Day 2 (okay, it’s day three, but I was busy on day two…)

So I previously posted about this new “getting healthy” plan from my insurance company and how I’m supposed to answer these stupid questions everyday for a week or so.  Today’s question:

Day 2:
My relationship to my body
“If my body could talk to me, what would it say?”

I think my body would say, “Damn stupid mother-fucker!  What the fuck have you been doing to us?  Is there some kind of reason you’ve been putting us through this horrible abuse for the past 20-something years?  You don’t eat right.  You smoke like a blown radiator on a cold day.  You don’t sleep nearly enough to keep me even slightly happy.  What gives?  What did I ever do to you?

“Oh, that’s right, I only make sure you’re lungs work (even though you treat them like shit…what kind of asthmatic smokes a pack or two EVERY FUCKING DAY?) and your heart beats and your food gets digested… Oh… Wait…  Are you pissed off because I refuse to be happy with eggs and milk products again?  Well too fucking bad you little shithead!  Daddy’s gotta get his revenge somehow, right?  You treat me like shit, I’m gonna make you feel like you’re gonna shit your pants every time you eat something that tastes even remotely good.  Don’t like it?  TREAT ME BETTER!

“Remember that ex you wish you’d treated better?  That one you wish had never gotten away?  I’m gonna be like that.  Now our spine’s fucked up.  You may or may not have had a myocardial infarction AT TWENTYFUCKINGTHREEYEARSOLD!  Haven’t you learned anything?  SLOW DOWN!  CALM DOWN!  Enjoy the ride we’re on.  Take care of us!  Eat better and exercise!  And for the love of all that is clean and fresh QUIT FUCKING SMOKING!”

At least, that’s what I think the world wants me to think my body would tell me.  I think it would simply say, “DUDE!  REALLY?  GET US FUCKING LAID ALREADY!”

Its Dating History Wednesday

Hey, look, I came up with a gimmick!  Go me!

So I was thinking today about some of the crazy “dates” I’ve been on.  Some of these memories are comical, some are tragic, and some are downright embarrassing.  What perfect fodder for me to give to you!

Note:  For those challenged at reading between the lines, implied meaning is conveniently placed between parentheses.  That’s () for those who don’t know that already.

Let’s start this story with a little bit of history:  Recently out of a horrible relationship filled with fireworks (which means we fought like cats and dogs, so of course the sex was fantastic) and wanting to explore my sexuality (which means I finally decided to do something about seeing all these crazy sexy guys and get some cock) I joined this online “dating” site (dating is in quotes because it’s a site that was designed to help men find other men who were currently horny so they could fuck without having to end up being arrested like George Michael’s and the whole Bathroomgate thing), because, let’s face it, Craigslist is great for finding a used couch/refrigerator/drug dealer, but trying to find a disease free guy…good luck.

A large chunk of the guys were strictly looking for hookups (which are stories for a completely different post)(the prior set of parentheses were not for those challenged at reading between the lines, but strictly for clarifying that this post is not about some fling filled with crazy sex had with an amazing Latin lover…not that it ever happened…and not that it couldn’t…it very well could…and might have…carry on), but some of the guys were actually looking for something a little more long-term than a one hour meet & fuck.  That’s where I met this guy…let’s call him Fuzz.  Now Fuzz, on paper, seemed like a great guy.  He had a personality, the same dry sense of humor, and was intelligent.  The fact we were both in food service was also a plus.

He invited me out one night with a group of his friends to play pool, and we wound up hanging out and talking for hours.  It seemed like things were going swell.

And then we went on a REAL date…

Firstly, having spent years in management, if I’m going to go on a date with a manager, I completely expect there to be a phone call and/or tardiness.  So the fact our 7pm dinner was pushed back to almost 9pm didn’t faze me.  I was actually prepared and waited at the coffee shop we were to meet at with a magazine and a book.  Shit happens, especially for managers of restaurants.  I didn’t expect, however, for our plans to be completely changed and for me to have to find my way into some neighborhood I’d never been to, nor even knew existed, with only a five minute time frame in order to pick him up instead of meeting at said coffee shop.  I agreed to a date, not to be a coffee delivery man.

I had planned on taking him to a great Thai place I’d scoped out with a “friend” (it’s in quotes because we had dated and had great sex and still occasionally hung out and watched porn together so, basically, she was kind of a special friend without having any benefits other than getting to listen to her moan and the like, as that would have been written “FRIEND” instead of merely “friend”) which it turns out closed at 9pm.  Apparently Fuzz didn’t like the idea of having a romantic dinner under the stars in the bed of a pickup.  Strike one, Fuzz.

So we wound up at Buffalo Wild Wings, sipping drinks, and neither of us enjoying ourselves because we couldn’t hear no matter how loud we were and we kept getting horrible looks and threatening glares from the other drunken male patrons.  Then his phone goes off.  It was a friend, “Hey, come help me fix my car!”

The date then devolved into him stripping into a wife beater (which I thought would be sexy but HOLY SHIT he had more back hair than a chimp!) and crawling around underneath a car (ok, that was kind of sexy) while I sat and chatted with his friend, who, it turns out, was a friend of mine from high school’s completely annoying little brother.

We then wound up at Jim’s (think Denny’s with better food and worse service) with his friend and his friend for four hours.  Then I took him home and got an, “I’d invite you in, but my mom’s asleep on the couch, but maybe we could…you know…park in the driveway…”  Yeah, sure, Fuzz, let’s just park in the driveway and have wild, crazy butt sex in front of the livingroom window RIGHT WHERE YOUR MOTHER CAN WATCH US FUCK!

“Sounds great, but I’ve got to be at work in an hour.”

“Oh…ok…next time, then. It was…nice…”

Cue awkward hug with a 6′ plus guy in a tiny truck and me driving away thinking “holy shit I’ve met someone worse at dating than me!”

So, why did Fuzz strike out? I mean, sure, talking about your ex who’s obsessed with you to the point of carving your name into his chest while institutionalised and the other ex of yours you set him up with but the guy really only agreed because he thought the guy was kind of hot and was hoping for some super crazy porn style three-way action was bad enough, but, seriously, there are razors for a reason. Watching that guy propose to his chick through a message shaved into his back hair was funny, but, ultimately, not something I wish to experience.

Plus, I don’t enjoy having sex with a laptop sharing bed space. I enjoy using every bit of bed space there is to use during sex, thank you very much and, unfortunately, Fuzz had this obsession with technology and had to have a gadget touching him constantly.  I asked about showering but, honestly, I was too terrified to ask about how that worked while having sex.  The laptop-on-the-bed-thing is the best case scenario.  Worst case involves a corded mouse and strange gyrations in order to play Minesweeper.

Anyone else got any crazy horrid dates they’ve been on? Care to share?

Really, world, this is what I get from you?

So I logged into a social networking app today and said hi to some people.  A few are a bit sketchy, a couple are relatively sane.  It’s a nice change of pace from the crazies I usually end up with.*

Trying to meet people online is like trying to cross the Sahara without a water skin.  Sometimes you find an oasis, sometimes not.  It’s sad that most people don’t even respond.  I take that back.  It’s infuriating.  I mean, you obviously aren’t that fucking busy if you’re logged into a chat app, right?  Who does business that way?  No one I’ve ever met.  Ok, there was that one hooker, but that was just a conversation.  Really.  It was free and there was no business contact with him whatsoever and you can’t prove otherwise!

I know I’m not that ugly, some would even say I’m cute, so maybe I’m the crazy one. But, really, I always thought I was more loveably insane than axe-murder-crazy. Although the whole staying awake for days on end until I begin to hallucinate thing might prove me wrong someday. I might end up hallucinating someone is trying to kill me or end up completely nuts like dude in “My Bloody Valentine”. You never know.

And that’s the entire problem with meeting people online:  you never know.  They could really be an organ harvester looking to sell your kidneys on the black market or, worse yet, your testicles. How much would that suck to wake up in a bathtub filled with ice only to find your testicles gone?

But I guess it could always be worse.  I could always end up on the news like George Michaels and have to release a music video with gold urinals. Talk about tacky.  I never want to be forced to save face by releasing a video like that.  I mean, disco is so out of style it’s not even funny.

*Please note that I could, very well, be lying through my teeth.  That’s the great thing about this medium:  I can say or do whatever I want.  As long as somebody finds it entertaining, that’s all that matters.

It’s like Mystery Science Theater, only live, and also the reason I think I might be schizophrenic

So I was totally going to comment on this post over at The Bloggess (who has got to be the funniest person on the face of the planet and my favoritest blogger in the history of ever) but, as I was typing it, I realized it was going to end up being about as long as her post and STILL not give hardly any back story.  I mean, really, who doesn’t like back story?  Without back story you have absolutely no idea what’s going on.

Years ago my friends and I went to see “Blade 2” on opening night.  There weren’t that many people at the showing we went to, mostly couples with two seats between them (I assumed it was so no one had to suffer through the make out noises of the other couples) so we had to sit in the first row of the second section at the end by the door (where I absolutely hate to sit because stupid people can’t sit through an entire fucking movie without getting up 50,000 times to pee, buy candy, answer the phone, etc.)  There really weren’t but maybe 3 people around us, a group of about 9 or so, so it really wasn’t bad.  About halfway through the movie, all the people on the outskirts of our group took the seats separating the other people.  And people kept laughing.  I had no idea why unless it was because someone was getting head.  I don’t know, I was too busy watching the movie.

Then I went to see “Duce Bigelow 2” with a friend.  There were a whole 10 of us in a theater that sat ~100 people.  We sat by ourselves until halfway through the movie I noticed everyone else suddenly sitting around us.  Yeah, everyone in the theater had moved to sit immediately in front/next to/behind us.  It was kind of creepy.  This has gone on for years.

Finally, my “runner-up to be craziest ex” ex, some of her friends, her chick, and I all went to see “30 Days of Night” on opening day in a theater that was PACKED.  I mean, we had to beg a couple to move so we could all sit together.  Towards the end of the movie everyone around me starts falling out during a scene that was supposed to be touching and sad, not funny.  I couldn’t figure out why, unless I missed something.  So I turned to Miss Psycho and had the following conversation:

Me: Did I miss something?  This is almost bringing tears to my eyes, so why is everyone laughing?

Miss Psycho: Stop joking around and watch the movie.

Me: No, really, why is everyone laughing?

MP: Don’t act like you don’t know.

Me: Damnit, woman, what the fuck is so funny?




Me: Oh, shit, did the guy behind us nut on my hat?

MP: Damnit, dipshit, you haven’t shut up since the movie started!

Me: I haven’t said a damn fucking thing!

MP: No, really, you haven’t stopped talking since the movie started.

Me: I don’t believe you.

MP: You always talk through the entire movie.

Me: No, I just think through the entire movie.

Strange woman I’ve never met sitting in front of me shortly after this conversation after the lights came up and we were leaving the theater: Honey, you’re funny.  And the fact you think you’re thinking and not talking only makes the whole thing funnier.

So, apparently what happened is I watched so much MST3K as a kid that it’s gotten into my subconscious and I give a complete running commentary throughout the entire film.

Now, if only I could be that funny on stage and get paid, that would be amazing, because then I wouldn’t have to clean up the sperm on the toilet in the women’s restroom.

I’m not vain, it’s just that you’ve been promoted to Captain Idiot

So when I was a kid they had this Time Life commercial for a record collection (I am NOT old, y’all, really) of 70’s greatest hits.  It was an awesome commercial until this one song came up called “You’re so Vain”.  It drove me nuts.  I’d ask my mom whenever the commercial aired what the song meant and she’d look at me like, “Where have I gone wrong raising this child?” but she’d actually tell me, “Don’t worry about it, honey, it’s just a song.  I’m sure you’ll understand when you’re older.”

The lyrics, if you didn’t know:

You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You’re so vain
I’ll bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you? Don’t you?

I couldn’t help it and we went through the entire ritual everyday until she finally got frustrated and screamed, “WHAT DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND ABOUT THE DAMN SONG?!?!?!”

Me: If she’s saying that I’m so vain that I probably think the song is about me then doesn’t that make the song about me and me not actually vain at which point she wouldn’t need to sing the song because I’m not really vain at all I’m just the victim?

Mom: 0_O Don’t ever bring this song up again.  EVER!

So cut to 9 years later when I’m fourteen.  We were listening to the oldies station and that song came on and I immediately reached over and turned the radio off.

Mom: What the hell are you doing?

Me: I hate that song.

Mom: Well, when you’re driving, you won’t have to listen to it, but as you aren’t old enough and I still have to drive your ass everywhere I’m in control of the radio and I say we’re going to listen to it. *turns radio back on*

Me: But it doesn’t make sense!

Mom: What?

Me: It doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.  None.  Nada.  Zip.  Zilch.

Mom: How does it not make sense?

Me: If she’s singing I’m so vain I probably think this song is about me then doesn’t it make it about me?  At which point she shouldn’t even be singing the song!  It’s a completely pointless statement of her own stupidity and she probably opened a riff in the space/time continuum.

Mom: Okay…honey, I think we’re going to up your medication.

I’ve mentioned this to many people, and none of them have ever thought about that.  NOT. A. ONE.  They just nod along to the beat while singing nonsense lyrics and look at me like I’m nuts whenever I bring it up and for some reason they never really want to talk to me again.

Sorry, Daddy isn’t here right now

So I’m a single 20 something who lives with my folks.  Not a great thing when you don’t necessarily want to be single, but I’d rather be single and know my parents aren’t burning the house down than get that phone call at 3pm.  No, wait, I totally DID get that phone call at 3pm…while I was at work…and living with my parents…

But I don’t get that phone call as often as I did when I lived in Georgia.  Parents are like children when they’re older.  They constantly want attention, are needy, and usually wait about two weeks to let you know that, oh, yeah, we need a new washer.  Wait, why do we need a new washer, mom?  Oh, you mean you thought it would be okay to put 3 comforters in our small home washer after all the years you yelled at me that I couldn’t even put ONE comforter in it?

No, I’m not mad at you.  What are you talking about?  I’m not yelling at you.  I promise.  It’s okay.  Have some fish sticks and mac & cheese while you watch Sponge Bob before you take your nap, okay?

I don’t have any children, yet I constantly have to play “Daddy isn’t here right now” with my parents.

Like the time they thought my grandmother died but didn’t let me know for two weeks.  I thought they died and they were all “No, we’re alive, but we’re not home, we’re in Arizona” and I’m all “Yeah, I know, Aunt Betty totally called me when she heard my message on the machine about how none of the hospitals had ya’ll in there database as dead or injured.  And by hospitals, I mean every hospital between Savannah and San Antonio on I-10” and they were all “oh, sorry, we forgot to call” and I’m like “yeah, you were supposed to call 2 weeks ago.  You’re grounded.”

I still give them a hard time about it because THEY STILL DO THAT.  Like, my mom’s tire started to shred so my dad put the spare on.  That’s nice.  No one told me until the spare started to shred.  Um, hello, how can I fix it if you don’t tell me?  “We wanted to do it on our own.”  I can’t fault them for that.  They’ve been independent since the ’50’s (my dad) and ’60’s (my mom) so it’s completely understandable that they feel awkward and insecure about having they’re youngest son take care of them.

But when my mom fell and broke her arm at work, I should have gotten a phone call.  Instead I get a text message saying she got out of work early, not to worry.  And then a month later I find out she slipped and fell, chipped her hip, tore her rotator cuff, and broke her elbow.  How did I find out?  She slipped and fell at her new job and they made her go to the hospital.

Um, yeah, you are so grounded.  You are only now allowed to leave the house to go to work.  No phone.  No tv.  Understand?

My parents are going to totally make go insane.

Why are all the men I find creepy?

So I’ve tried doing the whole online dating thing and let me just say, the Internet is full of creepy people. There was the chick who’s obsessed with her cow, little Bo Peep, and the countless women who I’ve never spoken to that reply to my add with “how sad you’re so desperate you’ve stooped so low as to use an online dating site” despite them having joined when the site opened…so I thought, hey, why discriminate? Guys can be sexy so I’ll see what’s out there…

Worst. Idea. Ever.

So far I’ve found a guy obsessed with microwaves, a 40 year old who’s “not ready to settle down”, an unemployed man who’s too busy fighting for unemployment to find a job to replace the one he lost almost a year ago, and a whackjob who lives with his mother.

Now, don’t think I’m being discriminitory or anything against the guy who lives with his mom. I live with my parents so they don’t burn down the house, but, really dude, it’s okay to get outside every now and again.  And, also, I don’t need you to email me every five minutes telling me just how horny/lonely/bored you are or that you just took a massive poo.  If you want to tell people that, great, get on Twitter.

So I have come to the conclusion that I’m either supposed to be single or I’m going to have to unconvert from Judaism and become a priest…

*****it’s not an update since I hadn’t published it yet, but I had to add this*****

I was thinking about this post and possibly going back to dating women last night when, suddenly, like a gift from Heavan, the most gorgeous man I’ve laid eyes on walks into my store with a smile and a skip in his step.  He was kind, sweet, outgoing.  The problem?  What should have been a 30 second transaction turned into a 15 minute (no exageration, there is video evidence, it honestly took 15 minutes) transaction because he was trying to do the math on how much gas his car would take, but kept interrupting himself so he couldn’t concentrate on the math, and then yelled at me for interrupting him.

Then it turns out he overpaid for his gas and wanted his change.  No problem.  Except that he spent 20 minutes scouring the parking lot trying to find a penny so he didn’t get back $1.99 because, “Really, who wants all those pennys?  They’re such a hassle and I have tons of change at home and don’t really need anymore because it’s not really worthwhile and I have all these cards for my bank so I don’t usually carry cash but I totally hate using my credit cards and debit cards and hey what’s this petition thing you guys have here maybe I should sign it to stop unfair swipe fees and are you going to give me my change or, oh, wait, it’s in my hand, but I guess I’ll go since you cut me off so I couldn’t finish talking so, whatever.”

Then I was extremely greatful that, despite being single, I’m not desperate enough to date that.