And on this day, cupid moved the rock and rose from the dead. Wait, no?

mature-cupid-fat-bearded-hairy-bow-heart-arrow-peace-sign-victory-his-hand-48936734I have been reminded quite a bit lately that I have not been blogging. And, ja know, it is true. It’s because I have mostly been snacking, drinking wine and shoveling. And petting my dog. Dear fuck I am a loser. So really, what better day to blog about my love life, than the day Cupid moved the rock and rose from the dead. Wait? Was that this holiday? What the actual fuck did cupid do?

Anyholla. I decided I wanted this blog to be two part (now, let’s see if my ADD allows for that). Part 1. How my incredibly busy dating life has been, and Part 2. My perfect online dating profile.

So, Part 1. The end. No, really. NOTHING HAS FUCKING CHANGED.

Part 2. Lemme tell you married people something. It is REALLY HARD writing an online profile of yourself. You have to “sell” yourself. But thing is, when you are out of a marriage, you don’t always feel super fucking awesome about yourself. Especially when you have been dealt some of the blows I have. Actually even just one. Just get dealt one of mine. Not a gigantic confidence boost. (except the formers new lady, according to sources, looks just like me AND has the same last name. Creepy, or stalky?)

This is what my actual profile says (can’t make this up, but it’s not online now, because I am burnt out from fielding marriage requests from men 15 years younger than me and am just going to work on stalking yoga or something).

Me. Was married for 10 years, but decided online dating seemed more fun. Have a great job, beautiful home and 2 mini-me’s. I’m skeptical of online dating, but having trouble meeting “the one” when sitting at home watching Bravo TV.

You. Must love cheese, bacon, dogs and wine. Be gainfully employed and not live with mom. Be active but not a Spartan. If your profile says things like “Hit me up” or “LOL” I am already annoyed. Gentlemen who have already claimed to be “the one” for me, so you need not apply: someone who asked if I like being slapped with bacon (no), a stripper (like, current, CURRENT stripper), someone who faked a dead wife, someone who sat down upon first meeting and said “My wife went butch, you gunna too?” And many men who are not “technically” single. If you support Trump, I assure you, we are not going to get along.

I mean, that’s funny, right???? Well, seems as though “funny” is not a quality people look for anymore. It also seems as though people don’t like women who own a home and are employed. And eat bacon. And drink wine. Otherwise EVERYONE says “hit me up.” (oh shit, maybe that is why I am always annoyed).

Anyjolla, I decided that I would write what I think my perfect online dating profile would be. Ya know, like the shit you want to say, but don’t.

Me: I dunno, I’ll prolly put some of the stuff from above in, however, here is the real me, lets give it a go.

Was married for 10 years, but decided online dating seemed more fun. Have a great job, beautiful home and 2 mini-me’s. Had my heart aggressively trampled on, but still believe (ish) in happy endings. Want an equal in life. You work, I work, I cook, you do dishes. Want someone to share the great (sunny days at the beach) and not as great (3rd grade recorder concert) with. Want someone who checks their phone in the middle of the night to see if I said “hi” and if I didn’t, you say it, because ya know, you are thinking of me. Want “easy” in a hard world. What does that mean? You understand that my life is chaotic, and even if I am not the fastest to respond to texts, it doesn’t mean I am not thinking of you…. It means, life. You don’t ever ask for racy photos…. Why, because you respect me… And really, who the fuck does that?

You: Understand that I had a life before you, but still want a life with you. What does that mean? I have two people who rule my every being. I never would have guessed I could love going to third grade basketball games, and doing science projects, and reading Octonauts every.single.night. They are actual parts of me (not like my old art teacher who had a sixth finger on both hands, but you know what I mean). You understand that I am a work in progress. Sure, I want to go to the gym more, and be the prettiest, smartest, fastest, but I’m not. And I don’t. And I won’t. Because life. I don’t really watch TV, but always have music on. You should be overly comfortable with a nightly dance party. I don’t believe in electronics at the dinner table. Or lunch table. Or breakfast table. I am right here. But the phone down, I assure you, nothing happened on FaceBook.

So, there you have it, the profile I would like to post, but won’t, because, eh, imma hold out and hope I meet someone in the produce potato chip aisle.

 

 

 

When your tail is ripped off…

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The plan was, just don’t open the door.  Isn’t that how it goes? Lights off, no one will knock, but if they do, just don’t open the door.  But then I heard my little panther “Dis is my mommy’s house” and I had to answer.  I didn’t even have a piece of candy to give my little panther because all along, the plan was, just don’t open the door.
My therapist says it’s ok for everything to still hurt. All. The. Time.  He also says it’s ok for me to drink wine and that sometimes I should just go to a hotel and order room service and sleep all day.  I really like him.
You read about this feeling of instrumental loss when you get divorced.  It is equated to a death.  Part of you literally dies inside.  Years later I am trying to figure out if I will ever get that part back….. You know, like an iguana tail that grows back….. I don’t know if mine will or if it just died.
My therapist says everyone must think I am always fine, because I laugh about my life, I am honest about it, I just push through it, but there are still days I end up on the floor, crying, wondering who the fuck I pissed off to get here.
Sometimes, I still look at my wedding rings, and think about when we bought our first house, or our second house, or our first apartment. 15 years of it and my entire plan was “Just don’t open the door.” More times than not, I wonder if I will ever move on, or even go on a real date, or if my tail will grow back.
I tell myself all the time that someone had to move on first…. I am generally use to being the first one to get shit accomplished, so maybe that is why it is so hard, but I suspect it is something different.
I joke about it, but the reality is, in comparison, I have it pretty good.  When one of the minis pukes and shits at the same time (or, not at the same time) the first person I text is the former Mr. Nara. I wondered with him just yesterday, how it will be when our oldest (slightly vain, already enjoying excessively long showers) hits puberty. I think likely, because when your tail is ripped off, you go back to what you know. But I think too, that because when someone is shitting and puking at the same time, only the other 1/2 of what created that disgusting mess understands.
I am lucky in comparison, but nothing eases the pain of your tail being ripped off other than time.  At least that is what my therapist says.  Sort of.

And just like that, six….

My sweet peanut, this is your day. You have patiently waited 364 days to get here. You have told Biggie and I every day that “Ugh, it is takin fovea to be six.” You finally made it. We have spent so much time talking about your party (gymnastics, obvi) and who will go. And you say it so gently “Mom, do I still have fwiends? Because, mom, I go to a new school now.” (you know, like in case I was not aware). We have talked extensively about what snacks will be served at this glorious event (pretzels, apple sauce and cheese sticks). No one loves their birthday as much as you do.

Every year, every single year pee wee, I tell you, Biggie started our family, and you completed it. And still, even in this last year, with so much that has changed, that still remains the same. You complete our mini-tripod. When my heart broke, it is as though you both took one piece and put it back together.

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My heart….

 

You are our old soul. Just so sweet and kind in spirit. When I remind you all the time to tell me that I am a beautiful princess, you say “But momma, where is your crown hat?” When I tell you that I lost it, or left it at work, you say “Oh momma, I will get you one den.”

You love with your full heart. Every day when I pick you up, you run into my arms, and we race to the car (you somehow win every day) and then we hold hands. Every day.

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You even say “Time for me to run into your arms.”

 

Every night, when we put you to bed, you ask for brother and I to sleep in your room, not because you are scared, or want a sleep over, but because you “don’t like to be away from us too long.”

Every morning, when I lay in bed with you, you say “Momma, you seep in my bed all night, we so cozy.” Then you suck on your boo boo. I could do without that part.

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You are our creature of habit. Same breakfast every morning (banana muffins, apple slices and “cold lellow apple juice”). Same lunch every day (cheese and square “quackers” fruit, gummies). And every night when we get home, you need to relax for a minute with a “cow milk.” You are such a creature of habit, that when we went to Disney this year, you and I rode Dumbo. 14 times in a row.

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Oh I know, for something new, let’s go on Dumbo.

 

You LOVE helping.   I was painting a cabinet for your play room last week, when you asked if you could help. You sat down with me in the driveway and after painting for a minute or two said “Momma, when do we go get coffee? Like workers do. They get coffee.”

You tattle. The other day, you said “Mom, daddy gives me somefin I yike to drink, and it is lellow.” To which I said “Apple juice?” And you said “No, soda, and daddy says no tellin mommy, so I didn’t.”

You love your brother SO much.  I am so lucky to have these two boys, who are so different, yet so alike.  You miss him when he is gone.  And by “gone” I mean, when he goes poop, you go with him.

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You are obsessed with your brother. 

 

You are fresh. In fact, Biggie and I call you “baby fresh butt.” This weekend, you saw that I was walking around looking for something, and said “Momma, what you doing?” I told you that I was looking for Quinn’s blankie, to which you said “Oh, I frew that in da trash, hold my hand and I can take you to it.” So. Matter. Of. Fact.

You are so strong willed. If you don’t get what you want, you will say “Fine, den I goin to bed!” hashtag winning.

You are SO silly. This year, the Y had a “Doggy pool day” there must have been 25 dogs swimming in the pool, and you.

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All aspects of your life include a dance party.

 

 

You are SO confident in who you are. Let me re-phrase that, you are so comfortable in who you are being naked.  I never thought I would say things like “Dude, put your ding dong away.” so.very.much.

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You wanted to walk down the street nude, the comprise was undies.  Because I am a really good parent.

 

You think you are 25 years old. This summer, after seeing Biggie go tubing once in Maine, you decided that not only would you be doing that, but that you didn’t need an adult. Your papa and I spent a solid day worrying about it, when you just jumped on the tube from the dock and yelled “Hit it, and turn up the speed for dis guy.” True. Fucking. Story.

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Hit it.

 

You amaze and scare me at the same time. You are so determined. You don’t give up when anyone else would have.  And when you are working, you say “I got dis.”

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Half size. Full Swag. Always.

 

Every day, I worry… Am I enough for you and Biggie? Can me, this one person, do this alone? Raise two boys. Alone. And every day, you both remind me,  I can, because you do it with me. You have taught more in six short years than I can ever teach you. I have these times that in my heart, you and biggie have always been with me. I don’t remember a day that you were not there.

Biggie and I are so excited to celebrate six with you.  Your favorite toys (guys) and your favorite food (pizza, circle kind, that “Da guy brings to da door.”). Happy six my sweet love.

It’s a break, hombres…

So I really was basically forced decided to take a temporary break from dating. It’s hard A.F. to be honest all those potentially perfect suitors banging at my door all flowers and wine trying to balance your current life, that is already busy and add something new in. Plus, I am a RAGING bitch and I don’t want to share my closet or bed. Ever. So Mr. Nara 2.0 is going to have to agree to wear the same clothes every day and sleep on a cot in the living room (because I am also not moving, see, see how easy I am to get along with!).

But this whole “dating” thing makes you really self evaluate. Look, I know that I am a golden fucking treasure as beautiful as a princess and as rare as a mermaid and someone will figure it out one day might have a thing or two I could work on (for example, I was on a 5:00 am flight the other morning and the woman next to me had fake eyelashes on. I had yoga pants on who’s winning here???? I could OCCASIONALLY step up my A game a bit.)

However, when you find yourself 29 +10 and single (like FUCKING SINGLE), you can’t help but wonder “What is it that I want?” I always felt like my list of “wants” was actually quite reasonable…. For example:

I WANT you to have a job. Why, because I do. I have a good one. You should too. Don’t bitch about it, don’t be searching for a career or figuring yourself out, that ship sailed. Get up, go to work, go home, just like the rest of us acting adults do.

I WANT you to have a life outside of me. Wait. Not like the kind that Mr. Nara 1.0 had, but like friends and shit. Why? Because in my new found single life, I have realized that I need my girlfriends. I need stupid conversations and chick movies. I need to talk about Bravo TV…. I love things that are pretty and painting and sometimes, just being alone…. Sure sure, you go ahead and put those New England Red Sox on and that is great and all, I will like it with you, and cheer for them to get a goal, but I don’t need to love everything you do. You don’t need to obsess over pink paint with me. Deal.

I WANT you to be close to your family. Because I am (close to mine, not yours, I don’t even know yours).

You must like dogs. Not tolerate them, actually LIKE them. This isn’t about My dog (well, obvi of course it is) this is about who you are as a person. No offense, but people who don’t like dogs are fucking weird.

But then, I have come to realize as much as I feel like I have these simple “wants” I am also figuring out what I don’t want. For example:

I don’t want you to be someone you are not. Really, EVERY fucking guy on dating websites is a professional rock climber? And none of you need ropes and pulleys and shit? REALLY????? Because I have NEVER, not ONCE in “real” life met someone who is an avid rock climber.

I don’t want you to be vegan, vegetarian, diet restricted. Why, because I am not. And honestly, people who are like “Does that have kava bean in it, I don’t eat that, I am on a seaweed and kale diet.” Drive. Me. Fucking. Nuts. And I am positive people who eat seaweed and Kale must just fart all fucking day. There is this guy who sometimes works out of my office and he brings in a (large) cooler of deli meat with him. He eats, no joke, like a pound and ½ of salami every time he is there. Know what he does? He farts. Because when you are on some crazy diet like that, that is what happens. I want to be with a guy that I am like : “You want steak and mashed, sweet.” (sidebar, I am DYING for outback steakhouse lately. God I am so fucking pretty).

I don’t want you to have Peter Pan syndrome. I need to be with someone who has been married (because you have learned sharing and can teach me a thing or two) and has kids. And the kids are an ACTIVE part of their life. Why, because mine are. So when I have swimming, football, homework, running noses, I need you to understand. And I will with you.

I don’t want to meet you on a dating website. Why? Because I have come to realize that I don’t believe in it. I want to meet you because you are like “Yep, she’s the one.” Not because you are like “Yep, profile picture #1 is good, #2 looks kind of airbrushed but I’ll meet her for a drink.” And guess what, it is the same like, 20 people on dating websites. I don’t want to be that person. I want to have a story. I don’t really care if it is “We met pumping gas” that’s cool. Know what isn’t “We met on Tinder.” Because I am still waiting to hear about my first tinder, match, bumble success story.

So, Mr. Nara 2.0, let me know when you are pumping gas and I will meet you there (oh, you should also be able to read, because ya know, you will need to read to see this).

 

 

 

Ahh, I see, going on troll patrol are we…..

Well, well, well….. Lookie what trash the old blog dragged in….. I figured it would be best for me to say my peace here, since, it clearly originated here….. So, dear readers who find it necessary to reach out to the old “wazband” about my blog, a few notes to you….

  1. It’s called humor, fucking learn it
  2. It’s all true, he is annoyed because he was, in fact, caught
  3. Step back, breathe, close your eyes, and realize what a god damn fucking troll you are for “reporting to him” he knows it all, he fucking created it. If you think you know more about my marriage than I do (which, hey, you might) please feel free to email me, I am always looking for new material
  4. Question my BLOG all you want, forward it to him, read it to him because he is a questionable at best reader, but know one thing…. There is only ONE parent involved here. There is one parent making my boys do homework, making sure they have dinner, showers, shoes, that they learn how to ride a bike.  There is one parent taking them to Disney, to Maine, teaching them how to waterski.  There is one parent laying in bed with them at night when they have a sore throat or a nightmare.  There is one parent praying with them and reminding them to be thankful for what they have, though it might not be much. There is one parent who gets them to school, picks them up from school, meets with teachers and works through the night to make up for the time they missed at work.  There is one parent who sits at the counter night after night googling “third grade math” and going over the sound that “F” makes, who cries with pride when the youngest mini writes his name.  There is one parent helping to perfect the dunk shot, or the trick shot from the stairs. There is one parent who sacrifices everything, there are no fancy dinners, no manicures, no nights on the town, so that they can play basketball or have swim lessons, so that they don’t see how hard it really is. There is one parent, who lays awake every night, scared that she will never be enough, because she is only one person.  One parent. There is only one parent. There has always only been one parent.  So if I WRITE about it, as an outlet, as humor, know, that I am the ONE parent.
  5. Keep reading my blog, forward it to him, send it to him, I am paid by the click. It went viral last week.  Who’s winning now?
  6. Now fuck off and de-friend me you douche bags
  7. .a8bdaa8feccf9e55e87a0b3e37d45b2f

Dating. Exactly as awful as I figured it would be.

I have not blogged in a bit, because I have been busy, well, dating. “Dating” is actually a very loose term.  I went on two dates.  It is a tie on which one was worse. Let us recap, shall we.

I “met” both of these kind gentlemen online (obvi).  On paper, they seemed pretty darn great and I mean, when it was all said and done, they both had photos up that were only like, ehhh, 5-7 years old. Sidebar, do you bet that right now they are bitching to their buddies, like “Yea, on paper she looked fucking normal.  Not. So. Much.”

Date #1 background (on paper): Him.  Doctor.  Lives in Boston.  Likes dogs.  Divorced. No kids.  OK, can I please wake up to the fucking red flags?  I can never, ever go on a date with someone who has not had kids… Why? Because people who have never had kids don’t understand that they LITERALLY suck the life out of you.  Literally.  they are the most important thing in your life. Moving on. We decide to meet for a drink at a local(ish) bar.  Telling you, fucking ish gets me again.   I notice him right away from his gigantic bald shiny head profile picture.   We do the standard “Oh, you find this place ok, yea, parking sure is great, huh?” greetings as I sit down.   The lovely bartender asks me my favorite question in the world “Can I get you a drink?” and says to date #1 “Would you like another Dewar’s on the rocks?”  Oh, ok, so I am on a date with my grandmother.  We chit chat a bit and it is fine, except that it is not, that is a total fucking lie….. I get along with him, well, I guess, I get along with him the same way I get along with my girlfriends, or my best gay friend (who, the clock is fucking ticking on a ridiculous bet we made that if we were both single at 40 we had to get married.  Who’s laughing now. Right, neither of us).  When he all of the sudden yells, (legit, yells):  “Giiiiiirrrrrrlllll, I am ob-sessy with those shoes.  What size?”

Oh my god.  I mean, yes, I am rocking some awesome shoes.  But yes, he is also gay.  Totally gay. I am out, on a date, with a bald gay man who is now THREE Dewar’s on the rocks in. I am trying to hide the shock on my face, but I imagine it looked something like this.  Only less orange and hopefully at least a teenie bit more feminine.

face

Once I get over my initial shock, I decide to just have a nice date, while, he, decides to have two more Dewar’s.  We chat, and by “chat” I mean “he slurs about his dog for three straight hours.” Overall, I think that one went pretty well! And that there could be a real strong future for us!

So, at this point, I pick my sorry ass up, brush it off, and agree to meet date #2.  Because, I am an idiot.

Date #2 background (on paper): Him. Sales. Lives one town over. Likes dogs. Divorced.  Two kids.  OK, ok, this could be good, right???  No. No. At the FIRST second he suggested the date location, I should have been like “Yea, peace out.”  He suggests that we go to this nice bar in Salem, MA.  Ok, before you get all “Jesus Princess Nara, what are you looking for?”  I remind you that Salem is the literal mecca for adults to dress up like whatever the fuck it is they want for an ENTIRE month and roam the streets of said, Salem, Ma.  Oh, AND, take into account, there was a big “food truck” festival too. So, when D#2 makes the suggestion, I text something back like “You don’t think it will be crowded?”  Him “Nahhh.”  Fast forward to a text I sent him on date day:  “I have been driving around looking for a parking spot for 53 minutes.  This was really a bad idea.”  So you can imagine how fucking cheery I am at this stage of the game….. He texts back “Yea, I DIDN’T THINK IT WOULD BE CROWDED AT ALL” and I was like “because you clearly have never left the house before.  Ever. You GD troll.”  “Yea, I did.” He asks if I want to go to the “Tiki bar” in Swampscott.  I am racking my brain trying to figure out what he is talking about, when I drive by this, and realize “this” is “Tiki.” Which, coincidentally enough, is also the place you go to when you are 16 years old and craving a scorpion bowl.

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OK, be positive Nara.  I text him that I will head into the “Tiki bar” and he can meet me there.  I grab a seat at a booth, because the bar was full with 90 year old women drinking Dewar’s and playing Keno, and this one guy who kept telling me he thought I smelled good.  Next up, I need a drink. Clearly, I text him to ask what he wants “Ask if they have Harpoon.”  I ask.  I get this.

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I say “Just give me one of those.” Pointing to some bottle of beer.  Then, I ask what they have for white wine.  She doesn’t know, but kindly just hands me this.   Honest to fucking god, worst best date ever so far.

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D#2 shows up, and it is weird. I have no idea why, but it is…. We sit and joke about our drinks for about 11 seconds when he says “Well, want to know why I am here, haha ha?”  Me: “Um, sure.”  Him: “My ex-wife plays for the other team now, I didn’t want a divorce, she is totally butch, but the good news is she gained 50 pounds.”  I raise my hand and give the universal “Imma need  a six pack of those plastic bottles of cheap wine, because, right.”  For the next SEVENTY minutes, he went on to tell me all about how she changed teams, she wears cargo shorts, she emptied out their bank account,  she racked up over $100,000 in debt.  He asked me if I had “Cash for the drinks.” (it was $12 for those of you wondering). This, this isn’t on the first date, IT IS IN THE FIRST FUCKING SEVENTY MINUTES OF MEETING SOMEONE.  He says things like “Yea, I see a counselor and we are working through things.”  To which I am like “Might want to see them more, bro.”  He tells me all about how he does nothing at work, just gets through every day (Oh, Sales = Chairs.  As in, he sells chairs).  This goes on for the full seventy minutes, until I am like “Whoa, lookie there, I just shit my pants” and left.  OK, until I was like “Wow, is it already 4:00pm, I need to get home and go to bed soon.”  No, really, I did say that.

He texts me WHILE WE ARE STILL IN THE PARKING LOT and tells me that he had the most amazing first date.  I, sit in the parking lot and delete all dating apps from my phone.

 

Oh, this old dog and pony show…

There are days (that’s a lie, there was maybe like a day, like as in “one single day”) that I really think I have my shit wrapped up tight.  I have a great career, a super cute home, my two (sometimes well behaved, sometimes total dick noses) cherubs and even a super cute pug. But, the fact of the matter, is that, because single parenting is so fucking hard, I rarely (by rarely I mean “never”) have time to do things for myself.  Case in point, when I was getting my hair cut yesterday, the gal says to me “Oh, how long has it been since your last cut?”  Me: “Well, my oldest son is 8, so, I guess 8 years, you know, give or take a few days.”

But every now and then, I am like “Pretty pretty princess Nara get yo ass out there, you are not going to meet Mr. Nara 2.0 while you are watching Lifetime movies crying into a pint of chunky monkey.” I have always said that eventually I would tell the story of my divorce.  Not all of it, but the part that, well, that I guess reads like a Lifetime movie.  To make a LONG story short, sometimes, when I am feeling bad for myself that Mr. Nara 1.0 is marrying his mistress, I decide that I should date.  I mean, look, he was dating while we were married, so I guess I can give it a whirl????  The thing is, there is no mistress (mistror?) for me….. So I am back to, yup, you guessed it, online dating.

Why online?  Because in “real life” I only have an interest in 2 types of men. Men who are either completely not available, or totally geographically undesirable. I mean, I can rationalize the SHIT out of both of them…..

For example:

  • When he says “girlfriend, he clearly means ‘girl’ ‘friend’ “
  • Someone not wanting to date me, is just their way of playing hard to get (obvs)
  • When I don’t meet someone’s pre-defined criteria, I am like “Well, that will change”
  • And for the GU, I always think: “I had a LDR, and look, look at how awesome it worked out! We are… Oh wait.”

So, such is living in small town, and being sort of a hermit, I end up back online. So I had been sort of chatting with this guy online and he seemed nice (ish – telling you – ish gets you every.fucking.time).  We made plans to get together, but (ignored red flag #1) our schedules didn’t jive for like 2 weeks. So, we exchanged some casual texts here and there then he sent me this fucking whammy of a picture.  Listen, dating is different now, I can’t explain it, just different…. I know you are thinking the picture was super sexy, but really, it was the EXACT FUCKING OPPOSITE of sexy. It was an actual FDA approved sex repellent.  Here were some of the responses from my girls (sidebar, can you even imagine how awesome it must be to be my friend and getting to witness this shit show with a front row seat? Just saying).

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So, without even showing the picture, you get the jist, this CLEARLY was not going to work out.  I am a very tidy person, and this person, was….. Well, was not. And if his FEET look like that, what about the, ah-hem, downstairs. Cross that one off.

Moving on.  I decided to open an app I sometimes use when I try my 11 seconds of online dating, and yup, this guy right here was a 99% match.  I just.  I can’t.  Honest to fucking god.  I can’t. What. The. Actualfuck. Is that teenie animal?  And why is he so creepily staring at me? And does he keep his dead bodies WITH his complete beanie baby collection or are they in different rooms?

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What, just what is that teenie pet??  Is it stuffed? 

And again, the responses are amazing, because I think that people don’t believe that this is REALLY MY LIFE…..

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I mean, I GET it, I’m no real catch here, but THESE are my options???????

So then, in a last ditch effort, I tried one more app that I NEVER visit. Why, because you pay for it… I SHIT you not, when I say, I had to take it off because my phone was dinging every 11 seconds.  Don’t believe me, well, I got these messages (many, like when you send line by line texts) from one fellow:

Happy sunny Wednesday

Hump day 🙂

Are you having a good day?

I hope so.

What is your favorite flower?

Do you like to hike?

Next day, same person:

Happy Thirsy Thursday to you beautiful (side note, guys must think that we chicks are really desperate.  I mean, I personally am, but not every girl is, so open with something else.)

I just quenched my thirst with a smoothie.

Do you like smoothies?

If so, what kind do you like.

OK, clearly this guy doesn’t “get” me already, but that is fine, because he has more questions (keep in mind, I have not responded a SINGLE WORD and yet, somehow, I still now have a pen pal??)

Were you able to go outside at all?

I plan to take a nice walk later.

There is a nice ocean breeze.

At this point, I am thinking that he is going to either try ye old “sexy talk” or he is in some sort of a language development program (I can say that because my butterball is, you can’t say things like that, FYI).

I worked for a bit.

Then went home.

I had lunch.

It was a turkey and hummus wrap with kale chips.

STOP, JUST STOP. You have now sent 17 messages and 2 of them put you in an automatic “Fuck NOPE” category.

I have an indoor tree that I need to repot (Fuck nope #3)

Do you want to help (FN #4)

It’s leaning to the side

I need to adjust the roots.

21 Messages.  From one pen pal “match.  Gets better.

I’m not a huge TV watcher, mostly just sports.

I enjoy sport playoffs so have been watching more that usually lately (OK, I am admitting, I am not sporty spice, but is there sort of a “playoff” I don’t know about right now?)

What is your favorite show?

WAIT FOR IT WAIT FOR IT

It is nice that we share some similar interests.

NO WE DON’T.  NOT ONE.  LITERALLY NOT A SINGLE ONE. AND I PAID FOR THIS.

Also got this one yesterday

“Hi, happy Easter.”  The actual fuck?

I had three messages asking me if I work for the police.  DUDE, FUCKING ZOOM IN LIKE A CHICK. Don’t stalk and then be a BAD stalker, that is just embarrassing (for me, you might be ok with it, but it embarrasses me if you can’t even stalk me like a real stalker)… And, if I was a policer (police woman? police attendant? police driver?) wouldn’t I have like a badge and gun and shield and shit? All I have is a constant hangover.

 

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Is there a SINGLE person who thinks I could be a cop? Firm Nope.

The only thing “Good” I got from this site, is my next screen name for EEEERRRYTHING  “Lookingforastalker”