A Ruler Is All You Need

I have several recently divorced friends that are dating. A term I use loosely because today’s dating is nothing short of Will Farrell meets The Saw. Seriously. If anything were to happen to The Man- I would get nine more cats, a shit ton on wine, lots of batteries and settle in for an eternity of singledom. There is absolutely no way I would subject myself to the crazy monkey mess of lies some of my girls are wading through. I would rather cuddle up with my cats and drink myself into a Fabio fueled romance dream- no games, all of the fun and none of the clean up. For instance:

Communication is a very loose term for the get to know you bantering that happens before you decide to meet face to face. Apparently it’s ok to just email, Face Book, text or send a subconscious message. I am totally ok with these things- unless they are the only communication path a new dude will take. Seriously? Is it so hard to pick up a phone and call a lady to say, “hi, how’s your day” or “I’m a shit head and bailing on our date at the last fucking minute”? Seems simple, right? What is she going to do to you , Mr. Man,  throw a shoe at your sorry ass through the phone? Possibly yell or maybe, just maybe, her bad ass self will tell you that’s awesome that you can’t make it because Match.com just better dealed you anyway. Communicate directly and use the phone to speak to her, Ass Head. And ladies- if he wanted to talk to you, to hear your voice, to sincerely apologize for his lack of calendar and organization skills or be a stand up guy- he would take one minute to call you and say so. Otherwise- he is a douche nozzle interested in wasting your time and putting you on the back burner like a stale package of Raman noodles he keeps around just in case some other chick cancels dinner plans on him.

Interweb dating is still popular. I don’t even buy a pair of shoes on-line so there is no way I would pick the dude I’m going to bang for the rest of my life out of the ‘this is my awesome picture from 15 years ago when I had a six-pack and hair’ line up. When I dated, I always found Mr. Next at work or within my social circle. That way, I could observe him when he wasn’t trying to impress me, confirm he’s not a serial killer (not convicted anyway) and buy his pals and ex-girlfriends enough booze to get first hand accounts of his life, quirks and propensity to be an ass hat. Also as insurance that my head wouldn’t be found in his freezer one day because if he puts me out of his misery- that’s one less chick to bring the main course to the holiday work/friend potlucks. Granted, I just wrapped up divorce number two, but at least I’m not a lamp shade in some freaks living room looming over his shoulder as he eats my arm and struts around in my Manolos. If interweb dating is your party- then I have to give you props for being braver than me to play in the world of  the only data you get  is what they want to give. Who knows if it’s the truth. So proceed with caution, have fun, take what they say with a grain of salt, stalk them diligently on Google and always pack a pistol. And a condom, just in case.

Confidence and hygiene are sort of important. Yet I hear stories of people showing up to first dates  unshowered, bad breath and in machine shop clothes. Sorry, but if that’s your ‘first date look at me be awesome outfit’ then whats the next date’s attire? You in your dingy underwear sitting in your shit hole efficiency apartment barking orders at me to fetch the Totino’s frozen pizza out of the oven while your unemployed room-mate beats off to porn in the recliner? Gosh , that sounds delightful! Same for you, ladies. Wear your classy outfit, do the big shave, wear matching underwear and get your hair and make up in order. One of my friends has a killer go to combination she wears on dates and it smashes hearts at every blink: cute short-but not too short- dress, cowboy boots, bright jewelry, sparkles and perfect make up and hair. Oh, and freaking confidence and a smile that kills the hopes and dreams of any lesser woman in the place. Is she a super model? No, but don’t tell her that because she will beat your silly ass into a pulp while schooling you on how being a shiny, sparkly, take no prisoners woman is way more fucking epic than being a cookie cutter, no personality , dime store version of Gisele Bundchen.  So take a page from her dating book- there is no one like her and she will make you cry if you dare say anything but that. See- confidence lets you be wildly successful at dating and squish the competition into a crying ball of snot, tears and mascara. Now isn’t that more fun than looking at dating profiles on line or trying to dig yourself out of some crazy man’s dungeon?

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Turbo Bitch

I had another topic to bitch about today – something pretty hilarious I think- but then I saw a Face Book post by a friend and OMFG my head popped off. Instantly. Seriously. You know being on Team Lady Bits is mostly fun- but it is shitastic in regards to the amount of bullshit we have to filter out on how we are supposed to look. I am absolutely on board with treating myself to extra special salon time to make sure my hair, skin, nails and toes are pretty and perfect. I have even thought about a boob job. Yes, a boob job. Not giant, over the top, where can I possibly find a shirt to cover these boobs- boob job. Just to restore mine to their before I was 25, I can wear any cute shirt, go braless, suck it gravity fabulousness.

No, hooker.

Double no.

Yes. Yes, please!

I am also almost 40 and would like to think I have the mental and psychological capacity to make such a decision and not really fuck myself up (more) in the head and heart.  I like to look at a hot woman as much as the next guy. Seriously, we’re pretty to look at but boys, not so much. Straight up and down. And hairy like a chimp. Ladies are curvy, soft and pretty. We usually smell better, too. I don’t stare at Victoria’s Secrets models and wonder how I can starve myself enough to look like them. I live out here in reality where nothing and nobody is perfect and we all don’t have a dude with Photo Shop and an air brush following us around to correct anything that looks like a flaw to all of the judgemental asswipes out there. I don’t aspire to be Barbie either- because if she were life sized she would topple over and no one likes the klutz girl who trips and plants face every step. We would all giggle at her but probably wouldn’t invite her to happy hour. She also wouldn’t be able to walk because her legs would be impossibly skinny. Think flamingo except with a blonde weave and ginormous boobs. I would definitely NEVER promote this look to my daughter or make it something she should aspire to. Ready for your instant WTF moment ?

Click here and prepare to turn into Turbo Bitch

Are you off of the floor yet? Seriously? Who gives that to their 7-year-old daughter? Because living with that freak job of a crazy woman as your mother isn’t enough- now she wants to make you a frankenbarbie, too? How about a puppy. Let’s start with that. Maybe some books and – I don’t know- some girly shoes, a journal and a pack of glitter pens to write about her little girl dreams and memories. Something pretty to show her therapist when she is 15 so they can figure out why she is promiscuous, has no self-confidence and is generally suicidal and broken. No gold stars for you , I still can’t believe this story is true.

Seriously?

I can totally speak to this. It took me years and about two new Cadillacs worth of cash in therapy sessions to get here. To this place on my map where I am ok with me. My success in unfuckingupmyhead is proven everyday when I go home and flit around in a tank top and underwear with all of my imperfectness for The Man to see. And anyone else who might see through a window. Growing up , there always seemed to be some T&A movie on the television- Porky’s and that sort of “entertainment”. I spent about 30 years thinking I was supposed to be perfectly shaped, have impossibly unnatural breasts, act dumb and be a sex toy.  When I was in middle school, I had some extremely bad memories bubble up to the top of my reality and struggled ever day until decided I would be better off gone. I got a box of  Clairol to ease my pain and persuade me to reconsider. Clairol. When I became a teenager and thought I would find some sort of family and salvation on the high school dance team- I got an eating disorder instead- because I was still not perfect enough and there were 20 other not perfect girls to remind me of that every day at lunch. And it goes on and on and on…

I don’t tell you all of this so you will feel bad for me. I want you to feel motivated to kick the ass of any “mom” you might stumble across like this woman who gave her beautiful, perfect, everything magical baby girl a fucking boob job certificate for her birthday. I seriously got queasy when I read this article. Why is this ok in that woman’s view? If you have a little girl, be gentle and kind to her. Tell her everyday how smart and funny she is. And also let her know she is perfect and beautiful and 100% one of a kind. If you should see any measure of that kind of crazy- some dumb ass broad telling her daughter to be aspire to look like a fucking porn star- say something. It’s tough enough growing up- but growing up imperfect is the toughest judgement to survive.