Archive for the ‘Divorce’ Category

The Party with the Penis

January 27, 2010

So it’s Wednesday night and I find myself slippery and in a bathtub full of muddy water reading books on dating.  I hate this with an intense passion.  How the hell did I get here?

The slippery part makes enough sense.  I hit the tanning bed on the way home.  I don’t do this often, just enough to keep my skin from becoming transparent.  The cute, young, orangish girl behind the counter asked if I would like to try this new double bronzing product called Mad Monkey or Funky Banana or something of the sort.  I do not know what a ‘double bronzer’ is.  I know that once I had the stinky stuff smeared all over my expanse of lillywhite flesh I realized that I was supposed to wash my hands immediately afterwards, no small feat when you are oiled up and naked in a stall in a public venue.  I rubbed my hands on the towel and hoped for the best.  When my eight minutes were up, I came out and asked the girl what I could expect from my unwashed hands, and she giggled and said, “Oh, your palms are gonna turn orange.”  Nice.  So I have this to look forward to, anyway.  As soon as I came home I hit the bath, whereupon I realized that this slimy shit does not wash off easily, that my skin has taken on a decidedly chemical odor, and that my bathwater turned brown when I got in.  There is no way this product is not going to make me more attractive, right?

Actually, I should say my bathwater turned brown-er.  It started out pretty brown.  It is amazing to me that I live in a neighborhood, pay a mortgage, drive a decent vehicle, have electricity, but no clean water.  I’m living the American dream until I turn the tap, then it’s the fucking third world with it’s shitty water quality.  My house is like Mexico–don’t drink the water, they say.  Usually I have bubbles to mask the color of the water, but apparently bath foam does not play well with weird stinky slippery bronzing shit that I think the girl gave me as a joke because seriously, I smell terrible and I might turn orange over here.

So now I’m reading dating books.  I got a divorce because I wanted to be on my own, but then two years later, I find myself dating.   I hate dating.  I feel like a moron when I’m on a date.  I don’t feel strange in the slightest hanging out with female friends, so why do I become a flaming idiot when a man is involved?  Why can’t I just be myself?  Enter the dating books.

The first book is about flirting.  I’m a pretty good flirt.  I mean, I doubt anyone I’ve been attracted to has wondered if I was attracted to them.  I’m a natural.  Book One confirms it.  Onto Book Two.

Book Two tells me that I’m dating the wrong guys.  They are all wrong for me, and I need to set higher standards.  Except that my standards are already too high, and I’ve probably already discarded a guy who would have been the Right One but I was too much of a snob to notice it.  Book Two has multiple personality disorder.  Onto Book Three.

Book Three I will tell you the title of.  Book Three is called How to Date in a Post-Dating World.  Post dating world?  What the hell?  People don’t date anymore?  How do you explain all the leg shaving and dinner check wrangling I’ve been doing for the past four months?  This book tells me that I should be planning to hang out or hook up, both of which run the gamut from casual sex to marriage.  The best parts of this book are the horror stories about bad dates.  I could add a couple to the mix, like the guy who kept sniffing me and insisted that a stranger across the room didn’t like him.  This book ends with the ominous advice to “be the bean” which I’m guessing refers back to something I missed when I skipped the entire middle section of the book.

The last book is about single dating as a parent and seems to mostly give you tips on how not to get caught having sex by your kids, what to do if your kids catch you having sex, and how much the therapy is going to cost you when your kids catch you having sex.  I avoid these issues by not having sex at my house when my kids are here.  Geography is key.  I myself prefer to have sex out of state to remove all possibility of being caught by my kids.

I didn’t find what I was looking for in these books, which is an answer to the intense insecurities I have about myself.  After all, I once chose a relationship path that failed.  It didn’t fail all the time, but where it did fail, it has left me shaken.  I left that relationship feeling unloveable. What if I do this again?  What if that guy I like, who seems to like me, who treats me well, who makes my toes curl in bed, what if I choose to make him my only guy, and it fails fifteen years from now?  My soul can’t take it.

I’m going to need some sort of extended warranty, with small-print stipulations like “the Party with the Penis promises to (a) ignore all sagging and stretching of the parts of the Party with the Vagina or (b) finance the repair and/or replacement of said sagging and stretching parts” and “the Party with the Penis agrees to maintain a separate residence to which he can retreat when the Party with the Vagina decides to lay about the house and sigh dramatically while eating chocolate for days on end”.  In return, I, the Party with the Vagina, promise to bake the Party with the Penis cakes on his birthday, and love the way he smells after he’s been working on his car, and let him snorgle my cleavage while we watch bad kung fu movies.  No games.  No one with the upper hand.  No one feeling ignored, or lonely, or ugly, or crazy.  After 33 years I’m beginning to think this is an impossibility, that I’m going to have to fashion together a reasonable facsimile of a relationship by buying a Rabbit, stocking up on loyal dogs, and watching a lot of romantic comedies.

I have to go now, having just remembered that:
1. I have to bake a pie tonight, a payment from a sign stolen off of the PATH train in New Jersey and
2. I left groceries in the car, including all the pie parts, when I rushed in to wash off the Monkey Lotion.



What kind of psychopath doesn’t like a long walk on a beach?

September 17, 2009

I have a confession to make:  I’m a masochist.  Not even one of the fun ones who likes to have her nipples clamped with Chip Clips or spend time on the correction bench.  I seem to own a special kind of masochism that makes me post my profile on Internet dating sites.

This would be the paragraph where I explain why I need to resort to the lowly world of Internet dating.  I would first assert my status as a non-loser, rattle off my killer schedule that proves it’s impossible for me to meet people in real life, and try to differentiate myself from the masses of drooling losers who pay $30 a month to have a computer set them up with a social reject like some sort of electronic shadchen.  I’m not going to write that paragraph, because you already know I’m a loser, and also because I don’t pay $30 a month; I use a free dating site.  Admitting to online dating is awkward, and there’s just no getting around it.  We’ll just push through and get to the point of this post.

How many times do you think I'll mention nipples in my post?

How many times do you think I'll mention nipples in my post?

So every few months or so, I realize it’s been a while since I got laid asked out on a date, and I go to my trusty free dating site.  I update my profile, check carefully for spelling errors, make sure there are no nipples showing in any of my profile pictures, and cast my line.  Is that the right terminology?  To cast one’s line, like when you go fishing?  If it’s not, what I’m trying to say there is that I am metaphorically throwing my pole over my shoulder, thrusting it forward [God, it really has been a while, hasn’t it?], and hoping my hook goes not into my leg but into the water where it will catch a manfish.  Wow, totally non-creepy.

The next hour or so is wrought with anticipation as I watch the replies roll in.  Some sick Pollyanna voice in my head tells me that one of these unread messages in my inbox could be the man who will change my future into a tandem-bike filled reverie.  As you can imagine, this has not happened in the history of online dating, no matter what the commercials might tell you.  I’m not sure if I would want it to, since any bike that requires my legs to coordinate with another person’s is destined to end up mangled in a ditch, as my legs barely coordinate with each other.  I’m watching the responses rolling in, and this is when reality jumps up and says, “HA!  You stupid bitch!  Do you think if Prince Charming existed he’d spend his nights browsing for single white women between the ages of 25 and 35?”  No, these are the motherfuckers who are looking for me:



My God, where to begin?  With the message subject lined “hi”?  How about the one that says, “hi”?  Ooooh, there’s the guy who says “HI”–I bet he’s a take-charge kind of dude the way he uses ALL CAPS.  In this particular set, I managed to only open two:  “wow” and “for real..”.  Let me just say, it only gets worse when you open them.  The message inside of “wow” turned out to be a run-on sentence.  It wasn’t like a simple mistake, either; he took what should have been four or five sentences, jammed them together, then removed all traces of punctuation.  “for real..” at least used punctuation.  Unfortunately, that punctuation was the disturbing “/////” between every sentence.  For some reason those look like Norman-Bates-kills-blonde-chick-in-shower punctuation marks.  I read between the lines.

His message:   Hi.  ///// Saw ur profile. ////// What u doin this weekend? //////////

What I read:  Hi.  /slash/murder/scream/blood/ Saw ur profile. /want/to/wear/your/skin/ What u doin this weekend? /I’ll/keep/you/in/a/crate/in/the/basement/

Yeah.  Sorry Charlie.

I’m going to give these guys some helpful online dating tips because I am a nice person.  I really am.  I flip over beetles who have gotten stuck on their backs so they won’t die on the sidewalk.  When I see turtles on the road I’ll stop and move them so they won’t get hit by cars.  This is the same reason I give rides to my alcoholic neighbors walking to the convenience store for their evening 12-pack of Coors.

This post is my way of giving back to the community of men who will never have the pleasure of spending an awkward evening at a restaurant with me because their profile/message makes them look like a moron.  We’ve already addressed the subject line; let’s cover some other topics.



Your user name: You do not need to include the word “guy” in your user name; this is a given. If it contains a number in place of a word (e.g., “4” instead of “for”), it has 2 go. <–See how irritating that shit is? Should also not read like a rap nickname, particularly if you are white and not Eminem.

Your tagline:  You are not looking for “the love of a lifetime”, or “someone to snuggle with in the winter”.  You are trying to get into my pants.   One of you mentioned trying to fill a missing void, which came straight from the Department of Redundancy Department, but at least it’s on the right track.

Your profile:  Use a picture that was taken this century.  If your profile says you are 38 but your photo is clearly your “casual pose” from your high school Senior portrait session, I am going to assume you haven’t been attractive to humans since 1995.  Include information about your actual lifestyle.  There is no way all of you prioritize “long walks on the beach” on your lists of interests.  I’ve been to the beach–there were no roving packs of men enjoying long walks on the beach, and according to your profiles, there should have been thousands of you.  Maybe you were all inside having a candlelit dinner in front of a fireplace at the time?  For serious, tell me what you actually enjoy.

My profile:  Read it.  It will give you insight into who I am as a human being, and thus, directions into my pants.  If you are not interested in anything below my picture, you are thrusting your pole in the wrong direction, bud.

Addressing me:  Don’t use the words “darlin'”, “sweetie”, “angel”, “lady” or any combination thereof.  I will know you did not read my profile, because if you had, you would have gathered that I am none of those things.   Men who use these words without irony will not find my feminist theories endearing.

how u doin

how u doin

Your message:  “How u doin” is not a message.  Neither is “u hott”, “hit me up on IM” or “great tits”.  I’m thinking you should have at least three sentences in there, one about what you thought of my profile, one that makes me want to go to your profile, and one inviting me to make the next move.  Don’t forget the punctuation.

I’ll be honest here.  I’m not trying to help these guys out.  I’m trying to help me out.  A week of reading these horrifying messages from men who spend two seconds putting their profile together, and I’m done.  The profile comes down.

This is when I usually I remember that I like being single and having the freedom to surf the internet topless in the living room while eating Kit-Kats for dinner and listening to Mickey Avalon at top volume.  After all, the Internet is rife with sites that sell sex toys whose spelling abilities I could give two shits about.

P.S. Nipple