The End Of The Dating Game

I took my profile down on that dating site today but not before I checked the nine new messages.

It still amazes me that these men can’t or won’t read and believe that a nice crotch shot will somehow pique my interest.

The latest one, I admit was fairly handsome but he was only 5′ 5″ tall and 59 years old.  He sent a simple message of “Hi.  How are you today?”  His main interests are golfing, the beach and boating.
I’ve already been a golf widow.   What part of “must be at least 6′ tall did you not understand…or bother to read?”  What part of “I don’t care for water did you not understand…or bother to read?”  So….I’m not too good today.  My wants and needs have already been ignored.”

69 years old and stands 6′ 1″ tall.  His interests are streaming music through his Bluetooth, since he just discovered Pandora.  He says he doesn’t have any pets but loves animals of all kinds and actually likes animals more than he likes humans.  He posted a nice crotch shot.
Okay.  I don’t have a problem with Pandora.  I actually have it but I can’t remember my password.  Thanks for the crotch shot but I don’t need to see your package.  If you had posted pictures of yourself barbecuing something on the spit, I might have suspected it was a date who didn’t quite measure up to an animal.  Maybe if you searched “down under” you could meet a nice wallaby. 

56 years old and is an inch shorter than I am in my stocking feet.  His message was “Hi, gorgeous.”  His interests are the beach and anything having to do with water.  He is upfront when he says “if you are afraid to talk on the telephone, this is going to go NOWHERE and will be a waste of precious time.”
Hmm.  Did you not notice my age?  Obviously, you can’t (or won’t) read so forget the telephone conversation.  If you can’t read, I would be suspicious that you could actually carry on a conversation and you’ve already wasted enough of MY precious time.

65 years old and depending on where you look, his height varies from 6′ to 6’1″.  His message is “Hi.  How was your weekend?”  His interests aren’t specified but he says he doesn’t care how much money I have and he doesn’t “fee” his age.
I guess your height can vary, depending on whether or not you have on shoes.  A typo can happen to anybody.  You don’t care how much money I have?  So….I could be just another WTC and you would pay my bills for me?  Would I be obliged to pump up your ego and offer other benefits?  Sorry.  I’m not looking for a meal ticket.

This one is hilarious.  6′ 2″ tall.  56 years old and lives in New Jersey.  His message was “it would be nice to get to know you.”  He describes himself as a beach “bun.”  He enjoys walking on the beach every day and his goal is to retire and do it full-time.  He says “I like to eat.”  He has no picture but says he is bald and separated from his wife.
New Jersey is a tad too far away.  You’re separated?  Maybe you should get divorced before you start looking for another woman.  Don’t be a “loser.”  Sorry, if you had bothered to read my profile you would know that I don’t care for the beach and I don’t even like hotdog buns, let alone beach buns.

65 years old.  One inch taller than I am in my stocking feet.  His message is a simple “Hello. Where u ?”  His interests are the beach…the beach…and the beach.  His last relationship lasted a whopping four years.
I think it clearly states on my profile where I am.  It also states my height requirements.  It also states that I am not a beach person.  Since you can’t read, you can now boast that our “relationship” has lasted a whopping four minutes.

60 years old.  6′ 2″.   He describes himself as a Hedonist.  He is separated.  His message is “I’d love to have you.”  He doesn’t specify his interests but being a self-described Hedonist, I don’t think he needs to.
You’re not going to “have me.”  I’ll say the same thing I said before.  Again, don’t be a “loser.”  Get a divorce before you start messaging other women that you’d like to “have them.”  Are you like another “Loser” I know?  Do you want to have another woman and still keep your wife?  Crawl back into the pond where you belong.

52 years old.  5′ 11″ tall.  His interests are dirt-bike riding, any and everything on the water and scuba diving.  He is recently separated.  He lives in New York.  His message is “wow.  You’re beautiful.”
I messaged that I lived nowhere near New York.
He messaged back saying “tell me where you live and I’ll move there IMMEDIATELY.
You may be an engineer but apparently you are just like everybody else.  You can’t read.  You’re recently separated.  Don’t be a pig.  Get a divorce before you start planning your next move.

This has really been interesting.  It was a complete and total waste, save the humor it inspired.  At least I found my high school friend there.  He is going to call me tomorrow.  I’ll see how that goes.

I really learned a lot about what these sites are about and they are obviously not for me.

Here endeth the lesson.

 

 

 

 

What Do I Do With All Of His Stuff?

I went down into my basement yesterday.  I thought I might try to get some things organized.  I have one large room where all of my sewing machines are.

Another room is designated for knitting, drawing, painting, stained glass, and Fimo clay.  That’s where I keep all of my little charms and doodads for specialty quilts.

There’s a room with shelves along every wall, where all of my fabric is stacked.  There are bins containing half-finished quilts.  There are bins full of pieces of fabric that are too small to save.

There is a room where my huge quilter would reside if I had ever put it up.  It shares space with all of my firefighter and EMT memorabilia.

There is a full bathroom.

While I was sorting through still unpacked boxes and bins, I started uncovering the past.  There were pictures of days long ago.  I found pictures of my children.  I started putting them aside.

I found mountainous amounts of papers with Losers’ name on them.  There was a picture of him when he was 18.  I found guitar picks and golf-ball markers.  I found his old football.  I resisted going outside and getting a garbage can and just tossing everything that belonged to him in it.  Instead, I started putting everything in a box.

I tried to imagine how I would feel if he had the only toy I ever had as a child…my panda bear.  Would I want him to throw it away or would I hope that he found a way to return it to me?

The more I unpacked, the more I found.  I found a huge box of his t-shirts.  I had collected them to make a quilt out of them.  Many of them were from Denmark.  Some were from Norway.  They were from all over the country and I had already cut several of them into squares.

Then, I found the bag with all of his ties and the remnants of his daddys’ ties.  When he asked me to make one last quilt for him, he suggested I incorporate the rest of those ties into it.
Like I was going to make a quilt for him and that WTC to cover up with.  What a selfish pig.

But, I put the ties into the box.

I found pictures of me and my three daughters at the Hard Rock Cafe.  Losers’ band was playing.  From the back, it was hard to tell which one of us was who.  Since our faces don’t show, I thought I’d post two of the pictures. We look like a bunch of groupies.

From left to right:  My youngest,  my middle (the only one with naturally curly hair, me and my oldest.  Loser is playing the red guitar.

Again, the older is the one with her arm around my shoulders.  The younger is the one with her hand on her hip.  The middle is behind the girl with her hand up to her cheek.
That was the moment that my oldest (a little buzzy buzzed) asked me if I knew why everybody thought my youngest daughter was so fucking beautiful.  She said “because she looks just like you.”

A good time was had by all (mostly.)  There was a lot of dancing, drinking and singing.  When we left, Loser was pretty soused.  A block up the road, I said to Loser, “there’s a DUI checkpoint up ahead.”  The officer must have heard Loser loudly say “fuck ’em” because he waved me over.  I wasn’t worried.  I was the only person in the bar who was sober.

I threw these pictures in the box.

So, what do I do with all of his stuff?  I’m sure I’ll find more and I don’t want it around me.

What do I do with all of his stuff?

A Day In My Life

I had to go get gas the other day.  I pulled up to the pump and opened the passenger door to get my credit card.  Somehow, I clipped my nose when I opened the door.

Now, I’m not like the infamous “flat-nose Curry” but I also don’t need a wheel barrow to carry my proboscis.  I thought one of those little black mosquitoes had landed on my nose, so I swatted it away.  I started pumping my gas and there was that little bugger again!  I kept swatting it away and it kept coming right back.

I looked at my hand and it was covered with blood.  That little black mosquito turned out to be drops of vampire food.
OH, MY GOD.  I WAS HEMORRHAGING!  I got a tissue out and held it on my nose while I finished pumping.

When I got in my car, I immediately dropped my keys into that bottomless pit beside the seat and the console.  My car doesn’t need the key to start but I wanted to try to fish them out.  I have a pretty slender hand and it slipped into the crevice with ease but all I could feel was something sharp.

After a few attempts, I gave up and decided I’d find them later.  I pulled out my hand and it was covered with blood.  OH, MY GOD.  I WAS HEMORRHAGING!  It looked like I had lost a fight with a very large sabre-toothed tiger.

I made it back home and decided I needed a boost….you know…my only sustenance….a bottle of Boost.  I always drink it with a straw.  After I opened it, I immediately caught the straw with my hand and knocked it over.  The Boost spilled all over the floor.  OH, MY GOD.  I WAS HEMORRHAGING BOOST!  There was Boost everywhere.  You can’t just wipe it up.  You have to clean it up with soap and water or it will be sticky.

I survived the day of trials and tribulations and went to bed.  I woke up about five or so, after having dreamed that somebody asked me if I knew that I had trees growing in my eyes.  Although I had dreamed in first person, I knew exactly what they meant and I could visualize them.  The “trees” looked like the flowery heads of broccoli.  I remember the concerned look on their face but I refused to take them seriously.
OH, MY GOD.  MY EYES WERE HEMORRHAGING TREES!

Lessons to be learned:

1.  Have your credit card in your hand when you get out of your car.

2.  Keep your keys in your purse or your pocket.

3.  When you drink something, don’t use a straw.

4.  Plant your trees.  Don’t stick them in your eyes.

 

What Am I Going To Do?

I got a text message from my friend today.  I’ll call him Steve (because that’s his name.)

He said he really enjoyed seeing me the other day and if I wanted to see him again, he would drive to me.  Maybe he could show me that lake I live near.  (I need to get out more.)

What the hell am I going to do?  I can’t have him at my house or in my house.  I temporarily forgot my angst when I texted him back and said “sure.  Give me a call.”  I am a fucking idiot.

It’s not fear of him.  I know that.  It’s not fear of some fucking Tarot cards.  I know that too.  It’s not fear that we might (in another universe where time had fractured and I had turned into a blithering idiot who had learned nothing) start a relationship.  I know that.

I do know that if I am in a relationship with a man for ninety days and if it is suspected that we have “co-habitated”, my alimony will go away.  Isn’t that just the shit?  Loser could fuck any and everything that circled him like a bitch in heat and shack up with that WTC while we were still married but suffer NO consequences.

I used to joke that if I ever did find a “boyfriend”, I would let him hang around for 89 days and then tell him to hit the road…for a day.  Then he could come back and the calendar would start again.  The law is the law and 89 isn’t 90.

Maybe I’ll just tell him I need to mow my and my neighbors’ lawns (which is true.)  I could tell him I use clippers and snip every individual blade of grass…so it might take me a couple of months.

Maybe I just won’t answer the phone.  Maybe I’ll change my number.

 

“Thank You For Not Killing Me”

Several years ago, I was waiting for Loser to make his bi-yearly trip to Florida to “see me.”  He had texted me that he was running behind and wouldn’t get there until after eight.

I decided to watch television while I was waiting and I found that movie, “The Perfect Husband.”  (The movie about Scott Peterson who killed his pregnant wife.)  Loser had a key to my house so he let himself in and came into the living room.  I didn’t get up to meet or greet him.  I rarely did.
I asked him if he needed any help bringing his things in and he said “nah.  I just want to rest for a minute.”

I didn’t think he’d be interested in watching so I told him I would change the channel.  He said “keep it on there.  I’ll watch it with you.”

We were sitting there watching this movie about a piece of shit husband who was fucking around on his beautiful, pregnant wife and who wanted to be free so he decided to kill her.

After the movie was over, I looked at Loser and said “I want to thank you for not killing me.”  He was so cavalier as he lit his cigarette and said “shoowa.” (Southern for sure.)

Why would it pop into my mind to thank him for not killing me?  I think I already knew subconsciously that he had killed me emotionally.  He just hadn’t killed me physically…and I fucking thanked him.

That memory prompted me to think about other things I should thank Loser for.

Here are some of those things:

1.   He always thought of himself first, which taught me how to be comfortable always being last.

2.   He left me alone most of the time, which taught me to be independent.

3.   He couldn’t be bothered if something broke in the house, which taught me how to become a handy-man.

4.   He bullied and demeaned his children, which taught me how to be protective.

5.   He went to bars after work every night, which taught me how to store left-overs.

6.   He was infuriated when I got sick, which taught me not to complain.

7.   He was outraged when I got hurt, which taught me to withstand pain and hide my injuries.

8.   He never asked to go Denmark for weeks at a time to play golf, which taught me that I could buy a new Coach purse and not feel guilty.

9.   He thought being playful was ridiculous, which taught me how to be reserved and unapproachable.

10.  He was disappointed that he sired daughters, which made me determined to raise them believing that they could do anything a man could do and probably do it better.

11.  He believed marriage vows meant nothing, which taught me to have no illusions about faithfulness.

12.  The family he was born into was all important, which taught me that we should never expect to matter and learn to live with disappointment when he consistently chose them over us.

13.  When he got a new job, he left me behind to take care of everything, which taught me how to be responsible.

14.  His absence meant I had to raise our four children almost on my own, which taught me how to be strong and resilient.

15.  He poisoned the only family that was ever really mine against me, which taught me how to live with loss.

16.  He felt that he was superior, which taught me how to feel inferior.

17.  He criticized me for not being educated, which taught me that in his eyes, I had no value.

18.  He wanted his name carried on by a son, who he treated like shit, which taught me that having a namesake meant nothing to him.

 

I learned to take slaps and being jerked around.  I learned to take his outbursts and name-calling.  I learned to live with being ignored.

Still, I am thankful that he didn’t kill me.

 

Just For Fun (To Keep From Posting Something Depressing)

I have four questions.  For the women, it’s about men.  For the men, it’s about women.  Now, spouses are not to be included.

1.  Who is the most beautiful older man/woman who has ever walked the planet?
2.  Who is the most beautiful younger man/woman who has ever walked the planet?
3.  Who is the cutest man/woman who has ever walked the planet?
4.  Who is the sexiest man/woman who has ever walked the planet?

My answers are:

1.  Hands down…Robert Redford.  I know he cheated on Lola so I have lost respect for him and wouldn’t want to be married to him, but Goddamn…is he beautiful!
2.  Wentworth Miller.  He’s not a very well known actor and alas…he’s gay but if I was an undamaged, beautiful, sexual actress, I would be after trying to turn HIM!
3.  Seth McFarland.  I don’t know why but I’d like to just pinch his little cheeks off.
4.  Terrence Howard.  I first saw him in “The Brave One.”  I have heard that he’s an asshole and beats his girlfriends so again, I wouldn’t want to be married to him but he is just so fucking sexy.  I could get lost in his eyes because he just reeks of sex.

So, what are your answers?

Dreams And The Next Day

The other night I dreamed once again, that I was kissing Loser.  It was horrible.  I couldn’t figure out what was going on.  It was like he was some kind of fish or something.

I always dream in first person.  I see everything in my dreams and I dream in color.  I feel everything.  Last night was the first time I ever remember actually “seeing” myself in a dream.

After I was through kissing Loser, I walked into a room that was made of mud…the walls, the floor, the ceiling…everything.  It was dark and although I didn’t feel chilly, I knew it was cold in there.

There was no furniture in it except a mound in the middle of the room that resembled a tree stump although it too, was made of mud.  I saw myself sitting on it.  I was a young girl and I had curly hair.
My hair has never been curly.  I was looking straight ahead but I didn’t see any detectable expression on my face.  Then I woke up.

I have been spitting out stitches all day.  There is one left and they were only put in on Monday.  I’m not sure they should be coming out even though they’re supposed to dissolve.  My jaw still hurts and although I hate to take drugs, I have taken a few ibuprofen.

I have been thinking about my high school friend all day.  I am in run mode.  I don’t want him to call me.  I don’t want to have to fabricate an excuse when he calls and wants to come see me.  It’s not an intuitive feeling.  It’s not the Tarot cards speaking to me.  It’s more of a “I need to get the hell out of here feeling.”

He’s a nice guy.  What am I supposed to do with a “nice guy?”  I have no idea how to act around a nice guy.  He was looking at me yesterday.  He wasn’t looking at my boobs or my clothes.  He was looking at me.  He cancelled a trip to have lunch with me.  What the hell is that?

Loser planned a trip to Denmark to play golf on our 25th wedding anniversary.  He told me that I could work at the golf course and bring home hundreds of dollars while he was gone…smiled and asked for a ride to the airport.  THAT’S what I’m used to.

When my friend was walking me to my car yesterday, I almost told him he should pursue some of the women on that dating site.  I don’t know why that popped into my mind but that’s what I was thinking.  It was an escape for me.  It was an “out.”

I imagine he’s on it to try to find somebody.  I was on it for fun.
It wouldn’t be fair to him for me to act like I was interested in pursuing anything other than friendship but how much time is he going to waste on a friend?

Maybe he won’t call and maybe I won’t have to come up with an excuse.