining granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Everybody in this sad town strives for the same thing while whistling the same tune, and it’s all so disparagingly mediocre.

I guess I’m ugly, too, since I live here. But! At least I stopped with the black parka and now I’m layering it up with a charcoal grey hoodie. Baby steps. It’s not THAT cold, pussies, we can keep warm if we huddle and stop ignoring each other. I’m staaaaarved for the human contact. I’m ready to step out of the hermit-mode and fraternize with the real flesh beings, those who enjoy eating fried chicken and actually bleed real blood when you stab them. As opposed to the tricky internet motherfuckers, the ones you meet from OkCupid and Tinder, who scurry into The Cloud (wherever that is) like veiled chameleons because they spook easily. Although,there’s a certain appeal to that, I must say, because when they go silent farting into the ether, they simply cease to exist. Or they become fodder for your screenplay.

I’ve officially decided that I finally had too much Internet over the winter. Not because of my OkCupid addiction, I’m still working on my own personal Kinsey Report, and it’s a never ending scroll of fascination for moi. I have some more wild oats to sow before I settle down with my collection of Magic Wand attachments. It turns out In Real Life (IRL from now on) my heart more resilient than I originally thought, so this is good Internet usage for my research, otherwise known as vagine fieldwork. Let me have this one vice and I’ll cut back on the Facebook, I can’t handle it all the poop anymore (more on that later).

No, there are 3 distinct things have made me realize I need to reduce the hours of screen time and snap that MacBook shut and here they are:

1. I knew how to make “Truffle Butter” without having to google it. It was like the knowledge had been implanted in my brain by osmosis. The song came out and I’m like  “Oh yeah, truffle butter,” and thought nothing of it, where everyone else was all “Ewwww, I just googled “truffle butter” and it’s nasty.” Whatevs. Now, don’t get excited, I have never made truffle butter IRL but if I did, I would doctor the recipe and add some low-fat Cool Whip to lighten the flavour, it’s less sticky than the other brands. Still, it’s a bit disturbing that I am a walking urban dictionary, and I long for the days of innocence of when a bible study was just a bible study. And did not involve so much liquified solid waste.

2. I have komplicated and konfusing feelings toward Kanye West. A good chunk of my Internet time is spent on celebrity gossip sites even though I am proud to say I still could not pick Ariana Grande or Rita Ora out of a line-up. But! When I see the name, Kanye West, my heart rate goes up. And I feel I am discharging some potent hormones from various pores. When Kanye West does or says something douchey and the whole world is tweeting “Kanye needs to be banned from the Grammy’s 4evah,” I nod my head in agreement but deep inside, I am thinking: “Oh, Kanye” like the way a mom is pretend-mad but secretly tickled when their toddler does something charming and Instagram-worthy like putting lipstick on the dog. Sometimes when I’m not on the Internet and out IRL, like at the grocery store or hanging out in a yoga pose that doesn’t hurt, I find my mind happily wandering and my thought path always ends up at Kanye’s doorstep. SIGH. I wonder what he’s doing, what’s he wearing, is he keeping warm? What did he have for breakfast? Does he wash his hands after he goes to the bathroom and apply cocoa butter hand lotion? They get so dry. Is he flossing? Did he remember to pick Kim’s flesh-coloured sausage casing from the dry cleaners? Is he reading “Goodnight Moon” to Nori? I think if I ever saw Kanye IRL, I would spontaneously lactate. What is this unconditional love I feel? Am I his mother? See, what I mean, isn’t this krazy? And embarrassing?

3. Okay the third thing is the clincher, as if truffle butter and wanting to be Kanye’s mom wasn’t enough to send me to rehab. On the Facebook, I’m in a closed group that I don’t remember even joining. It’s all about my neighbourhood and the informative goings on that individual citizens post, like as examples: the Tim Hortons is closing down but a new one is opening up, a certain naturopathic doctor is a charlatan (umm, duh), lost dog, found dog, etc. Some people randomly post antiquated memes and that talking dog video from the middle ages. I figure these folks are lonely shut-ins and want to feel the gentle rush of “likes.” There’s nothing wrong with that, I can scroll by most of  those and enjoy that talking dog video for the billionth time because it never gets old. But then something happened on the page when the weather got (only somewhat) warmer and the snow started to melt/evaporate. The citizens began posting pictures of exposed dog shit that they found on the streets. Whoa.  One particularly righteous woman wrote about how she was walking down the street with her precious baby in a fucking stroller, and she saw countless dog turds as though she was the fecal police writing a report of the most heinous crime since Sandy Hook, she clearly needs to lock her stupid family up in a panic room until all the shit gets scooped up.  HELLO, BITCH,THIS IS HAS BEEN THE NATURAL PART OF THE FOULNESS OF SPRING SINCE WAAAAY BEFORE THE INTERNET, WE’VE ALL BEEN AROUND THIS BLOCK FOR GENERATIONS.  What kind of thought process makes someone go for a walk outside in the fresh air, get so incensed over some random dog poops that she comes home, gets her sleeping baby out of the stroller, goes in the house, shimmies the squirmy baby out of the snowsuit which takes approximately the better part of an hour, dumps the screaming baby in Neglecto-matic swing, stuffs a binky in its mouth, pours herself a glass of boxed Chardonnay, then hops on the Internet to express her outrage? Her outrage becomes my outrage, but for the opposite reason. The Internet is a sacred place for cute kittens and porn, and maybe some recipes, not a forum for a bitch’s whining over a few innocuous mounds of dog shit that will turn into green grassy splendour come May. It’s all biodegradable, you dumb twat, just shut the fuck up and stop complaining, I want to write on her post but I don’t, I shut my pie hole and blog about it instead. Which I realize is another big fat waste of interweb energy that I am foisting upon you and we are all a part of the never-ending circle of ridiculous Internet pettiness.. As an aside, just a quick life hack tip for dog owners: If your dog is on a raw food diet, and really why would you want to feed your beloved dog anything else? The turds are much more compact and dry up and then turn to innocuous white dust within days if you neglect to pick them up. Sweet. Anyway, I hate this neighbourhood mom with the same fucked up intensity and passion that I love Kanye West. And I know it’s crazy but the feelings are real. So yeah, that’s enough Internet for moi.

I think we all need to get outside and get lost in the wonder of living IRL. And look at each other straight in the face and stop letting our fingers do our communicating because things go awry so easily. Let’s use our actual voices. We should be like the girls on “Broad City” stand on top of the hill and yell out at the top of the lungs: “WANNA FOOOOOOOOOK?!” I double dog dare you. We can always run away.

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Wish You Were Here (David Gilmour, Call Me)

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This reminds me of that Pink Floyd song (remastered)  that goes something like “we’re just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl…” whatever, so sweet, let’s kiss because we’re so cute together. AWWWWWWWWWW.

So I’m back on the OkCupid which is how y’all like me, flailing around, swinging my dick, telling my tales, crying in my beer, blogging the blog of shame. The past few months have been an awesome learning curve for a celibate old hermit lady, I AM NOW FEARLESS cuz really, who cares? YOLO HO, don’t be afraid to put yourself out there. Yes, some douche shat on my heart but I got a good story out of it and then some boneheaded (but loveable) dawg randomly peed on it just a tiny bit, enough for it to sting ever so slightly but not enough send me to the cat hospice, no harm done. So back into the fishbowl I go, HOLDING MY BREATH, BITCHES!

This time around, I won’t lie, I’m really kind of jaded, so I’m a cold fish, because that is my self preservation persona. But! I’ve been going on and off the site voraciously all week, so what. I haven’t really written back to anyone new except a 19 year-old who wants to take a road trip with me to Mount Rushmore. He tells me will drive the whole way with my panties in his mouth. And then when we get there, we will bang our brains out. This is like the best message EVER. I think about him in a way that is inappropriate. I could be his mother. This is what David Lynch films are made of, tho, and I am so in. I wish that in real life I have nicer panties, lacy or silky ones, in a soft colour, pink or blue. I think about the long highway drive on Route 16, going south from Rapid City, I’ve mapped it out because my sex fantasies are that meticulously detailed, and I’m sitting on a seat warmer feeling all vulnerable and fishy without my panties and maybe even without pants entirely but I can’t really handle all that, so I’m wearing a skirt. And are my panties really in his mouth the whole way? No, that’s ridiculous…I take them out and fold them into my purse and we can drive and chillax and maybe listen to a podcast. I look over at him and see the peach fuzz on his chin all shiny in the sun. He’s got a zit cluster on his cheek I am DYING to pop all of them. Oy. I’ve made sandwiches in the cooler in the back and I offer him one. He takes the one with ham, havarti, and sliced tomato which ends up dripping on his chin. Juice on his peach fuzz. I reach over and try to wipe it off with a napkin, he winces and holds eyes elbow up, blocking me, STAHP, he says, and wipes his own chin with his bare hand, then smears it on his pants. Really? Now we’re going to have to go a laundromat. I don’t know…this is just not going to work out, is it? Ugh. I really wanted to go to Mount Rushmore. Anyway, I message him back:  “Awww, so cute.” Haven’t heard back. I’m sure I killed his boner with that memaw response. One of my many talents.

SIGH. Scroll on.

Okay, so here’ s the thing: I’ve been on this site so long, I can decipher some of the new buzzwords and some those coded letters that were mysterious to me 6 months ago. Let’s go over some of them, save the rest for another day, I’ve figured the nuances so you don’t have to, ur welcome, kittens:

DTF: “Down to Fuck” Yeah, you know this one from Jersey Shore but my question is: Why would a man send an inaugural message to a woman on a dating sight with just three letters?  How lazy can you possibly be? This could work for some sites but I, personally, have written an eloquent and loquacious erotic profile and all I get is “DTF?” NO. Just no. Much better: “Ur hot, DTF? :p> ”  Now you’re talking my language. Jesus Christ, put a little effort into it. And tongue game because otherwise I’m not interested at all.

FWB: “Friends with Benefits” and yes, that old chestnut from your Melrose Place style rental apartment and you also know from that Justin Timberlake/ Mila Kunis movie, so good because they fall in love in the end WHICH IS THE LAW OF NATURE. But! In real life, this term means different things to different people.  It’s a very ambiguous contract to get into so caveat emptor, hos, is all I have to say. With many single women, for example, they are oftentimes very busy with shift work, raising children, going to night school, taking care of their elderly parents, fighting their parking tickets, et cetera but still have “needs” so a friend with benefits scenario seems ideal because who needs another egg to fry when you have all that bullshit on your plate? Get your handy neighbour to bone you. Done. Or like that episode on Sex and the City, oh shut up; THIS IS MY THESIS, where Carrie calls her fuckbuddy when she is between relationships. These type of dudes are handy for quick comfort and mojo restoration. Personally, I’ve never been able to wrangle one of these breeds of FWB/FB’s and I don’t really want one either as I suspect they are much more work in real life than in theory. Conversely, the type of man who actively seeks a friend with benefits is the kind of dude who is just waiting for someone “better” to come along, a lady who in his immutable dimwitted mind, is worthy of a Real Relationship That Leads To Marriage with him, is basically just his bossy ass mama lookin’ hot in a chicken cutlet bra and skinny stretch jeans and pumps. Will not age well, trust, and neither will he. You are so much better than them, sister, your brain warned you but your vagina caved, don’t beat yourself up over it, move on. It’s very important to note for next time: This man is a social pariah and should be avoided at all costs. Or not, take his wallet.

Polyamory: It’s a whole new world since Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice so it’s not necessarily swinging and key parties per se. Couples are exploring other peoples! With blessings! They make up the rules as they go so you don’t have to. You, the interloper, just do what they say and please don’t blog about it because some of them are affluent members of society which is why they are wearing masks and capes when you enter the front gates with the password, “Fidelio.” I don’t get it either, so we’ll just leave it and hope they make one of those multi-casted movies where everyone’s plot-line intertwines and we get more insight into the lifestyle. I hope Cameron Diaz is in it. I love her.

Sapiosexual:  This is me! I am a sapiosexual! This means you are turned on by the brain. The upside: It’s way less messy, you don’t have to worry about changing your sheets or shaving your pubes, your wit is your fuck meat and your discourse is the boudoir. The downside: Brains are liars and tricksters, and I’m talking about your very own noodle, which will project a whole technicolor fantasy based on no reality whatsoever. As a sapio, you will forever be disappointed, I have learned the hard way, I’M SO DUPED ALL THE TIME, so I am exploring this:

Heteroflexible: I don’t even really think I care about a stupid dick anymore. Even the seemingly nicest dude is an arrogant douche by virtue of the fact he holds the torch. They all have that sense of entitlement engrained in their behaviour even if they have manners, it’s always there. Recently, when I lay myself down for the nightly fap, I no longer fantasize of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson smothering me to death in a single thrust, I think of soft spoken Asian ladies with feathers tickling my ears, OKAY THAT VIETNAMESE EAR CLEANING IS MY THANG, I CAN’T HELP IT. I really, really want a wife.

Meyers Briggs: Yes, this is that personality test that employers make you take to determine if you are a laid-back slacker or a whining worker bee or a fucking asshole with a heart of gold. There are 16 possible combos. Fucking A-type AND Zen people are posting their scores on dating sites now, IT’S THE NEW HOROSCOPE. But even worse because so goddamn boring. People are proud of their scores the same way they are so proud that they are Scorpios. Have you ever noticed that for some reason Scorpios are the most puffed up in all the Zodiac about their sign, “Don’t cross me! I sting, LOL!” Oh fuck off, you pompous, tiny, feckless arachnid, you don’t know from sting, I can fucking make you prolapse your joke gelatinous innards just by staring you down and flaring my nostrils ever so slightly, bull powered. Anyway, Myers Briggs people are even more fanatical. I have perused profiles with details on what INFP is and that they may be looking for an ESTJ or at least a ENTP. OFFS (wait what? Oh For Fucks Sakes), like you didn’t lie all the way through the test because you had pussy and or employment advancement on your mind.

Me personally, if I have to reduce it to four letters, I am looking primarily for a DICK who gets/tolerates me or if that fails,and we all know that’s a long shot, I’ll take a LADY with a feather who will tickle my ear. I don’t care if that sounds weird, it’s the internet and anything goes. Until then OMFG, my internet crush never fails me:

rRPD0EM

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.

 

 

Pokey and Lamb Chop Sitting in a Tree…NOW WHAT???????

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I’m a fretter. When I’m not fretting about something, I’m gearing up to fret. I long to not fret but fretting is my M.O. so if I don’t have something to fret about, I will make something up. I fret, therefore I am. Help. I need your love and support. You can fap to my fretting, it’ll be fun.

Back up a post or 3 for the new folks, but most of y’all too lazy to scroll and too catatonic to read unless you see some keywords like #pussy #fuckbuddy #gameofthrones, so I’ll toss them off my front porch for you to sniff….NOW COME ON IN and I’ll give you the TL;DR version and we’ll move on from there:

Lady Hermit (me) puts up a dating profile on OkCupid in the summer.

Seeks an “electrician” for a “lightbulb change.”

Logistically, this is something that has to be done by local fellers. The hipster in a towel, the hedonist in the Target parking lot. Just try not to get murdered, and game on.

Doesn’t get murdered. Instead, unbeknownst to her the universe is gearing up to throw her a bone like she’s never seen/heard/stuck in her mouth before. She’s an awake wolf now, in full-on hunt mode, frothing at the mouth and creaming up her panties. She clicks on a trillion profiles and finds her 99% match in Illinois. They begin a cordial (LOL!) internet courtship. Some sort of full moon happens, Lady Hermit’s flower blooms again after many moons of dormancy. She spontaneously menstruates whilst messaging her 99% match right after finding out his true identity of which in her wildest imagination could not be hotter. Then she frets. He can’t change her lightbulb because he lives 843 kilometres away in the middle of a cornfield.

He is Pokey, she is Lamb Chop. Dey fallz in luv like 2 stoopid LOLCats OVER THE GODDAMN INTERNET. It turns out it can happen so don’t go rolling your eyes and clucking like my mother. Just stay with me for the time being, I’m going to need you for the What Happens Next part.

So that was the condensed backstory from the last two posts you were too lazy to read, next headline:

POKEY CAME AND VISITED LAMB CHOP IN REAL LIFE.

Shit got real. I know, scary as fuck. It’s one thing to text, talk on the phone, and stalk on the internet, but it’s another thing to actually meet someone in the flesh. What if you don’t like each other? What if all the great communication was part of a fantasy you built up in your head and there is no animal lust? The sense of smell and touch finally come into play and those are the most primal indicators of attraction. Although I did send my panties to him so I know I was good sniffin’ but what if he didn’t like all my weird quirks, the hair twirling, always having to stuff things in my mouth like said hair, nose that bobbles up and down when I talk, walks a bit like a duck, can’t eat without spilling on tits, et cetera, holy shit there’s a reason I’ve been single for so long. As for me and my preferences, I’m weird about smell. I don’t mind pungent odours but if I don’t like the flavour of your salami-and-cheese-smelling underarm sweat, I probably won’t like you. It’s such a subtle thing, those pheromones are like poetry for the olfactory. I AM A SENSITIVE BEAST OF THE URBAN JUNGLE WHO WILL JUDGE A MALE APE BY HIS SHOES. Please don’t be pointy.

Also no matter how many hours that stretched out into days and weeks that we clocked in talking on the phone, real life is going to be nerve racking. We didn’t even FaceTime, too scary. We did make a pact that we would treat our 6 day date as an arranged marriage. There will be bone no matter what.There is no hotel buffer, Pokey is going to plant himself on my raft for the entire stay, no bailing allowed. My understanding of constant bone-age is that at some point the hormone of oxytocin will kick in and I will be all sexually addicted and lust crazed. I want this very much. Ask any dude whose had to put up with my show, I am like a cold, frozen fish that needs to be banged repeatedly on the counter in order to thaw out. 5 days should do it.

I had an outfit planned for his arrival, at least part of an outfit…a Chicago Bears shirt because HE LIKES TO WATCH FOOTBALL ON TV. I couldn’t figure out the rest of the outfit and a fucking fretted about it for a week. This is a good, the nerves, they keep your tits up, but PROTIP: never wear anything that you haven’t done a trial run in. I wore a skirt and pantyhose with high boots and everything felt bunched and pinched. Also, picking someone up at Porter is a lunch bag letdown because you don’t get out of the car and pose like a hooker because they make you twirl around and hover in your vehicle in order to prohibit upright intercourse.

Fret.

I warned Pokey ahead of time of my cold fish ways and not to interpret my initial standoffishness as repulsion, it’s just nerves and panic that make me look like an impenetrable evil Disney witch. It’s a defence mechanism and I can’t help that my eyebrows are exquisitely arched just so once sideways glance will make your balls shrivel up.

I do not remember the part where Pokey and I first met in the flesh and it was only 9 days ago. I mean, I could recount it as a video would have captured it in a court of law but I don’t remember how I felt or what I thought or how he looked or any other poetic detail that you have grown to expect of me. But! We did go first stop to the drug store to buy loob  and a vibrating cock ring, and this will the one bone I throw to you.

I could tell you all the details about the 6 day date because Pokey doesn’t read this blog so we can talk behind behind his back but I won’t because you’ll probably get all bored and eye rolly and mock me for wearing a Bears shirt and shake yo head in judgment our vanilla kink bucket list…that only got partially fulfilled because SIX DAYS IS SO SHORT FOR LOL CATS IN LOVE!

All I will say is that there was no fretting, just that floating blissful feeling that I got off those drugs they gave me when I had that colonoscopy in May, where you are only too happy to submit to an anal probe and everything is all good and at the end of it, you don’t care if you fart in front in front of everyone. THOSE ARE POWERFUL DRUGS. Shit, I gave birth to two babies with a clenched up sphincter cuz I was afraid of what would accidentally rear its head. It is fair to say I can compare my love for Pokey as the unclenching of my proverbial asshole and fearlessly letting all the shit come out like sweet relief. This guy is a keeper. And! I love his smell.

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Okay,nice, now he is gone and we are back to all that texting only now we freely do FaceTits without worrying about angles or lighting. It’s much better than just talking. BUT! I’M BACK TO FRETTING.  I need you to talk some sane into me.

If he texts me without a thicket of emoticons like hearts, pine trees, and milk bottles, I immediately think he hates me. I spiral into a tailspin of despair and doom. I assume the worst.

What if I say something offhand that I think is meaningless and he takes offence and writes me off? Text messaging is a land-mine for misinterpretation and assumption. There is a cornfield filled with a whole lot of nothing where he lives so if I get dumped, it’s going to be personal.

I can’t handle being dumped so what if my inner trolling self-saboteur devil, you know the one that feeds off self-loathing, comes out and picks fights OVER THE PHONE, the worst, and he hangs up on me?

Why do I worry about things that haven’t happened yet?

Speaking of the future, what will happen or not happen? When do things happen? Why did I ever say take things day-by-day? Isn’t that for potheads? What is the fine line between “too soon” and “now?” How long is limbo? I hate limbo. I need an end goal.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT??????? This is not a rhetorical question.

Shit, also I almost forgot to tell you, in the midst of it all, I got fired from my job, although in truth, it was a horrible, inhospitable work environment that I am relieved to never have to experience again. But! When the universe throws me a bone, it feels compelled to taketh something away for good measure and now I have to once again compound my fretting with more advanced fretting like job searching.

I will get wrinkles fo sho. Fuck. Imma gonna need one of those special facials but he is 8 TRILLION BILLION MILES AWAY IN A FUCKING CORNFIELD! And no, I’m not going on Tindr. Jesus. I’m going to grow so much hair during the next full moon, I just know it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Tale of Pokey and Lamb Chop

Two-Kitties

Prelude, hookers:  If this wasn’t currently happening to me, and somebody else told me this story, I would be all supportive and whatnot but then I would soooooo laugh behind their back. What. A. Fucking. Loser.  I am fully aware of what you’ll think of me but I don’t care, I am currently on another planet, so here goes:

He had me at “Buenos Penis.” The very first time he messaged me on OkCupid, I felt a palpable stirring in my inbox. It was August 17, I had been on the site over a month. I had been fielding a vast array of interweb suitors from far and wide, from ages 18-99. Yes, I cast my net wide! They all had my oh-so brief attention but I am like a dick gnat, I will buzz around a few seconds, maybe swoop around the balls then up the shaft and sniff at the head a bit, then drop dead of exhaustion. So. Many. Veins.

Enter Pokey. Or: Enter, Pokey.

In my quest for casual, every day bone, I was also obsessed with the notion of finding my 99% compatibility match. I can talk the talk of a jaded old broad with a drawer full of bobby pins in her night side table (don’t ask) but it’s still an interesting thought that there may be someone out there who completes you and by the way, fuck you, I like that term, it’s romantic to the nth degree. I am all about maths and logic. I think this is where true intuition stems from, the perfection of the absolute. People always say things like “I listen to my heart.” Here’s a newsflash: Your heart says dick all, all it does is pumps blood through your veins if you are lucky, it has no other magical powers than that. It’s your stupid brain that tells you that you are lonely and your neglected vagina might need a rutting and then the confusion between love and sex starts. Your fucking heart doesn’t know shit, it’s along for the ride. It only flutters and skips a beat when you see your crush because your brain is doing you a solid and giving you signals. That fluttering and skipping sensation? That’s your brain telling your heart: Fight or Flight. Pro tip: If you feels that heart-jumping feels, it’s best to flight that one, he is usually a prick.

I found Pokey’s profile in my 99 search. He had no head! Just a profile pic of his torso in a black tshirt with an arm. WTF!? The thumbnail looked like a pencil dick. He is older than me and he lives 853 kilometers away in Illinois. His written profile was short and eloquent and irreverent but it sang a special song to me: I believe in space aliens, yo. I am not fully domesticated. 

As a rule, I don’t message people first, because I am the bunny in the tale of my ridiculously barren love life. But Pokey saw my lurking activity, this is the key to successful OkCupid transactions, make sure people can see you’ve been on their profile otherwise you’re nobody unless you’re a stalker. He messaged me first. He charmed me and wrote me a poem and made me laugh. Hardly anyone makes me actually LOL, sometimes just snort a bit, this is a bonus. I wrote back, he replied. Why he does he have no face on his profile? I know what you’re thinking: Because he is married, you dumb bitch. Yes, this is what I thought also but! He lives in a small town and they don’t need to rifle through his answers to the questions: Do you take masturbation breaks at work? And will the word get out around town that yes, he does sometimes with the door shut. Y’all know I’m a different bird with no filter or common sense but then I don’t have to go to the supreme court and argue in front of judges for a living. We bantered back and forth for three days. Then nothing. A whole entire day went by. I didn’t even know his real name or had seen a picture of his face. I was actually bummed out even though this sort of fast and furious communication happens all the time on the Cupid and then disappears into the ether, and usually by me.

And then he messaged me, he had accidentally blocked me on his phone app! So easy to do, I have done it before! He hadn’t heard from me and he was worried! And I was depressed! But we were back! Obsessively messaging like long lost lunatics! Who use exclamation points! All the time!

I finally asked him what his name was, even though in a way I didn’t want to know anything external about him. What does a 50something lawyer in the midwest of Amurrica look like? All I could think was Greg Kinnear. My lady boner was confused and afraid but I needed to know. So he said, “I’ll give you a clue, look on the wiki page of Middle-of-a-Cornfield, Illinois, and you will find me.”  Ugh, wtf, of course I had already googled that town up days before and read all about the underground railroad and some radiation disaster. So back I went to the “notable people” section. Well he’s too young to have founded the boyscouts or be that actor who played a lawyer on “All My Children,” OR BE MY FAVOURITE FILM DIRECTOR OF ALL TIME (it’s not him), so by default he must be….the dude from the 80s punk band! Okay, I am not going to reveal his name at this point in time but he is so NOT Greg Kinnear, holy shit…he is Hispanic and H*O*T.

I almost died right then and there, I really did, drowning in my own cum puddle, because then I googled him and found a youtube video of what was his band’s last performance in Seattle in 1987 and ding, ding went the bells in my idiot savant brain: I WAS AT THAT MOTHERFUCKING SHOW 26 YEARS AGO! Wut? How could this have been so star crossed? I was in Seattle for a friend’s wedding, and trust, I am never in Seattle EVER, and her brother was in charge of taking care of me because she had pre-nuptual activities, and he took me to that very show. I remember hardly anything else and was oblivious to the fact that the birth of grunge was imminent but that is that. Serendipity, yo. I believes! I don’t care what y’all say, that is a magical worm hole as a random mathematic pattern right there.

So the very next day, Pokey went out and bought an iPhone and changed his phone plan from a laughable 300 minutes to infinity and the ability to text outside of the U.S. of A. I, too, changed my phone plan AND sent him a pair of panties in the mail that I wore over night. The deal has been sealed.

On the phone, Pokey calls me Lamb Chop but he says, in a thick Chicago accent that he doesn’t think he has: LYAMB CHAHP. When I lay on the bed, and he talks to me, my toes curl. I hug my pillow.

We text in each all day in LOLCats dialect: I haz the feels. Pokey, we be like two cats sitting on a window sill in the ghetto with our tails entwined.

Of course, I realize that when Pokey and Lamb Chop finally meet in person in October, it could go tits up, actually yes, that is the basic missionary which is first thing on the agenda…it could turn to shit, is what I mean, I’ve been to the internet rodeo before but allz I know for now, Pokey doesn’t make my heart skip or flutter, he causes this: 2H2(g) + O2(g) → 2H2O(g), and that’s combustion to fuel a rocket, baby.