Playoff Dates

I could not be more excited that the Seahawks are going to the playoffs with home field advantage. Scratch that. I could be more excited if I were going to a playoff game. Tickets went on sale at 10am this morning. I set my alarm, pointed two laptops and my phone to the Ticketmaster site, grabbed my debit card, and started refreshing the page at 9:50am. No dice.

Once I accepted the fact that I was not going to be able to obtain tickets, I consoled myself by purchasing one of these limited edition Super Seahawks t-shirts. Here's the link so you can get one of your very own: teespring.com/superseattleseahawks.

Back to the tickets. Plan A was a bust. Plan B would be to spend all afternoon at the stupid mall on Monday in the hopes of purchasing a $10 lottery ticket for the chance to win a playoff game prize package. I'm not really the waiting in line type and I've already scheduled a daytime date with my friend T to see Anchorman 2, so Plan B probably won't happen.

...Which brings me to Plan C. Would it be totally unacceptable to change my POF profile to read: "I will date you for a playoff ticket. No ticket = No date"? Before you pipe up, you have to at least hear me out. I literally couldn't be more honest. I would have no ulterior motive, unlike the majority of online dating profiles, which are basically thinly veiled requests to get in someone's pants. Why make someone wade through a whole long description of myself and my criteria for a date when, really, the only thing that matters to me is the football game? They don't even have to like me, and I don't have to like them! What's three hours sitting next to a stranger in the loudest place on earth, right? I suppose I would have to bring something to the table other than my sparkling conversation to make the deal happen, though. Maybe a super sweet Super Seahawks shirt would sweeten the pot? Yeah, probably not.

P.S. I hate to ask, but if you enjoy my blog, would you consider sharing it or becoming a follower by email? I hate to keep posting on Facebook because it feels like I am forcing it on ALL of my friends. Thanks, and Happy New Year!

Pants

For some reason, I've been thinking about pants a lot lately. Pants? Really? Really. Pants.

I work at home, so I wear sweat pants or yoga pants a lot. Like, every day. At Thanksgiving, my cousin P and I joked about wearing our "uniform" (sweat pants and a hoody) the whole time. I love my super soft, heather grey, Boise State sweats. A men's medium, they are way too big for me, so the waistband is rolled down and the cuffs are rolled up. Permanently stained with everyday wear and sap from firewood, they are pretty appalling, but they are the only pants I own that make me feel truly comfortable. My yoga pants are a decent, much less disgusting alternative to sweats, but they make me feel a bit too exposed in the rear, so I really only wear them when I break down and wash the sweats.

Much as I love them, I can't wear my sweats out of the house. Even if I'm just running to the convenience store for a second or walking the dog, I have to put on "real" pants. My goofy little dog has figured out the code. She comes running and does her ridiculous "Let's go ride in the truck! Truck! Truck!" dance whenever I put on real pants. It doesn't matter whether I am grabbing pants from the dryer or the dresser drawer, she somehow knows the sound of pants and equates it with leaving the house. It's a funny little reminder that I don't get out or change out of my "uniform" very often.

About a year and a half ago, I had a makeover provided by a local talk show. A free haircut and dye, beautiful blue suede pumps, a new handbag, and a new outfit all seemed like a good trade for five agonizing, mortifying minutes of being on television. When I was shopping with the fashion consultant, Darcy Camden, she made me try on skinny jeans. Well, that's not exactly true. I told her there was no way I would wear skinny jeans. Do you see this ass? I have had sweet little girl students tell me that I have a "ghetto booty" and "J-Lo butt", and they were right. This ghetto booty doesn't do skinny jeans. It probably wasn't the first time that Darcy had met resistance on the skinny jeans front, because she was ready with, "What if we call them pencil slacks?" That worked for me. I do look awfully sexy in a pencil skirt... I tried on the pencil slacks and I'll be damned if they didn't look pretty good. However, I couldn't imagine myself actually wearing them in public, on tv!, so I rejected them. 

It took over a year, but I finally broke down and bought myself some pencil slacks. Being short and um, curvy, finding jeans that fit, feel good, and look good on me is a constant challenge. So, when I took eight different pairs to the dressing room and the only ones that fit the bill happened to be skinnier than I expected when I pulled them off the rack, I had to buy them. Not long after that, I bought a second pair that I like even more. They are actually quite comfortable, and they make me feel pretty confident when worn with the kick-ass ass-kicking boots that I treated myself to when the divorce papers finally got signed and filed. It's mildly ironic that skinny jeans and boots is a look that my ex was always trying to get me to wear, but I felt too self-conscious about myself when I was with him. I gained a certain sense of freedom when I realized I was no longer with someone who knew me when I was a 20 pounds lighter 20-something. I hear diet and exercise can also improve one's self-image, but as I have already told you, I'm pretty lazy and that just sounds like so much work...It turned out to be easier to lose 200 pounds of man than to lose 20 pounds of me. Ba-dum-bump. Thank you, thank you, I'll be performing all week.  

Speaking of pants, I'm having a bit of dilemma about wearing pants as a single lady. The last time I was single for any length of time was in my early twenties. At that time, my friends teased that I wore the pants in a relationship. If I became a girlfriend, it was totally on my terms. Likewise, I was always the one to end a relationship, usually for no better reason than I had changed my mind. Mostly, I would get bored when a guy was too lovey or made it too easy for me to be in charge. I guess this is a public apology to those boyfriends of my early twenties. I swear it wasn't you, it really was me. 

During this pants-wearing time of my life, my roommate worked at Moe's Mo' Rockin' Cafe, Seattle's coolest club from 1993-1997. By virtue of being there every night, I became a "Moe girl." This basically meant that I didn't pay for drinks, had the ability to make security (the Moetivators) throw bitchy drunk girls out, and saw all the awesome rock shows that came through Seattle for free. It also meant competing with my gay roommate to see which one of us could attract the attention of cute new dishwashers, of which there seemed to be a never-ending supply. I'm embarrassed even saying this, but when it came to guys, I honestly felt like if I wanted it, I could have it. So here's the dilemma: I like the feeling of wearing pants in a relationship, but I don't really want to be with someone who will let me be in charge all the time. I think I actually like romantic gestures and being wooed, but not by the type of guy who would typically be a romantic wooer. What is that? Wouldn't it just be easier to like the guys that chase me instead of the other way around? Especially since I'm not super motivated to chase anything. Side note: Moe's 20th anniversary party and shows happen next week. I'll be there and I will probably even wear pants. 

Finally, what would a discussion about pants be without mentioning underpants? This is all I have to say about that: For a few years now, night sweats and hot flashes have meant that my bedtime attire is what I should have been wearing in my twenties, back when I had the body to look hot in a slinky tank and panties. Yay, menopause! Now all I really want, even more than a man, is to be able to coolly sleep through the night wearing my comfy sweats. If you can pull it off, wear an extra layer to bed for me tonight. 

Finding Joy, Lonely Boys, Being Coy (with Koi)

My family has told me a few times over the past few months that they feel like they finally have the real ME back. Somehow it feels important to try putting words to what has been missing, now that I am beginning to truly understand what they mean. Please forgive me if I ramble for a while. 

A big part of the ME that has been missing for the past 13 years (one third of my life. Wow.) is the feeling, passionate ME. I think my ex was embarrassed by me and any displays of intense emotion (good or bad). I wasn't aware that I was actively hiding anything during the course of my marriage, but I was definitely cautious about spilling too much emotion. It isn't healthy to stifle so much, especially for a Gemini who is supposed to be moody! In my quest to rediscover myself, I have been trying to focus a lot on what makes me happy. One of those things is Christmas.

I love Christmas. I'm not like a snowman-displaying, tacky-sweater-wearing Christmas lady, but I love the traditions, baking, feelings of joy and goodwill and giving, lights...I especially love Christmas lights. I am super sappy in the glow of multi-colored Christmas lights. I have seriously spent time trying to imagine how I could live surrounded by Christmas lights year-round without moving to a trailer park. I haven't found the solution yet, but I am working on it. One possibility is moving to Las Vegas. According to this New York Times quiz, I speak most like people from Las Vegas, so I should fit right in. 

Back to Christmas. This year had the potential to be a really shitty one, as it was my first Christmas ever without family, husband/boyfriend, or roommate. I had just visited my parents for a big family Thanksgiving (another favorite holiday, but I will save that for another day), so going back a month later didn't seem feasible. Instead of staying home and opening presents from my family alone, I renewed my love of Christmas by establishing new traditions with my first, best Seattle friends and their families. We spent the holiday in the most Christmas-y town south of the North Pole, Leavenworth, Washington. It's a quaint mountain town that was remade as a Bavarian village in the 1960s, and the perfect place to get Christmas spirit.

Leavenworth with my Seattle family was restorative, magical, joyful. We saw a live nativity on Christmas Eve that had real goats, a real donkey, and even a real baby Jesus. We all laughed - and I'm still giggling as I write this - about how one of the shepherds slipped on the icy grass and muttered "Jesus!" as he went down. We went sledding, played games, sang, danced, relaxed, and opened gifts together. There were no schedules, no stress, no getting to any in-laws' houses by a certain time...just good, quality family/friend time. The lights were incredible. I took some pictures, but there is no way to really capture how gorgeous it was. You just have to experience it for yourself, and you should. 

Panorama of Front Street, Leavenworth

I hope that you felt nothing but joy this holiday season. There were at least seven lonely boys looking for love on Christmas night. That's how many "so-and-so wants to meet you" messages I received from POF. I'm figuring out that Friday nights and holidays are hot cruising times in the online dating world. I haven't spent any time on the site for a couple weeks, but my phone starts blowing up with "meet me" messages on Friday nights and, apparently, Christmas. Must remember to turn the phone off on New Year's Eve. 

While talking with my mother the other day, I realized that I should clarify a tiny detail about this blog in regards to dating. For the most part, I am only writing specifics about the Plenty of Fish fishies that I would never date. So, to my mother and anyone else who may be concerned: I will not be dating any headless torsos wearing nothing but their underwear, nor will I be dating any car-less, unemployed gangsters. 

Having explained that, I can tell you that the dating is going fine, thank you very much. In fact, it might be going a little too well. I have had a few dates that I am not blogging about because I would prefer to keep them private for now. Until these dudes do something stupid to piss me off or creep me out, I will only refer to them in the broadest terms.

There is one Gemini fishy who has been sending me little "good morning" messages and flirty "how's your day?" texts every day since our date two weeks ago. I have to admit, I don't hate the attention. He is definitely second date-worthy, but I've been putting him off while I check out a situation with a different Gemini. The only thing I'll say about Gemini #2 is that he is the only fishy I've seen more than once, and I'm meeting with him again tonight. Oh, and another little fishy called me last night (on the telephone! Isn't that cute?) to ask for a second date. Crazy, right?

When I started dating, I sort of imagined every date would be a one-time deal where both of us knew right away if there was chemistry worth pursuing; but probably it would be a train wreck and it would be obvious to both parties that we would not be going out again. It honestly didn't occur to me that any of the fishies would ask me out a second time. I was fine going on first dates with more than one guy because first dates are more like interviews than dates. However, I feel a bit guilty seeing more than one dude in second date territory. Ack! Pressure! Christmas week gave me a nice break to avoid dealing with it, but I'm probably going to need to learn how to juggle in the next week or so. Since I am a total klutz (refer to the early December posts), I can't wait to see how this turns out.

I'm No Gangster

Oh my gosh. To the Crip throwing gang signs whose dating profile reveals that he uses drugs "often", has no job or car, is looking for a lady with a car, her own apartment, and her own party supplies, especially a jacuzzi...I am SO not interested. In response to your first question, Yes, I do like to party, but I don't think we like the same kind of parties. Oh, and I am NOT your baby. I tried to be polite in my first message, but I'm about ready to send the "Dude. It is NEVER going to happen" email. If I knew of the OG dating site, I would totally refer you, but for now, just know that you are way too G for me.

Sparkle

This photo just makes me so happy: Seahawks football, Christmas lights, sparkly heart. 

Merry Hawksmas!

After I posted my original shot, I received a notification from Google+ that I had a new Auto Awesome photo. I had never heard of Auto Awesome, and I was skeptical. Oh really, Google? That's a pretty bold statement. I think I'll be the judge of what's...Holy shit! That is awesome! Google just made my sparkly heart actually sparkle! I could NOT be more delighted.

I have lots more to write, but not now. It's almost time for football.

The Flirtation Mix

When was the last time you actually flirted? Not like a giggle-at-the-cute-guy-at-the-coffee-shop type of flirt, but a deliberate flirt-at-someone-in-particular kind of flirt. It's probably been a while, right?

The text flirtation is a pretty key element in online dating. It has been so long since I've been flirty that it feels like I'm learning a new skill. I'm probably over-analyzing something that should come naturally to me, but flirting is hard! You want to let the guy know that you are fun (but not easy), a lady (but no prude), smart (but not too smart)...

For me, The Flirtation is basically a combination of Play, Fast-Forward, Rewind, and sometimes, Eject.

Fast-Forward - Okay, let's just make that Forward. I'm not really that fast. At anything. However, I have to be a little bit forward to be flirty. I tend to be a tad sarcastic and I grew up surrounded by plenty of dudes, so I can bust balls with the best of 'em. Good strategy when watching football with guy friends, but I'm beginning to suspect this is not really the best way to win a man's heart...especially when you realize that sarcastic tone and twinkle in eye do not come across in text. So, I'm trying to be more, I don't know, charming with a hint of sex appeal. I don't think it's working as the inevitable response is "cute". Eh, I'll take it.

Rewind - Once I type my forward (but not too forward) message, and press Send, I instantly wish for a Rewind button and start panicking. Was that too forward? Will he get it? What if he doesn't respond? Eject! Eject! Eject!

Play - He takes the bait, sends a flirty reply, and I feel just forward enough to play again.

You know, The Flirtation is kind of like making...

Mix Tapes

"Darlin Come Home" and "Valentunes" - Catchy, right?

Do you have any of these lying about in a box somewhere? Mine reside in a big ol' box of obsolescence that I stumble over when I climb into the attic to get my Christmas decorations or pack for a move. Along with all the CD's that I have been meaning to put on my computer (for, like, 15 years), the box holds all the cassettes which somehow never got thrown out when CD's came into the picture. It's not like there is an emotional attachment or some other reason that I'm holding on to them - I'm just lazy. After all this time, it's just easier to store and move the box than it would be to deal with sorting and getting rid of it.

I have no idea what is on the mix tapes in the picture. The lists of song titles have long since disappeared and I haven't owned a cassette player for at least 10 years. I think maybe I remember receiving "Valentunes" from a boyfriend once, and "Darlin Come Home" sounds like something that another boyfriend would have made...but then again, maybe it was left behind by a former roommate when she moved out. No clue. Let me know if you recognize one of them as yours!

If you have ever made a special mix tape for someone you kinda dig, you can probably appreciate how sad it is that I know nothing about these particular mix tapes. Making a mix for someone else is a painstaking process. First, you have to assemble a 90 minute set of songs that communicates whatever emotion it is that you are trying to convey (see photo). Once you have your songs gathered, you have to break them into two lists, one for each side of the cassette. Then, you need to figure out the playing time for each side and make adjustments as needed to get each side down to a perfect 44:30 and ensure that the flow is just so from one song to the next.

With all the prep work done, you are finally ready to make your mix tape! Now your job is to diligently man the controls of your dual-cassette recorder for the next two hours. Fast forward and rewind to get the song cued up with no dead air, pause, press record and play, listen to the entire song, be ready to press pause the moment it ends, swap cassettes, and repeat.

Once you've made the mix and carefully crafted a label and title for the album, all you can do is give your labor of love to that special someone and hope that they "get" it. With any luck, she will play it over and over and think of you. Most likely, though, it's going to end up at the bottom of a box that just keeps getting moved from house to house for the next 20 years.

Anyone have a cassette player? 

Up In Smoke

You know what awesome thing I did last night? Burned the pages of the stupid journal my dissolution counselor made me write. Poof! All that negativity gone because I will never need to revisit those thoughts again. I even closed my eyes as I ripped out the pages so I couldn't see what they said. 

Burn, baby, burn!

Secrets

I am now a member of a not-so-exclusive club, as my divorce became legally final yesterday. It has been over, dead, final, muerto, finito, erledict in my head for so long that Monday was really not that significant. However, it is nice to have the book completely closed.

About a month after he-whose-name-shall-not-be-spoken left me, a friend from high school posted an elegant, yet heartbreaking, status on Facebook announcing her separation/divorce. As soon as I read it, I sent her a private message thanking her for her bravery, as I was still trying to screw up the courage to make my own situation public. Today I was humbled to receive a private message that was virtually identical to the one I had sent a few months before. The sender told me that her husband had left and they were filing for divorce, and she thanked me for writing and sharing my experiences. As I wrote my reply, I started wondering: Why is it that we (women, in my experience, but probably the same for some men) feel we have to keep our separation a secret? I don't have the answers, just my own secrets to tell.

I sincerely enjoyed being a wife, and I thought I was pretty good at it. When my ex announced (pretty much out of the blue) that he didn't want to be married anymore, I felt like a failure. Shame crippled me for a long time. I felt I couldn't confide in anyone that knew both of us (like 120 mutual Facebook friends) because they would judge him or me, and I was still trying to protect him and the image I had of my perfect marriage. Honestly, it was a relief to find out that there was another woman. It helped me to separate myself from the situation long enough to finally get angry. Oh boy, did I get angry. I was furious, and it actually felt pretty great to just let myself go and yell and curse and kick stuff. It turns out processing divorce really does require you to go through all the stages of grief, and I was getting hung up on step 1 (Denial).

If you only know me from reading this blog, you might not know that I am a painfully shy and fiercely private person. I have no problem letting on that I'm happy, but allowing myself to feel and, certainly, to express anger/sadness/depression just isn't done. I believe that you can choose to be happy or not, and I choose to be happy. (Can you say Gemini?) Just slap on a smile, tell a joke, and wait for the shit to roll off your back. It usually works great, but it turns out that some stuff doesn't roll off, it just gets bottled up deep, deep down inside. Our divorce counselor (yeah, most couples go to counseling before one party decides to leave, and that's probably a better idea) gave me an assignment to contact at least one person every day, even if it was just to say hi. It was a challenge and I wasn't really able to do it every day (I just don't like to impose on people that much), but it was honestly REALLY good advice. It took a while for me to open up publicly, but I have been absolutely overwhelmed by the flood of love and support I've received since I started talking. One thing that I've learned through this process is that I have amazing friends and family members who have been waiting for me to open up to them; to ask for help or just tell them when I'm feeling blue. I don't think I would ever be able to do that last bit, but I don't need to. For the past couple months, I have genuinely been happier than I can remember being for a long time. Writing the blog as a public confessional has been pretty damn therapeutic for me. Tough, but therapeutic.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: Don't keep too many secrets, especially from yourself. You are not alone. Don't feel guilty or ashamed. Let yourself get angry. Reach out to people. You don't have to pour out your soul, but call up a friend that you haven't seen for a long time and ask her out to lunch. Call up a different friend tomorrow. It will get easier. There will come a day when you wake up with nothing but joy in your heart. Embrace it. Confess the dark secrets and keep the delicious ones. I have a couple secrets that make me smile. Those are the ones worth holding on to, really.

Sorry for the downer post. Here's something lighter:

According to this ad from Facebook, there is but one startling secret preventing me from having millionaires begging (BEGGING!) to marry me. What's that you say? Just ONE startling secret stands between me and my lifelong dream of being a gold digger?! Oh wow. Just let me grab a pencil so I can take notes. Whew, the sarcasm is getting thick over here.

I'll end with this because I know the song is already stuck in your head. You are welcome.

Filters

I spend 8-10 hours a day working with Microsoft Excel. Some people would run away in terror, but I find spreadsheets really satisfying. I am by no means an expert, but if you need any sort of look-up function, data validation with cute little drop-down lists, or conditional formatting, I'm your gal. Concatenate? Can't wait! Sometimes the data I have to validate is 5,000 rows of crap, but I get a thrill out of the problem-solving involved in figuring out how to make it work for me.


The one Excel tool that I can't live without is AutoFilter. I won't bore you cool kids with all the ways that Excel filters delight me. You should just know that my job probably wouldn't be possible without them.

Your life would be a lot more difficult without filters too. Coffee filters, oil filters, water filters, even camera filters...they all keep unwanted stuff out and let just what you want to come through. We all have that one friend who has a couple drinks and "loses her filter". Maybe you are that friend. It's not necessarily a bad thing when the filter comes off, but rarely does it make life easier. Am I wrong?

Believe it or not, I actually have a point to all this filter talk. After being on POF for over a month, I just discovered that I can apply first contact filters. No idea how I missed them before, but there they are, hiding under the Message Settings. There aren't a ton of filters, but enough that I was able to choose an age range, require a photo, and specify that users not be married (!) in order to send me a first contact message. Woohoo, no more 25 or 60 year old dudes! It also means that my inbox has been considerably quieter for the past few days. Apparently, I'm going to have to actually go fishing instead of waiting for a normal guy to take the bait. It's exhausting and almost makes me wish my mother was one of those nosy sitcom moms who try to introduce you to every nice boy they meet. That's how much I hate this dating thing: I would rather have my mother find someone for me than look for myself. 

Because I love making lists, here is a list of the problems with "fishing" on this particular dating site:

1. Upgraded users. POF is a free site. I assume that upgrading requires money, and why would you do that unless you were desperate? From what I can tell, upgrading allows you to attach more pictures to your profile, and allows you to see when someone reads the message you sent. That second bit just seems creepy to me. I'm too much of a wuss to send a "sorry, I'm not interested" reply, so I operate on the assumption that if I don't respond, the dude will just move on or get the hint. The idea that he can see when I read the message and made a conscious decision not to respond prevents me from clicking on any messages from upgraded users. I basically feel the same way about IM and Facebook messages. I don't want the person on the other end to know when I read their message, because I'm usually too busy to respond right away. 
2. Meet Me. This is the most gutless, stalker-y feature to the site. For those not in the know, this feature allows you to let someone know you are interested without actually typing a message to them. You press "Yes", "No", or "Maybe" under a user's picture and the user gets a "So-and-so wants to meet you" message. Apparently, filters don't work with this feature. It wouldn't be quite so creepy if the user pressed that button and then immediately followed with a message: "Hey, I just pressed the "Yes" button, so now I am trying to meet you. My name is..." That has happened exactly zero times. 
3. Profiles without photos. Wait. Let me guess. You want to find a woman who appreciates you for your mind and you don't want her to be distracted by your astonishingly gorgeous face, right? That body of yours is a curse, right? I don't mean to sound shallow, but come on. The picture is the first thing that any of us are looking at to decide if we want to communicate with you. There is nothing quite so creepy as the photo-less dude with nothing in his profile description but "Later" who presses the "Yes" button described in #2. Makes me want to send a "What the fuck? How's that strategy working out for you, bro?" message, but I'm afraid that user would be like a computer virus - best not to open the attachment. 
4. Online Now in the Inbox. I wouldn't say I'm paranoid, but I don't necessarily want people to know when I'm online. Nor do I want to know when they are. I was responding to a message the other day and noticed that another guy with whom I've been chatting was online. I'm not really interested in him, but when I didn't receive a message from him, I actually got a little miffed. This was totally irrational as we had exchanged maybe two messages so he hasn't had the opportunity to learn what an amazing catch I am (tongue firmly planted in cheek). I hate irrational women, especially when they are me. 

One last thing before I go: a guy emailed me last night and we've been having a nice conversation. He seems like a down-to-earth, decent, fairly normal guy. He is flying home to Alaska to surprise his mom for the first time in 10 years, has an autistic daughter who is his pride and joy and "reason to be"...just really seems like a genuine, nice guy. Today, though, I noticed that the photo of his tattoo is, I think, an ICP clown. Oh no! Is this a juggalo? Just my luck.

Awkward and Anxious

First things first: Mr. Cute Fish might not be a total ass. I assumed that I was not going to hear from him again after he conveniently cancelled our date when I informed him of my self-mutilation/dis-figuration. However, I heard from him today. He says he has zero free-time until he leaves town Friday morning, but if I'm still interested, maybe we can try again when he gets back in three weeks. I'm not holding my breath for that invite, but yeah, Mr. Cute Fish, I'll probably still be interested.

By the way, the eye and lip are almost healed. See? I really thought I would have more time to try the boxing glove purchase pick-up line. Oh well. It was still an amazing idea. 

Now to the real reason for writing this post. I had to run to the grocery store for cat food and t.p. tonight. As I was heading down the personal care aisle on my way to the toilet paper, I passed this display: 

I have walked past the condom display pretty much my entire adult life without a second thought. Tonight, though, it nearly caused a mini panic attack. Here's a little stream of consciousness crazy to give you a glimpse inside my head: 

Oh snap. If I ever have sex again, I'll have to use a condom. I thought monogamy, marriage, and menopause meant I would never have to use protection again. If the situation does come up, am I supposed to have condoms on hand? I do like to be a good hostess...but how would I even know which ones to buy? Does size matter? If so, what would be more embarrassing for a dude: too large or too small? Would it look super slutty or super prepared to have an assortment of different sizes from which to choose? Hey, what's the free sample? What's the difference between 'Pure Ecstasy' and 'Her Pleasure Ecstasy'? For that matter, why isn't there a 'Her Pure Pleasure Ecstasy'? Oh wait. Maybe that's the 'Trojan Intensified Charged Orgasmic Pleasure'. Wow, that is a lot of adjectives. Is a man even necessary, or does the Trojan just intensify and charge the orgasmic pleasure all by itself?

Thankfully, I didn't have to answer any of those questions tonight. I grabbed my giant bag of cat food and toilet paper and skedaddled on home. In other words, I did the exact opposite.

Last thought before signing off. I ran across someone I know on Plenty of Fish the other day. Since I sent a hello message from within the app, this friend now shows up as a "Top Prospect". So, that's awkward.

Really?!?!

I promised myself that I wouldn't share any actual images or profile names from POF, but I can't resist. This guy "wants to meet me". Plus, he was considerate enough to cut his own head out of the photo.

Oh my. Look at that package. I don't even need to see your face.

I'm a Bruiser

How funny would it be if I updated my online dating profile with this picture, just to see what happens?

Bruiser lookin' for love

If I can do this to myself, imagine what I can do to someone that pisses me off. Want a date, cutie?

Update: I just received this text from my friend, B: "Dare you to go buy boxing gloves and ask the first guy out when he approaches you...Then tell him to come chop your wood and stay for drinks." I think it's just about the best plan ever. How much do boxing gloves cost? 

Self-Sabotage and a Cautionary Tale

So, I did something stupid. With a supreme lack of grace, I tripped and did a face-plant with an armload of firewood, giving myself a fat lip and a hint of a black eye. Wait. That's not even the stupid part.

Turns out, I make a pretty cute little boxer, but the timing of this new look is awful. As you know, I was really looking forward to meeting a particular hottie on Monday. I didn't want my face to startle him on our date, so I wrote and told him what happened. Oddly, he now says he will have to work late on Monday because he's trying to finish up a project before he leaves town for three weeks. He says he will contact me when he gets back after the new year. I'm calling bullshit. I should be grateful to learn that he is so focused on physical appearance and/or shallow before wasting any time, but damn. He was so cute.

This has nothing to do with dating, but let me entertain you with my latest middle-aged humiliation. Young ladies, take notes through your laughter. This will happen to you someday. If there is any justice in the universe, this will happen to you.

I had stepped out of the shower and was drying myself off when I noticed a dark line about an inch below my nipple. I had a mysterious breast infection a few years back and I've known too many women with breast cancer, so any anomaly in that region raises a red flag. A little investigation convinced me that this was just an ingrown hair. Yes, ladies. You have that to look forward to as you get closer to 40 - random, solitary hairs that crop up in places where hair just doesn't belong, like on your boobs.

I pulled out my trusty tweezers and was pleased that the rogue hair came right out. Success! A second look, though, revealed that the dark line was still there, that the hair I'd removed was just a decoy, laying on top of the real culprit. Removal of the second hair required me to do a bit of self-surgery. Picture, if you will, me standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror with tweezers, a needle, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a solid vow that I was NOT going to text my neighbor to come over and help me. Probably the only difference between me and Bob Geldof's Pink was an absence of shaving cream.

It took about 20 minutes, but I finally got the little bastard out, and I did not resort to drinking rubbing alcohol in frustration. The scab has already fallen off and the only trace of the whole sordid ordeal is this confession that I'm putting on the internet.

I'm a freaking catch, right?

24 year olds, Juggalos, Old Dudes, and Tina

Okay, so the past month has been a whirlwind of mostly unwanted attention. It all started when my girl S came up from Vancouver on a Saturday afternoon in November. I actually said these words when we were talking on the phone around noon: "I want to go trolling." 3 hours later, she was here with hot rollers and a whole bag full of makeup. We called our friend L (who is married to a great guy with two beautiful children that I consider my unofficial god-babies) because she actually gets out and knows the hot spots to go dancing. We ended up on Capitol Hill on a Saturday night. We spent most of our time at the straightest, most dancy place on the hill where...I admit it, I kissed a couple of boys. Here's the thing, though: they were all boys. I'm talking 24-year-old boys. Por ejemplo, when the Puerto Rican hottie started whispering "ay mami" in my ear, I had to stop him and say "yes, I am old enough to be your teenage mommy." That's too young.

I went on a date set up by my friend T. Perfectly nice guy, but this happened: Date: "...my family moved when I was in second grade, in 1992..." Me: "Wait. Back up. Did you just say you were in second grade in 1992?" Date: "Yes. Why?" Me: "I graduated from high school in 1992." Yep. Too young. I nannied kids older than him when I was 18...in 1992. As a teacher, that's just creepy. Like I said, a perfectly nice guy, though, and a good fellow to know.

I've come to realize that I have a very restrictive age range in potential suitors. It's tough being so close to 40. I want to say 5 years older or younger is fine, but 34 feels too young, and 44 is almost 45 and that seems really old...unless he still has hair. Apologies to both of my older brothers for that last sentence. Weird to think that I used to regularly date guys who were 5 or 6 years older. I'll bet none of those dudes still have hair. Side note: the only people who say "age is just a number" are people who aren't in your age range.

The online dating thing is weird. Like, extra super batshit crazy weird. Don't believe me? Here are a few of the extra super craziest who have contacted me:
1) 61-year-old "reformed minister" whose initial contact turns into a rant about young ladies who turn out to be old women. Seriously.
2) My second old dude: I received a message from a 61-year-old "crystal hound" who chose "nudist gourmet" as his online dating profile name. Truth.
3) Speaking of profile names - Sorry, "juggalojohn69", but I am not the juggalette you're seeking to turn your 69 into a 96. Do you know that my little dog was rescued from juggalos? 

4) A 30 year-old chef contacted me and said that if I like to party, he knows Tina. My response: "sorry, too old. I don't even know Tina. I quit doing party drugs before they got names like 14-year-old girls." It just feels wildly inappropriate for me to say "I did Molly/Tina last night." Right? Confession: I don't honestly know if tina is a drug. I just assumed it was, but maybe I missed an amazing opportunity. Maybe Tina is just a really fun girl, the life of the party. I guess I'll never know now.

Here are some general observations and, perhaps, tips for men considering setting up an online dating profile. 1) Keep your shirt on! No one wants to see your nipples. 2) When in doubt, see #1. 3) Please don't submit pictures of yourself at the gym. Save those pics for your super heterosexual bros. 4) Your profile says a lot about you. In fact, it says all about you that I will ever care to find out. Choose your profile name carefully. SeahawkFan74 is perfect (as long as 74 refers to your birth year, not your age),  LookinForFun69 is not. 5) Maybe she is your sister, but when your profile picture shows you dressed up and/or dancing with another woman, most of us will never click to find out who she is. Fail.

It's not all bad, though. I have a date with a Plenty of Fish guy on Monday, and I'm pretty taken with him. I hope it goes okay; I'm actually looking forward to this date.