Adventures In Online Dating

Dating can be tough.

However, this morning I was comforted by the fact that, if nothing else, at least I am NOT a match for ManZebra.

Today is a good day.

I couldn’t make this crap up if I tried, folks.

 

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Something occurred to me today as I was sitting at my desk at work and having conversations about blueprints mating and making baby blueprints, and all of us having personal assistant Oompa Loompas….

My job is my Cheers.

Not that we all sit around and drink all day long, although we do, admittedly, discuss it at times. Nope, it’s not like that. It’s a feeling. A feeling of belonging to a weird, funny, dysfunctional family. A feeling of kinship. Of knowing that I can say and do the dumbest shit of all time and these people will love me for it. My job is not glamorous. It’s certainly not making me rich. But I’m good at it. And I laugh more every day at the silly, random conversations we have than should really be allowed at a workplace. These people are my Sam, my Cliff, my Coach, my Diane… Although, I guess I’d be the Diane since I’m one of the few chicks there. I’m far more Carla-like, though, except with a larger ass. But you get what I mean. To some, my job could probably be seen as pointless, and as nothing special. But to me, it’s one of the most stressful, fun, and special places at which I’ve ever had the honor of spending 5 days a week.

Plus, my boss buys me vodka and stuff.

Greatest. Job. Ever.

It’d only be better with a personal assistant Oompa Loompa. I’d name mine Norm. Normpa Loompa.

Ha! See what I did there?

Never mind.

 

Ode To A Stranger

Tonight, as I was taking a leisurely walk with my dog in the sunshine after work, I came across a young man whom I’ve never seen before, and was inspired to write the following:

Oh, strange stoner dude,

Changing your tire in front of my house.

Sorry my dog stuck his nose in your buttcrack.

But you really had it comin’.

Get lost, freak.

Pull up your pants.

 

This has been your introduction to Paula In The Country’s deep, meaningful poetry.

You’re welcome.

 

 

I’m Going To Annoy The Crap Out Of You Now

It occurred to me today, as I was participating in the time-suck we call Facebook, that there are a whole lot of cranky people out there. Frankly, I find it disturbing. Sure, I suppose our natural tendency as humans is to complain about stuff, and I’ll admit that I’m guilty of it myself on occasion. Usually at work after a night of insomnia and a morning of dealing with bad people. But as a whole, I really try to be happy, and positive, and cheerful, and annoying as crap, and to not take one single tiny thing for granted, and to say really dumb stuff to try to make people laugh, even if it’s just for a second, because a second of laughter is so much better than a second of being all frowny. Write this shit down. I’m spewing wisdom here. Someone should really consider carving my head into a mountain or something. I’m gonna get on that. You guys know any good mountain carvers? If so, hook me up. Anyway, right now, I’m going to share all the things that are making me extremely happy right at this very moment, because complaining is dumb.

1. I’m eating a pork chop with my hands like some sort of caveperson, and messy eating is just fun.

2. I got carded for wine today. 38 years old, what? Not me.

3. I have no bra on, and my boobs are like, “Ahhhhhhh.”.

4. There is sunshine on my big toe, which is greatly in need of a pedicure, which I may just have to do this weekend.

5. My little dog just sneezed a bit of pork chop on my leg, and that made me laugh.

6. I spy a bottle of Sweet Red with my name on it over there on the counter.

7. Nothing hurts. Not even the mysterious intermittent right buttcheek pain I’ve been experiencing the past day. Don’t ask me what that’s all about.

8. Spring flowers I bought last Sunday are still as fresh as the day I bought them, and brightening my dining room table.

9. All the bills sitting next to my computer are paid, and I even have money left over for some new Dr. Pepper flavored lip balm or somethin’.

10. I have a date with a very nice comic book artist next weekend, and he’s promised me the best cheeseburger in Chicago. I have high hopes for this burger. And for the date, I guess.

11. My family is all alive and well and crazy and all mine.

12. Imagine Dragons ‘On Top Of The World’ playing on my iPod, and it just makes me smile.

13. I don’t have to do a damn thing for the next 6 hours except plop my booty on the couch and watch a chick flick while drinking wine.

14. Life is just good.

There you have it, folks. If I haven’t sufficiently annoyed you with my happiness, then you’re probably just a robot. I’ll try harder next time. For now, though, it’s Wine Thirty. Pants are comin’ off, TV’s goin’ on. Do not disturb.

 

 

Suck It, MyFitnessPal

Dear MyFitnessPal,

Despite your claim to be my ‘pal’, I’m afraid I’m going to have to walk away from this friendship. You see, this evening it occurred to me, that you, in fact, suck.

Before you try to object, I’ve thought this through for approximately 12 minutes, and have come up with a list of very valid reasons why:

1. I just searched for the calorie content of 10 kalamata olives and 2 cups of romaine lettuce, and that is really, really dumb.

2. I love cupcakes. They make me happy. And I don’t feel I can share with you when I eat one. Or three. Whatever. Three times the cupcakes = three times the happiness, that’s what I think.

3. When you tell me I could be 112 pounds in 2 weeks if I were to just stay unhealthily under my recommended caloric intake every single day, it’s just a lie. We all know that’s not how it works, MyFitnessPal. And frankly, if you were a person, I’d kick you in the nuts for making people think this sort of behavior is ok.

4. Sometimes I go to bed with my stomach growling because you told me I was over my limit for the day. Then I have dreams that involve me being in a hot tub full of nacho cheese. That shit’s just weird. Although, I’d probably totally do it if a hot tub full of nacho cheese presented itself to me.

5. I hide my raging martini and margarita habit from you. There. I said it. And no, I don’t want to know how many calories are in my margarita. All I need to know is that it’s delicious and that I should have more of them. You should really be more encouraging about these things.

6. I exercise. A lot. And I enjoy doing so, not just because you tell me I can have an extra 600 calories today because I took a Spin class, but because it makes me feel good. For 38 years old, I think I’m doing pretty well for myself, with the exception of some thigh jiggle I’ve been trying to get rid of for 3 years and, let’s face it, probably ain’t goin’ anywhere. I’ve accepted it. I don’t need you to.

7. Last, but not least, is that I’m just tired. Tired of scrutinizing every calorie I put in my mouth, and tired of feeling guilty if I consume one more olive than I’m supposed to. You’re just no fun, MyFitnessPal. Have some pie, you uptight bastard.

I feel like there should be three more reasons here to put things at an even ten, but I’m trying to let go of my obsessive-compulsive behavior, so screw it.

By the way, I know damn well I burn more than 200 calories in an hour of lifting weights, you asshole.

Sincerely,

Paula In The Country Drinking Wine And Not About To Search For It’s Caloric Content

 

 

For The Love Of Tight Pants

So, today was opening day of baseball.

*Yawn*

I suppose I should be excited. This means it’s officially Spring, right? And it’s America’s Favorite Pastime, right???

But… Sadly… I. Just. Can’t.

It’s not that I don’t WANT to care. I really, really do. I feel downright un-American. Baseball seems like something I should be able to get behind. Men in tight pants? Drinking? Shoving encased meats in my face? Sounds kind of great, actually. I mean, I live in Chicago, we have two baseball teams, for God’s sake. Two!

But… I don’t care. I just don’t.

Don’t get me wrong, I love movies about baseball. ‘A League Of Their Own’? Hell yeah, there’s no crying in baseball, bitches! ‘Field Of Dreams’? Preach on, James Earl Jones! ‘Trouble With The Curve’? Ok, I was a little disappointed Justin Timberlake wasn’t in baseball pants, not gonna lie, but I can overlook that because I thoroughly enjoyed the movie, and who doesn’t love Clint Eastwood? Even as an old dude, he’s completely badass. Come on now. But the game itself? Like, dudes hitting a ball with a stick and running around some bases? I don’t get it, guys.

*Sigh*

I know… I’m ashamed of me, too.

But seriously, at least bend over a little more, fellas. Don’t let the pants go to waste.

Uhhh… Play ball?

 

Small Everyday Miracles. Or Something Like That.

Last Saturday night began a trend of me doing some really dumb stuff. I mean, more dumb than usual. And for me, that’s pretty damn dumb. It all started with 4pm Saturday afternoon Cosmos. I don’t normally like to drink that early on a Saturday (It’s a rule I have. No drinking before 5pm, and no eating after midnight. I watched Gremlins too many times growing up.), but the Cosmos were $3, and it’d just be un-American to pass up a deal like that, right? Right?? Validate my poor choices, damn it! Anyway… As I was saying, it all started there.

Very stupid thing I did #1: I left my phone on the bar in a college town dive bar. A bar which didn’t open again until 7pm the following evening. All day Sunday I was panicked, wondering if I did actually leave it, or if I dropped it in a gutter, or if some college punk took off with it and was touching himself to my sexy-librarian-glasses selfie.

Very stupid thing I did #2: Left my iPod on the seat of a rowing machine at the local YMCA. How the hell does that even happen? Must’ve been all those squats. Good for my butt, bad for my senility.

In the grand scheme of things, neither of these is a big deal. A phone, an iPod. Whatever. They can be replaced. But… You know what? I went back to that bar Sunday, and there was my phone, safely behind the bar. Not even a drop of vomit or any sticky substances on it. And my iPod? At the front desk of the YMCA, where some kind person had turned it in. Maybe they just weren’t into The Pussycat Dolls and 80’s music, but still. This is the kind of stuff that makes me smile.

Hey- It’s the little things, people.

Teeny tiny miracles. Love that shit.

Faith in humanity: Officially restored.

 

Why Friends Are Better Than Dates

I haven’t written anything in a while, I know. I haven’t really been inspired. You ever get like that? Like, you WANT to write something. You know you have decent grammar skills and are mildly amusing in spurts. But there’s just nothin’? Yeah. That. Anyway, after my recent dumpage, (See a couple blogs back. Some dumbass dumped me. Pfft. Whatevs. He may have briefly hurt me, but he’ll never take my Chunky Monkey.) I told myself I was taking a long dating hiatus to focus on my upcoming 10 mile run from hell. However, I got these new glasses that make me look all sexy librarian-like, and ever since, I’m beating dudes off with a stick. I probably shouldn’t have used ‘beating’ and ‘off’ in the same sentence regarding dating, but whatever. You know what I meant. So, I’ve been doing a smattering of flirting and such, which I guess is what single chicks are supposed to do, and just the other day, I was discussing a recent potential date with my friend Donna. Donna is a great friend. I think she gets pissed at me because I complain to her I’m fat all the time, but that I really want a cheeseburger, and somehow she puts up with my rants, and then says that she’s just done with me. It’s much less harsh than it sounds. Anyway, I thought I’d share one of our recent conversations, because it’s definitely share-worthy:

Me: “He used the wrong ‘your’, and you know how I feel about that.”

Donna: “Paula, some people are just better in person than in messages. You should give him a chance.”

Me: “I don’t know. He seems like he may ok. But he called me ‘babe’ in his last message to me. Like, who does that? Babe? Who says that? It reminds me of some male chauvinist dude with gold chains and an overabundance of chest hair.”

Donna: “I don’t mind ‘babe’. I mean, it’s better than ‘cunt’ or something.”

Gotta admit, she has a point.

And this, people, is why friends are better than dates.

I rest my case.

The End

 

Run, Paula, Run!: Part II

So, last week I signed up to run a 10 mile race.

Yes. On purpose.

I’m not quite sure what inspired me to do this, because if you’ve read some of my very early blog posts (Which I’m sure you haven’t, because Paula In The Country was not the worldwide sensation then that it is today. Shut up. Just go with it.), you’ll find that I did this exact same race last year, and didn’t find it particularly enjoyable then. I haven’t miraculously begun to love running since. Trust me on that. Granted, I’ve gotten slightly better at it, and am now at least able to run a 5K without having what I’m pretty sure is a very mild heart attack only curable by bagel, Big Gulp, or cupcake. But still. In sunny 45 – 70 degree weather, a nice 3 mile run can actually be quite refreshing. Once a month or so. With some walking breaks in the middle. Actually, it’d be ideal if I could get a little running monkey to follow behind me with snacks and stuff, too. Maybe some Triscuits. They’re good carbs, right? They have fiber. Would I be required to clean up after the monkey if it pooped on a nature trail, you think? It’s not like Triscuit monkey can wear a diaper or anything. That’d just look silly. Anyway… I got way off on a tangent there. That happens when I start talking about snacks and monkeys.

So, you may be asking yourselves, “Paula In The Country, why did you sign up to do such a stupid thing if you hate running?”. Well, smartass, I’ll tell you. Uhhhhh…

Shit, I can’t remember now.

Wait! I remember!

It’s because for a brief moment, upon completing that 10 miles, after I’ve gotten past my extremely angry “I’m never doing this bullshit ever again!” moment as I’m drooling on myself and trying not to pass out immediately following the race, there’s a different feeling… One of “Holy shit. I just ran 10 miles. 10. Fucking. Miles! I’m a Goddamn badass!”. Yeah, I know there are a lot of half-marathon and marathon runners out there who would scoff at my measly 10 miles, but for a girl like me, who graduated high school at well over 200 pounds, rarely exercised until my mid-20’s, and has never, EVER been athletic in the least, unless you count ping-pong or marathon White Castle slider-eating, 10 miles actually is a pretty badass thing. So that moment- That, “I’m proud of me.” moment makes all of the struggling through training, getting up at 4:30am to run 5 miles on a Wednesday before work, two months of sore calves, and smelly, sweaty feet, completely worth it. As lame as that sounds. Plus, there are Mimosas and chocolate malts afterwards. That helps, too. I refuse, however, to ever say, “You go, girl!” to myself. Not out loud, anyway. Maybe, like, in my car on the way home while listening to Kelly Clarkson or something. There may be three snaps in a Z form as well.

Until then, wish me luck in getting through the next couple months of running hell without the aid of a Triscuit-toting running monkey. It could get rough.

 

Life, Love, and The Pursuit Of Happiness. Or Martinis. Same Thing.

I know there’s a few people who read this thing, and if you’re one of them, I’m warning you now, I’m feeling a tad reflective, and shit could get deep here. You should walk away if you think you can’t handle it. I’ll wait.

……….

…..

Are they gone yet?

Thank God, I thought those people would never leave.

Anyway, as I was saying… Well, brave Paula In The Country readers who are still here, the truth is… I got dumped this week. I know it’s hard to believe. I mean, I’m practically the perfect woman. I drink, I swear, I just ate a piece of popcorn off the floor… Who doesn’t want a piece of that? But it happened. Out of the blue, too. One day it was ‘I miss you.’, and the next day it was ‘You’re a great girl, but see ya.’, which, honestly, makes me feel like I have a small idea of what it’s like to get kicked hard in the nuts now.

When things like this happen, it’s very easy to feel sorry for myself. I mean, I’m 38 years old now. Never married. I’ve had very few serious relationships. That shit can start to wear on any girl’s fragile ego. I also want a family. And let me tell ya, dating at my age is not easy. Assuming I can find a man that can actually form sentences, he either, a) Is newly on the dating scene and not ready to ‘settle’ for me, b) Has kids and doesn’t want any more, or c) Lives in a different state. All of which are not ideal for poor little Paula In The Country. But, just when I think I’m about to fall into a pit of self-pity, I remember something…

My big brother has cancer.

Cancer.

And I’m worried about finding a boyfriend.

Which leads me to my point, that everything is about perspective. Does it suck I’m 38 and freshly dumped? Meh. Not really. Because I’m healthy. I have a truly amazing life. I was raised in a great home with great parents who somehow instilled morals and values and kindness towards others in me, who gave me the gift of humor, and three older brothers who taught me about slasher films, and how to drink men under the table. I’m sitting here in fluffy jammies, drinking an extra-dirty martini, with a tiny Ewok dog staring at me adoringly. I have kettle corn. All of these things make me an extremely lucky girl. And maybe, when all is said and done, my goal should not be to find a man so I can start a family and a life, but rather to enjoy the road I’m taking to get there.

The long, long, long, long, long fucking road to get there.

Cheers, everyone who read this entire thing.

*Raises glass*

*Drinks*

*Stabs self in eye with falling three olive-laden toothpick*

(Side note: Shameless plug here for my bro’s cancer fund! In case you have any spare couch change or anything. Just lick the Cheeto dust off first.)

http://www.gofundme.com/5v3eg8