In today’s edition of fun with online dating, we have who I refer to only as ‘the one who got away’.
They always run at the first mention of the word ‘laundry’
You guys know what’s hard? I mean, besides folding a fitted sheet, and playing Sudoku? (Seriously, does anyone really know how to play that game? I don’t buy it.) It’s dating. Especially dating at 39, particularly when you’ve never been married. It’s automatically assumed that you’re horribly disfigured or have a psychotic streak. Which I do not, unless you count the one time I stuck an entire box of donut holes up a guy’s tailpipe. I regret nothing. Except that I wasted some perfectly good donut holes. Anyhooooooo… As I was saying; There was a time when I would wallow in a pool of self-pity, fielding poorly penned messages from these so-called ‘gentlemen’ in my dating pool. But one day I realized, “P-Dawg!” (because that’s what I call myself sometimes is P-Dawg), “What’s the hell’s the point of feeling sorry for yourself? That is dumb.”. I’m pretty wise when I talk to myself. That was the day I decided to have fun with these dudes. So here, I present to you, the first edition of Paula In The Country’s Fun With Online Dating!
It’s pretty exciting stuff. Trust me.
Here we go!
I like to call this one ‘Mr. Romantic And Slightly Creepy’.
I actually did make a walrus face at my dog. Didn’t even make that up.
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.
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.
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.
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.
*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.)
Now that February has arrived, who can’t help but notice the grocery store aisles once again filled with teddy bears and heart-shaped boxes? I mean, it’s a little ridiculous. All right, I’m just going to come right out and say this: I am completely unromantic. Candlelight dinners? Love letters? Soft music? Flower petals in the bedroom? Blech. It all makes me want to puke a little. Now, before you go judging me and taking away my woman card, allow me to state that I was raised in a home with three older brothers, so most of my energy growing up was spent climbing trees to avoid getting wedgies and swirlies rather than dating and flowers and romance. Not to mention that I was completely aware that any boy I had any sort of romantic feelings for would, most likely, end up getting grilled and subsequently tortured by my older brothers, so I avoided the situation altogether. And, one more confession: Although I try my best to be one of those ‘cool’ girls who claims to not care at all if I get anything at all on Valentine’s Day, part of me always feels a tiny tinge of disappointment when the day passes without so much as an ass pat and a Hershey’s Kiss. I’m not proud. But, like I stated up there, I’m not big on the huge showy bouquet of flowers, because let’s face it, that’s just not very practical. Who wants to spend perfectly good burrito money on overpriced flowers that are just going to end up dried up and in my trash can? Not to mention the fact that it could potentially be a fire hazard, it’s just not smart. Think of the burritos, guys. Ok, now that I’ve talked some sense into you, following please find a compilation of gifts that girls who were raised barefoot and running through creek beds may enjoy:
Before you get too excited, I don’t mean a massage by you. Unless you’re really good and promise not to focus too much on the boob region, because then I just feel dirty and used, not relaxed and delightfully kneaded like yeasty bread dough. Maybe ‘yeasty’ was a bad word to use here. Anyway… I’ve only had one massage in my life, and although I was wary of being naked with a stranger at first, approximately three minutes in, I was ready to let that strong-handed lady do whatever she wanted to me. Trust me, this gift would get you thoroughly rewarded.
Big-Ass Bottle Of Jack
Doesn’t sound very Valentine’s Day-like, but where I come from, you can’t go wrong with whiskey. It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Well.. Not really. I mean, the bottle runs out pretty quickly. Whatever. Let’s not get technical here.
Heart-Shaped Lou Malnati’s Pizza
Actually, screw the heart-shaped shit, just gimme the pizza. No sausage. Your sausage does not belong on my Valentine’s pizza, asshole. I apologize if I sounded combative there. I have strong feelings about this.
Because… Duh. IT’S A PUPPY!!! Sorry… I get excited about stuff.
Original Dirty Limerick
They make me laugh. Especially if you can rhyme something with ‘vagina’, because that’d be pretty impressive.
Fabulous Boots And/Or Diamonds
Because I am small part real girl, and we like shoes and sparkly shit.
Holding The Door Open And Telling Me I’m Pretty, Then Buying Me Lots Of Martinis
That one is self-explanatory.
I hope you’ve all taken notes here. If you have any further questions, please feel free to contact me at any point prior to the Hallmark holiday. I’m always here to help. Especially if you have the Jack.