Spare the Rod...Spoil the Bastard

I've been champing at the bit to write this entry since before I even finished the last one...cuz believe you me - there's a shitload that I would LUV to get off of my chest! But at the same time...I've def. been dragging my feet - praying (or whatever) that I'll get a dollop of good news - and things will play out the way that I WISH that they would....which as far as this entry goes - would limit me to hiding all provocative info. behind that courteous (albeit lame-o) "gonna keep it zipped" disclaimer. See, the thing of it is...no matter what ultimately transpires in this - the most recent chapter in my desolate dating diary - the subject matter (and the length) of this entry depends entirely on me either choosing to take the high road, and hold my tongue in regards to a certain key player, which would be the courteous thing to do regardless...or - choosing to cast aside the feelings of said individual, for the sake of blogging with veracity and verve...whereby leading you by the hand - my devoted steely-nerved readers - down another sordid path...

Here...I have an idea. I'm gonna go do something to try and speed up this tedious wait-and-see process. Afterwards, I'll sit tight for 24 hours, and see if anything happens. Following that, if the results are nil or negligible - mama gwana blow the lid off this shit, no apologies...Sound good? But hey look...if things go my way - then I hate to say it - but y'all shit outta luck...

Soooo...it's now waaaaay past the allotted 24 hour waiting period (like DAYS later) and it looks like I'M the one who's shit outta luck...I did manage to merit a response outta the culprit in question...but honestly, what he said to me was so freaking lame that I am 95% convinced that I have every right - to totally unload...

A couple of Saturdays ago, I awoke to a dreary, drizzly day. I was licking my wounds after having been blatantly snubbed by several acquaintances at a party that I had attended, the night before, and the tentative plans that I had made to get together that day with a new guy - the overgrown fraternity boy, Bluto - had now fizzled. I was feeling sorry for myself and questioning every single, little aspect of my niggling existence - and was completely unmotivated to do much at all...other than sulk. Poised to write the whole day off to malaise, I exulted when a message appeared in my Facebook inbox...from none other than...my most highly revered crush...the Mystery Man!!! You guys remember him, right? (See the "Holding Out For Something Maybe Better" entry) M.M. opened his message to me with, "You might not remember me..." and I was there like, "Are you effing kidding me? Remember you...I've NEVER stopped THINKING about you!!!" (I did manage to dilute some of my enthusiasm in my actual reply...a little) He then asserted that he was still interested in trying to meet up sometime...and that I should let him know if I was ever in his town. I quickly responded, saying that I could BE in his town in 2 hours, if that would work for him (pretty slick, eh?) I sent him my cell# and within minutes we were talking on the phone. He asked if I was really gonna be in D.C. that night, and I said that I hadn't planned on it before we'd talked, but that (never one to pussy foot around) I was totally up for making the trip out there to see him. He told me that it all sounded fine, but that he could only hang for a few hours, since he was (apparently - perennially) snowed under with work (...and on a Saturday night, too...curious...) but I was actually kind of relieved because if this was indeed the case, it meant that I would be leaving outta there before M.M. and I could do something really regrettable like...fuck...on the first date...

The entire 1 1/2 hour drive to his house was excruciatingly nerveracking...for one thing, my little car is a bitch to drive in the rain but on top of that, I was nervous to the nth degree to finally be meeting my intriguing Mystery Man, who I'd placed on such a prodigious pedestal.

I had no trouble finding the block where M.M. lived as well as a choice parking place, but my noodley driving legs, teetering atop ridiculously high heels, did have difficulty climbing the steps of the first yellow house that I found - which unfortunately...was not actually his - doh! I heard him say my name in that buttery voice of his - and I scurried away from that stupid, wrong house - heart racing - to meet him out on the sidewalk. I was not stoked that his first impression of me was of some space case who couldn't even find the right house on her own, but I quickly got over it cuz GODDAMN if that Mystery Man wasn't even more riveting than I'd imagined he'd be! I was hopelessly smitten from the git-go, no lie. He was just so much cuter in person than in his photos...(and I had already found him to be quite comely in his pics.) I loved his sun-kissed complexion and his tight, compact body, his smile and silver bracelet and his jeans, but most especially his eyes...there was this softness about them that positively slew me. I can't recall ever feeling quite that unstrung, in the presence of another human...silly isn't it? But promising, I thought - to finally feel jittery about a man...maybe I wasn't so jaded after all.

M.M. and I sat across from one another - sipping Prosecco and nibbling sweet, crunchy anchovy snacks in his posh living room. I wondered if he was picking up on my anxiety as I struggled to corral my nerves so as not to wrinkle our otherwise seamless conversation. We quickly skimmed over the polite small-talk and stuff and then effortlessly delved into various formative facets of our individual upbringings, both tragic in their own right, although markedly dissimilar. M.M. cited difficulty with commitment as his stumbling block in relationships with women and theorized that this was most likely the byproduct of a certain appalling aspect of his late childhood...This shoulda been a glaring red flag (as if he was warning, "buyer beware...") but since I tend to gravitate toward the wounded, I chose to regard it as something that I could possibly help fix someday, rather than something that could ever negatively affect me......after which, I resumed admiring his relaxed and confident body language, as he leaned comfortably into the corner of his sleek sofa, his legs crossed Indian style.

After chit-chatting and snacking for an undetermined amount of time, I started to worry about how much longer I had until he decided to kick me out, and right about then - he allayed my apprehension when he suggested that we go grab a bite downtown. As we weighed our dining options, I masked my rhapsody from having scored a substantial amount of additional time with my Mystery Man...(*squeal*)

So often - when I'm on a date with a new fella, out of boredom or disinterest or whatever, I find myself surveying the crowd, hoping to find a more interesting subject on which to fixate, just for shits and gigs - 'til I'm able to make my eventual escape (classic roving eye syndrome, I guess) But when M.M. got up and left the table to go visit the little boy's room, it dawned on me that the entire time that we'd been cocktailing and dining, I had never taken my eyes off of him to peruse the other patrons. I was incontestably captivated by him...in toto. I took this as a good sign, and I was growing ever more sanguine that I had maybe (hope, hope) found the perfect elixir for my dating ennui.

Once dinner was over, we walked across the street, away from the restaurant and sat down on some marble steps to talk and partake in an after-dinner cigarette. A funny thing I thought of days later, was - for how enamored of him I was becoming - it never occurred to me to lean in for a kiss...while we were there - shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip on those giant marble steps. My mindset at that point, must've been of something bigger and better than simply wanting to scrump (which is so not like me) Anyway, we got up to go and I was certain that by now, I must have overshot my time limit with him, and I figured that next, we'd be driving back to his house so that I could hit the road and he could get to work. I even asked him if he needed me to scram, so he could attend to whatever tasks it was that he was meant to be tackling (on a Saturday night, let's not forget) He kind of chuckled and said that it was fine, that his work would keep, and that we could stroll around the city, if I wanted...and of course, I did...but first, I couldn't resist calling him out on what I now knew was his poorly concealed emergency exit strategy for the night...goes kinda like this: Say he'd met me and he'd found me to be a complete bore or dog ugly or a combination of the two...well, then he could legitimately implement the "I have a shit ton of work to do" excuse, and I would've left as planned - without getting my nose outta joint. He loosely concurred that my theory was accurate (teeny red flag?) No matter...I was just happy that I'd had made the preliminary cut...Oh joy!

As we set out on our jaunt about the city, M.M. grasped my hand in his.........the tenderness of this simple gesture which declares to passersby that, "This chick is MINE" - sent me aflutter. I mean, I know it sounds corny and all, but I can't even tell you when the last time was, that a guy held my hand in public (maybe 6th grade at the roller rink?) To me, hand-holding equals pure and innocent affection....and it had to mean (just HAD to!) that he was diggin' on me as hard as I was diggin' on him...

We covered a lot of territory before heading back to his car and the crazy thing was, that I never even noticed ('til the next day!) that the witchy heels that I'd been sporting, had worn deep, oozy craters into various places on my poor tootsies (it's now more than 2 weeks after my date with M.M. and my feet are only just now almost right) But again, I think this illustrates how into him I was...I was so glommed onto him and his every word, that I deferred what should have been pretty rad. pain from my feet being shredded...bizarre...

We got back to his house and went straight into his dimly lit kitchen to pour a nightcap, but got kinda distracted when instead, he grabbed me up tight against his body and we started corybantically kissing...I was thinking, "Oh shit...this could be trouble" Things were getting pretty active, pretty fast and at some point I stopped and said, "I don't know if we should be doing this" and he goes, "What...You DIDN'T think this would happen?" (Wait...what did he mean by that? Why would he say such a thing? It's because of the blog, isn't it...cuz I portray myself as such an "easy lay"...) Oh god no, please not that! That would be an enormous red flag...Maybe it wasn't that...Maybe he was implying that since we'd established a friendship online, he'd been as optimistic as I - that once we met, we would share a mutual attraction...k, yeah...I like that much better. But - just to clarify - NO! I did NOT think that "this" would happen because when we'd firmed things up on the phone before I left my house to go meet him, M.M. had fibbed to me that he could only hang out for a short while, which I had believed! I had planned on showing up, spending a little time with him, possibly punctuating our evening together with a hug and a smooch goodnight, and then going back home at a reasonable hour...and that would've been perfectly FINE with me! Believe me, if I HAD've thought that "this" was gonna happen, I would've stuck an overnight bag in my car...or at the very least, put a freaking toothbrush in my purse. For goddsakes - I hadn't even "groomed" properly, never anticipating that he would be going "there". After all, he was...well...HIM...my Mystery Man...he was on a higher plane than all of those base mother fuckers who'd only been interested in getting me into the sack, right?...He was above such libidinous behavior (wasn't he?)...I'd imagined him to possibly be the panacea to my misery...not an aggravator of it...

I knew I was toast when M.M. suggested, "Why don't we go finish this, upstairs..." errrgghhh...glaring red flag!...Maybe it WAS my dumb, ole blog...maybe after reading my sometimes vivid descriptions of mixing it up with guys on the first (and often the ONLY) date - he was convinced that he had just as much right to dip his fingers into my pie, as all the rest of 'em had...What if his sole purpose for inviting me there, was to see how the "me" in real life measured up to the "me" about whom I write in The Big Ugly...Trouble was, that I wanted more than to simply satisfy his curiosity...I was seriously wanting to try and date the dude...

I thought about bailing in order to salvage what little respect he might have ever even had for me. But the messed up part is this, and I don't know why I let it be this way so consistently...I sort of feel like whenever I start messing around with a guy, it's like there's no putting on the brakes after that. With me, for some reason...even a little innocent snogging, will nearly always be misinterpreted by a paramour as the very definition of foreplay...which translates to, "I'm gon' be gettin' me some, boyee!"...I sometimes feel almost guilted into sealing the deal...cuz if I didn't - well then, wouldn't that just make me a filthy, little prick-tease? Hard to say which is worse...filthy, little prick-tease or dirty, rotten whore...hmmmm...Anyway, I tried to rationalize - in the heat of that moment there in M.M.'s kitchen - that maybe he was feeling me up because he sincerely liked me? I mean, it's understood by now, that I was undeniably attracted to HIM, but I'd also sensed (I thought) the potential for longevity between us...I was undeniably kind of bummed while thinking that "It sure would've been nice to court a little, before doing the dirty..." soooo...I peeled myself off of him, pushed him back a bit so that I could look into his eyes, and asked (preparing myself for the inevitable), "Well...do you think that we'll ever do "this" again?" I hoped that he'd get the just that I didn't want "this" to end up to be just another one of my sleazy one-night-stands...to which he replied, "I hope so..." Ok good. So stupid me took his vague assurance and ran with it. He DID want to see me again. He just said so himself! And so I chose, what at the time seemed to be the lesser of the two evils...dirty, rotten whore......

After the deed was done, we made our way back down to the kitchen for those forgotten night-caps which we swilled in his back garden. I was no longer angst-ridden, I was calm and I was not feeling slutty at all...I felt confident that I'd made the right choice to doink him...I wanted to believe that this was the beginning of something really good...

When we went to tuck ourselves in for the final time that night, we messed around, again...and I don't know if it was the booze or performance anxiety or what, but there was a minor malfunction with the condom and when I realized that he was no longer wearing it, I was like, "Oh god, uh oh..." Lord knows, mama just don't do the skin on skin thing - casually anymore...it's really just not an option. In a long term, committed relationship, yes...but this wasn't that...M.M. shrugged off the snafu, fixed the problem, everybody found their happy place and we finally hunkered down for the night...his back to my front...spooning apparently, not an option...teensy red flag...

My internal clock woke me at the same time that it always does (which was evidently, earlier than M.M. would have liked) and I stirred a bit, but not excessively so. Soon thereafter, he jumped up in what seemed like a huff, took the faintly ticking clock off of the bureau by my side of the bed, and hid it somewhere. I had no earthly idea why he would do such an odd thing (did he think that I might try to steal it before the sun was fully up? I didn't even have a bag in which to stow the damned thing) He later remarked that he'd removed the clock because he thought that it was disturbing me...and I was thinking, "That's weird...wonder why he thought that?" But I later took it to mean that my moving around in the bed (because of the clock, he supposed) was actually disturbing HIM...ah ha! (so sorry to have disturbed his highness...)

Once the sun was all the way up, and the blinds were raised - I lay, slightly propped against a pillow, comfortably naked in his cushy bed...hands tucked behind my head, tits - sunny-side up, and I marveled at how he nervously hopped around on one foot - frantically trying to step into his boxers...This was not the self-assured intellectual from the night before...he seemed so out of sorts. Maybe it had annoyed him when after I whispered "Don't you need to get up?" (to get to some bike race or something) and he then grunted that he was already too late to make it on time - that I tickled his back and arms for like 30 minutes or something...(can that even BE irritating?) For some reason though, as soon as he was upright, he seemed genuinely agitated. It was odd to me that I now felt so calm and he was the one who seemed unnerved...Was he worried that his girlfriend might stop by, or something? (I mean you never know...stranger things have happened) No matter what it was that had him seemingly so flustered - his current disposition indicated that I was dangerously close to having fully encroached on his personal space. He was, however, kind enough to fix me a yummy cup of coffee and tolerated chatting with me for a bit, before standing and announcing that NOW - he really did have to tackle his obligations, and I was cool with that...he had been far more generous with his precious time, than I'd ever anticipated him to be…

My Three Tiers of Fame

I first recognized my abhorrence for school way the heck back in the 5th grade. I was in the primordial stages of swapping out my never fully successful attempt at pulling off preppy attire for a better-suited, slightly less mainstream look - and on this particularly pivotal day I remember sporting my new, favorite pair of lemon yellow, corduroy Levi's and feeling vaguely cool (for once) accessorizing with the new wave, wraparound sunglasses that I'd recently pinched from my older sister. I don't know if it was the glasses, or what, but this day also marked the first time ever that instead of being terrified to show up at Mrs. Obenshain's English class without my Wordly Wise homework...again...I was like, "You know what? Who cares...what's the worst that can happen?" And this, my friends, was the precise moment at which I began to foster what became an enduring blase attitude towards school and school work, and it signified the beginning of the end of my brief stint as an obedient, participatory student...

My nonchalance towards anything school-related, gradually worsened and finally reached its critical mass just a few weeks before the end of my 10th grade year. I had just recently moved out of my parents' house and in with a family which I barely knew (although I DID have a massive crush on the son, at the time) and immediately following that, I was politely asked to leave the private all-girls school which I had attended since 2nd grade. Although I hadn't quite completed it, the faculty and administration graciously sent me on my way stating in my transcripts that I had actually passed my sophomore year with a (more than generous) 1.5 average. I left that school with 48 detentions, yet unserved...most all of them issued for skipping classes...To this day, I consider this the most noteworthy accomplishment of my illustrious academic career...

The following Autumn, I applied to and was accepted into a coed, public high school for the gifted and my enthusiasm to get off on an academic good foot, lasted oh...maybe a semester and a half into my junior year. After petering out completely, I went to work - painting houses with a friend. The following school year, I applied again, was admitted again and history repeated itself... a g a i n ...(I never have figured out why I was given a second chance, since I was clearly an academic misfit) but anyway, after bailing on the 11th grade for the second time, I finally fully accepted that school was just never gonna be for me, and I found my rightful place as an enthusiastic slacker - shoulder to shoulder - with my fellow Gen X-ers.

I took a job at the epicenter of the local arts and music scene, at a hip(ish) clothing store which among other things - specialized in providing women's shoes in extra large sizes for local transvestites. When I wasn't working, I was under-age drinking at hole-in-the-wall music clubs or swilling 50 cent cups of coffee and free refills, for hours on end at the hot spot in town...hoping to rub elbows with the artists and musicians that I so admired and emulated. In a weird kinda way, even though I'd opted out of doing the college thing or even high school for that matter, I was - by default - still obtaining an education of sorts...simply by being enrolled in the school of life, as it were.

Soon after I turned 18, the matron of the nice family that had taken me in, recommended that I take my GED, and so I did. The day of the test, I arrived - barely under the wire, crippled by a devastating hangover and having never lifted a finger to study for the damned thing (honestly, at the time, I didn't even know that studying for the GED was an option) but somehow (miraculously) I passed...my score? A 98%...So, at least - there was that...

My stodgy, old grandfather (a medical doctor) made it a point to sit us down and ask in turn - first my older brother, next my sister and finally me (when we were each in like the 8th or 9th grade) where it was that we wanted to go to college and...what it was that we wanted to do when we grew up...blah, blah, blah...Naturally, it was his wish that we would all be as driven as he had been, to practice medicine.......I kept it to myself, that for me at least, this was simply not in the cards...

I was very young when Granddaddy interrogated my older brother and sister about their plans for the future, but I do recall that, even at their tender, young ages, they both had at least an inkling as to where they might want to enroll and which subjects they might be interested in studying. When my turn eventually rolled around, I was ill-prepared to deal with my grandfather's scrutiny, although I'd known that it was inevitable (I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but in retrospect, I can vouch for the fact that I wasn't then, nor will I ever be...programed to thrive in any academic setting) I struggled to try and placate the old cooter, but the only thing that I could pull outta my ass was - that I did love animals so...I could become a vet?...or something...I dunno...maybe a vet was a bit of a stretch. More than that though, I loved to draw, and I spent a lot of time doing it. But Granddaddy poo pooed my misconception that being an artist was a respectable career option and he was quick to correct my ignorance...

Either to try and impress him or to attempt to change the subject, I nervously presented to him my rendering of the frog dissection that I had done at school, the week before. He was lost in thought for a moment, and predictably his narrowmindedness brought us right back to where we had started, when he offered up the only legitimate career coming to his mind which married medicine and art...yep, it was decided...his youngest granddaughter would one day make him proud as an illustrator for medical journals and books....uhhhhh yeah...not exactly what I'd had in mind there, buddy...

During the whole uncomfortable conversation with my grandfather, I was pretty much just blowing smoke up his old ass, in the hopes that he would drop the topic...soon. Cuz see...I actually DID know what I wanted to be when I grew up. But I couldn't tell HIM that, for mine was an unconventional and flimsy ambition. The end result was tattooed on my mind, but the avenue by which to arrive at my desired destiny was far more nebulous. I knew that I could never share with my conservative grandfather that what I really wanted to do in life, was to become..........famous...

It is now a quarter of a century later. I am, by definition, a "grown-up" and yet I am no closer to determining my very reason for being...here on this planet...at all. The only constant, counter-balancing my endless laundry list of variables, is the fact that I have never let go of the silly longing to someday wind up famous. How could I ever possibly get there? I have no idea. How famous would I want to be? No clue. The whole pipedream sounds so ridiculous when I actually say it out loud. But it's deeply ingrained in me and it also explains a lot of my silly behavior, not the least of which was my jumping at the chance to finally meet - face to face - with Alex P. Keaton, after months of exchanging platonic emails since getting to know each other on a dating site roughly a year ago.

His nickname should need no explaining, but just in case you're stumped...from the pictures that I'd seen, Alex P. looked nearly identical to Michael J. Fox, he even confessed (unprompted) to being short.

When Alex P. originally contacted me, he had been searching an online dating site for fellow artists in his neighborhood, and my profile popped up since I'd made mention that I do dog portraits. At the time he was in a committed relationship with a girl and allegedly was not interested in anything romantic, and I was there thinking, "Dude...calm down...you contacted ME, remember?" Frankly, I couldn't see the point in him striking up conversation with a gal who was on an aggressive manhunt, but whatev...he was interesting to talk to, well-versed, witty and an extremely talented comic book artist, so it was cool.

It's now almost a year after we first began communicating and Alex P. is single...and has been since Christmas and yet we still haven't met in person. A few weeks ago, in an email, he surprised me by asking if I would be interested in posing for reference photos which he hoped might help him to create a female character that he planned to submit to a comic book "penciler" contest...Are you kidding me?! Of course I'll do it! My god, I am an extreme exhibitionist as it is, so posing semi-nude would be a snap. And the thought of possibly being the inspiration behind a new female comic book character, was to fucking DIE for! I know, I know...his request did sound suspiciously like one of those thinly veiled "Come up and see my etchings..."-type lines, but so what! I was all about the chance to have an emerging artist flesh out his next brainchild to my likeness, and to potentially taste "fame", if only on a minute scale...

Alex P. and I got our plans in order and I promptly cut food out of my diet and spent as much time under the sun as I could. My mission? To come as close to resembling a super hero as humanly possibly, in a limited amount of time.

This past Monday, somewhere in the midst of pulling my hectic 10 hour shift - bustin' my hump for my beloved old couple as their overworked, under-paid Cinderella - I found myself in a surprise state of near panic...Out of the blue, it occurred to me that I had absentmindedly broken one of the cardinal rules of online dating...I had given my home address to an online guy, sight unseen...

In my excitement to get together with Alex P. and apply for the position as his muse, I had completely brainfarted on a fundamental safety principal...I had invited him to come over to MY HOUSE for the big photo shoot. Sharing my home address isn't such a big deal, but that's because so far I've only given it to men who lived far enough away that stalking me would be difficult at best. Alex P. lives fairly close to me and drives practically right past my house to go to and from work...so theoretically, it would be a cinch for him to stalk me...should he feel so inclined...

While still at work, my imagination started to get the best of me and my anxiety became nearly debilitating as I trailed from one horrifying, fabricated scenario to the next...When I would finally snap out of it, I realized that I'd been doing shit like vacuuming the same square foot of carpet for the last 5 minutes or so...

Alex P. had known about the Big Ugly for awhile, but had taken a peek for the first time, only a few days before he'd asked to photograph me. He was complimentary, no doubt, but his comments were tongue in cheek in spots, which now gave me pause. I began to convince myself that maybe his sudden idea to meet had to do with him settling a vendetta...Like, what if he was preying on the fact that I am a shameless attention-seeker with those cliche stars in my eyes, and that - coupled with his potential comic book character ploy - would make gaining entry into my home, a piece of cake! What if he was taking it upon himself to act a vigilante, defending the good names of all of my online dating victims - past, present and future members of a persecuted brotherhood - from my wrath...*gulp* What if his plan was to show up at my house...down a few cocktails of courage...appease me by snapping a few bullshit photos...snuff me out...remove my fingers, and teeth AND breast implants...and leave my unidentifiable corpse to bleed out in a suitcase, somewhere...Fame? Yes...Worth it? Uhhh...possibly not...

These gruesome images sabotaged my ability to work efficiently, and caused me to seriously consider canceling my appointment with Alex P.. But then I thought, "Wait a minute...what would be the point of that? He already HAS my address...If the guy wants to kill me...he will" plus there still was the chance that he was legitimately stopping by to finally meet me but more importantly, to take those derned reference photos...which could mean for me...immortalization on the pages of a comic book series...Damn you, foul fame!

When Alex P.'s visit was mere hours away, I called my friend Annie to give her the heads-up about the threat of my possible disappearance. She did not take my semi-serious concerns, lightly. She told me to text her Alex P.'s info, which I did, she then instructed me to leave my cell phone in a discrete but accessible place, with her ph. # up on the screen so that if I got into any trouble I could simply press "send". The deal was, if a call went through to her phone from mine, she'd take that as a signal that I was fucked and she would send her husband over to deal with the sitch, pronto. Our little plan made me feel a ton better...K...I could do this...

It was late evening when Alex P. arrived at my house. Even so - the temperature was still in the upper 80's and I was sweating like a prostitute in church, despite wearing nothing but my favorite microscopic, black bikini. My nerves weren't helping matters either, that's for sure. When he stepped out of his car, I paid close attention to how my dogs reacted to him...I feel like I can always rely on my pups to give me accurate character references on most humans...their instincts have yet to be off the mark. Their decision was unanimous...Alex P. appeared to be...a totally ok guy. I knew it as well, pretty much right away. Realizing it, made me almost embarrassed to think that I had gotten myself worked up into such a frenzy...over nothing.

I finally stopped sweating so profusely, we shot the shit over drinks for awhile and even after he dropped the bomb that his father was a convicted murderer who had done 6 years in the clink for shooting a guy 9 times in the head, I was no less at ease in his presence...go figure...

We eventually got around to the "photoshoot" which was as effortless as the rest of our interactions. Alex P. was the picture of politeness, never overstepping any physical bounds. But no shrinking violet either...we touched on just about every adult topic imaginable, in elaborate detail. We said goodnight around midnight and that was pretty much it.

So for now...I sit and wait patiently to savor the fruits of his labors...fingers crossed that he rises victorious in the comic book contest!!!

I made my entrance into a neighborhood party, the other night, and not so surprisingly, was greeted with averted eyes and the cold shoulder from more than a few people, who are normally quite civil to me. The one who stood out as being the iciest of all, was the misinformed father who - in a conversation with Curlymoe over drinks, awhile back - admitted to having his mind made up about me and my blog, (without ever having read it himself, mind you)...and there wasn't a goddamned thing that anybody was gonna say to convince him otherwise. His behavior was indicative of my perceived consensus among many, that I am a heretic...an incorrigible nonconformer...and reprehensibly incapable of subscribing to acceptable, mature behavior. To top it all off, the fact that I brazenly, publicly admit to my questionable behavior is - to many...inexcusably depraved...

The negative vibe that was so palpable from some in attendance at the party, torqued me at first...I was literally fuming. How dare those people judge me..at all...but especially when most had formed their opinions of me on hearsay since they'd never taken the time to find out firsthand, what all the stink was about. If they ever bothered to actually read The Big Ugly, they might discover that a.) they enjoyed it because b.) what I am doing is no different than what they and plenty of other folks around here do, the main discrepancy being (and we've been over all of this, ad nauseum...) that I publish written accounts of my exploits and that may be a bit hard for some to swallow, but fuck those close-minded, little shits!

I considered admitting defeat and slinking out of the party...tail 'tween my legs...but then it occurred to me...My blog is my thing, it really just is. The whole point of putting it out there is so that people will read and (hopefully) appreciate it...Why not, instead of backing away from the negative press, proudly promote the blog. I got an idea...I could diffuse some of the whispering and perhaps educate the shallow by looking my skeptics square in their hairy eyeballs, giving them a Big Ugly synopsis and bidding them adieu - business cards in their hot, little hands. I first broached the subject with 2 well-respected, affluent local businessmen, who acted surprised when I mentioned that I blog about online dating. They said that they knew nothing about it (I believed one...but not the other) When they asked me how they could find my blog online, I said, "Reach into my back pocket, my business cards are in there" (My hands were both conveniently occupied - one carrying my own drink and the other in charge of a friend's cocktail...) both men - first one and then the other - took a turn sliding a hand into my tight-ass blue jean's pocket and pulling out their own card...without hesitation. How's that for a gimmick?

Oh...and now...here's this - the unveiling of my Three Tiers of Fame...

Level 1.) While doing "research" for a new blog entry, the online date that I'm on, goes horribly wrong...I wind up dismembered, mutilated and in a body bag

(obviously, this is the least appealing of the 3 possible paths to my fame, and by its very nature...eliminates the latter 2)

Level 2.) I continue to travail as a dedicated blogger, determined to win the admiration of judgmental colleagues...but sadly, my irreversible status as the local pariah and the focus of a witch hunt of sorts, has me sidestepping honorable fame for something more on par with smalltime infamy...

(who am I kidding...I currently SIT on this, the dreaded second tier...)

Level 3.) I somehow parlay my own ability, merits, determination and/or luck...into an esteemed career which carries me to the zenith of notoriety where I find my permanent place in the celebrity spotlight...

You know, I just started thinking...I have - in my adult life - never really cared (for more than a few minutes at a time, at least) about what people (outside of my friends and family) think or say about me. I consider this trait my armor and I hope that I'm always clad in it. Lately, I see the value in negative attention, because lord knows...it is attention, nonetheless. So, I've decided that - even though I will be opening myself up to increased criticism and bullying - I think the best thing that I can do right now, is to ramp up the blog's visibility...to turn as many people on to it as I possible can, thus bettering the chances that it ends up in the hands of more folks who truly appreciate it and possibly even in the nurturing hands of someone capable and willing to escort The Big Ugly Blog (with its author in tow) from its seat on the dreaded "2nd Tier" to the coveted "Third Tier of Fame"...

Pleading the Fifth on This One...

You may find this plumb unfathomable - but for once...I really just haven't got a goddamned thing to say...

Uhhh...ya' know what? Scratch that. How 'bout this, instead...

After a quick but complicated tangle with a member of the opposite sex a few weekends ago, I'm a veritable wellspring of information. But extenuating circumstances dictate that I remain under a self-imposed gag order...so for the time being - I'm keeping it zipped...I WILL tell you this much...I have not cried over a stupid boy in absolutely ages...like maybe a year and a half or something (that's an impressive milestone if I DO say so!)...but I broke the streak...I mean, it's not like I full-on bawled my eyes out or anything...but they did fill up with water...twice last week (and then again, last night)...because of a fella.........so put THAT in your pipe and smoke it...

Eh, I know...what's with the long face, right? We're supposed to meet up here to make merry over my abundant blunders with men...And normally I am happy to oblige. But this time it's different and as much as I would love to let the cat outta the bag, I truly just cannot. And don't worry about me (ha...ha...ha) - I'm fine, really...I suspect that my wimpiness, was compounded by the untimely coincidence that my kids, as well as Curlymoe and Willow, all left town for the whole bloody week - immediately following the above inferred, Unmentionable Chaos. So on top of all of the mayhem…I've just been plain lonesome. But, since it is my unspoken obligation as a (moderately) committed blogger, to give you something more than just the above paragraph to chew on...here goes nothin'...(literally)

So, during the lull that had befallen my online dating life over the last few weeks and prior to the Unmentionable Chaos, I decided to make the most of the downtime by taking a closer look at blogging in general and investigating the scribing of other bloggers out there in cyber world...you know - just to sorta check out the competition. What I deduced is this...First of all, the chances of my Big Ugly Blog becoming the tremendously popular, thus lucrative endeavor about which I've so vividly daydreamed...are sadly...slim to none. The blogging "market" it turns out (duh) is already super-saturated with egotistical windbags, like myself - who arrogantly assume that everyone in the world should be falling all over themselves to read what only THEY have to say. But I mean think about it...who really gives a shit about some perfect stranger's rantings? Seriously.

I've decided that it's entirely possible that my stories, out of context, bear little or no relevance to anyone who doesn't actually know me. I mean naturally, I'd love to believe that someone who's never met me might still find my anecdotes amusing?...captivating?...provocative?...so much so that they bookmark the blog and anxiously await each subsequent entry (wishful thinking, eh?) But aside from the few positive reviews that I've gotten from online guys who've read and lapped up my ongoing online dating derision, I have no other real way of gauging how strangers who stumble upon it, feel about the blog. My friends check in fairly regularly, to yuck it up over my accounts of their own or mutual friends' cameo appearances in my never-ending nightmare. And I appreciate their honest opinions, even when they offer less than glowing remarks. One trusted friend informed me the other day, that she sometimes wishes I would forgo all of the frilly verbiage and shit, and just get to the friggin' point, already! And Curlymoe (also a blogger) envies my commitment to report my antics with balls-out candor (he himself hamstrung by the threat of social disgrace, dare he write nearly as explicitly as I) But kudos aside, he cautions that if I really am serious about ever ending my agonizing, perpetual quest for the man of my dreams, then certainly The Big Ugly Blog......must first die......

The Big Ugly Blog is also an avenue by which peripheral acquaintances may voyeuristically virtually rubberneck at the "crime scenes" of the neighborhood tramp and then snigger about the highlights amongst themselves, and that's fine too ('tis the nature of the game)...at least they're READING! Comprehending, though? Well, now that's a horse of a totally different color...My blog came up in a recent conversation between Curlymoe and the father of children who attend my kids' school...I loved the father's take on it, "Doesn't she just talk about all of the guys that she's fucked in her blog?" Well, yeah! But there's more to it than just that...at least I thought there was... Anyway, by now it's no secret that I am perfectly happy to forfeit my dignity for the sake of bawdy entertainment, even at the expense of my already tenuous rep. in my small community...Bottom line, I just want people to read the goddamned thing and to hopefully grin, maybe even chortle a bit...to be morbidly fascinated enough to want to come back for more...and then of course to tell all of their friends to read it, as well. HA!

But as it stands, I know better than to delude myself into thinking that anything major will ever come from my diligence to search for and produce compelling material for your pleasure...I have accepted - that at least for now - The Big Ugly Blog is essentially not much more than a public diary...a creative outlet...a glaring self-indulgence...and above all else - a labor of love...

Right. Ok, so another thing that I noticed in my investigation of fellow bloggers was - best I could tell - there aren't that many blogs out there, devoted to the ridiculously popular pastime of online dating. And the ones that I did unearth, are either now defunct or limp as hell. The Big Ugly Blog is the only one of the genre that I came across which asks the reader to please click a content warning icon in order to enter said den of iniquity...And I'm not saying that mature themes and language validate the importance or the quality of any blog, but when blogging about something inherently adult in nature, one would almost expect mature subject matter to be addressed, no? The safe, wholesome blogs were akin to advice columns and tutorials on the ABC's of online dating, and the few personal accounts that I did find - were weaker 'n shit. I just kept thinking, "Who actually dates this way?..It's soooo b o r i n g..."But all of this then raises still another couple of conundrums regarding The Big Ugly Blog...

#1). I feel as though I'm bouncing around this sort of limboland...stuck somewhere between acceptable content and unadulterated pornography. I got input from someone the other day, who suggested that I consider either cleaning up my blog a scosch...in an attempt to make it more palatable to folks who may be put off by my incessant cussing and bush-league smut, or conversely - take it to the next level by posting fullblown X-rated renderings of my stories, in order to appeal to the most warped of twisted minds. In other words - the way that I currently narrate my stories may be a tinge unsavory for the goody-goodies, but not nearly down and dirty enough for the pervs...

#2). If there are so few online dating blogs out there, then why the hell isn't mine more "searchable"? For godssakes!

Awhile back, I set up "Blogpatrol" - a blog counter which provides blog status reports. It lets me know the basics like how many hits I get (not NEARLY enough) and nifty things like from what countries my readers herald (this week: Bolivia, Australia, United Kingdom, Ireland, Germany, India and of course...the U.S.) but one of my favorite things about the Blogpatrol, is seeing all the different search engines that folks have plugged into their browsers to somehow end up at my Big Ugly Blog.

A few examples:

"meaning of "buddy"" (this one is seemingly so innocent...I worry that some unsuspecting 8 year old may have unintentionally wandered onto my blog...*gulp*)

"fall back girl" (snore)

"sex buddy definition" (warmer, warmer...)

"inurl:blogspot "content warning" latex rubber" (beg pardon?)

"online dating call me "no webcam"" (I get that)

"crush on, he had to fart" (sorry...come again?)

"fuck buddy not my type" (been there, done that)

"removed from his favorites" (no fucking comment!)

"definition of a fucking body" ("body"...NOT "buddy")

""Do you know what a milf is?" so you know what I'm asking" (oh yes honey...mama knows...)

"what is corporate COCK SADDLE" (hell if I know...)

"maiden fuck buddy" (sounds almost demure...ish)

"film mother commits suicide teenage daughter "you haven't kissed me yet"" (I just can't make any sense of this one)

"big ugly dick" (ahhh...a personal fave, naturally)

"fuck buddy vitiligo" (see "Everybody's Fall Back Girl" entry)

"SLUTDOM hypnosis" (wha?)

"unrequited love fuck buddies" (makes me almost misty...)

and finally...

"definition of fuck" (I feel almost honored when I think that the Big Ugly Blog could be considered synonymous with the very meaning of the word, "fuck"...quite a personal coup!)

Ok so yeah...this is all very entertaining and everything...and even though I'm able to make the connection between the search engines and certain specific blog entries no matter how freaking bizarre they might seem...would it be too much for me to ask to get hits from folks simply searching for: "online dating blogs"? I mean COME ON! To my knowledge, not one single soul has ever searched "online dating blogs" and ended up at The Big Ugly Blog...

Well kiddies...looks like all the fun is over...I'm back to thinking about what Curlymoe said about putting the blog to bed for the sake of finding my forever lover...I mean he's kinda got a point. What man who's read The Big Ugly Blog would ever date me? I've definitely missed out on a few sterling opportunities to meet really good guys, because of the stupid fucking thing. Additionally, in order for me to mine interesting material from the online dating wasteland, I have to be willing to do the legwork and quite frankly, I am growing tired of what that entails. It used to be thrilling to compose and send soft porn picture texts, and flattering to know that the recipient would wind up choking the chicken to my likeness. Nowadays, it just annoys me when some horndog whines ceaselessly about needing more pics.. (Although, I have to confess that I did send a couple of humdingers to a new guy, this week. But it was only to quell his incessant nagging, I swear! Well that...and the fact that I needed my ego stroked a little, ok? OK?!...Is there anything so wrong with that?!) Seriously though, more often than not these days, if someone asks for new pics., my knee-jerk reaction is to cross the fucker right off the list because obviously this is not a person interested in something long term. I know...it's taken me this long to figure that out…I really am just about as sharp as a bowling ball...

Also...I am totally unmotivated (lately) to doink random young bucks justa have something meaty to write. I was face to face with a golden opportunity the other night, but I just wasn't feelin' it.

I've been talking to No Car and a couple of new guys pretty regularly, but mostly just to fill the void that the Unnmentionable Chaos created...No Car and the others seem nice enough and all, but the problem is - once I get a particular guy stuck in my head, it's terribly difficult for me to get excited about any of the others...I'm hardheaded that way. It's second nature for me to fixate on an impossible crush...to make the target out in my mind to be the end all be all and the absolute focus of all of my energy to the exclusion of more practical choices. As torturous as they can be, the impossible crushes entertain and protect me in a weird kinda way...by fueling my vivid imagination (and we all know how much fun THAT can be, mmmhmmm), by acting as the dangling carrot that keeps me singleminded (if only temporarily as well as unrealistically) in my quest for my perfect partner, but also - by virtue of the fact that these crushes rarely ever come to fruition - I am safe from suffering the disappointment that might occur, should we meet and not gel...It happened with Mr. Dreamy...and then the Mystery Man...and even though I've met him...and we definitely gelled...there is literally nothing that I can do about my impossible crush on that godforsaken Unmentionable Chaos...

Anyway, my tummy hurts. Please excuse me whilst I continue to wallow in self-pity until the next irresistible opportunity to make another abhorrible choice either snaps me out of or exacerbates my funk...or...I simply fade into oblivion...

It's All Good...

When I was a younger person, you know like late teens...early 20's I was afflicted with (what I now realize were) utterly ludicrous body image issues. It wasn't that I felt that I was particularly overweight really (ummmm...approaching pudgy - at my fattest...maybe) and at times I was even in relatively good shape since for years, my beloved, turquoise beach cruiser with the fancy fenders, whitewall tires and pale pink racing stripes - was my primary mode of transportation. But no matter how fit (or not) I was, I always hated that I couldn't seem to do a thing about all that junk inside-a my trunk and that my moderately muscular build and my lack of a rack negated what little femininity I actually did possess. I didn't even bother to try and look pretty most of the time, and my style during that era could probably best be described as "grungy thrift store tomboy". Oh sure, I would rip and tear and cut up my clothes in order to reveal the better parts of my body (that recessive slut gene has presented itself in varying degrees throughout my life...) but at the same time I would do silly shit like wear shorts over my bathing suit whenever friends and I broke into the neighborhood pools for late night dips, or sunned ourselves on rocks down at the river - simply because I was unduly paranoid about the size and the shape of my butt (what I wouldn't do to have that ass back, right now...oh well, hindsight)

Back then, I adored boys and I masochistically thrived on the torture of impossible crushes...(quite obviously...a legacy...) And if ever I found myself rollin' in the hay with a fella, my most favorite part was always the making out and the tingles and all of that delicious build-up...I liked the actual sex and all, but the damned nakey part was really hard for me...I couldn't stand for guys to see my bare body and my near absence of self-confidence completely slaughtered my ability to demonstrate any real skills. I didn't realize it at the time, but I now know that as a youngster, I really just kinda sucked in the sack. The absolute pinnacle of pain for me though, was the whole "morning after" business. There I'd be, in broad daylight, hunched over right in front of whatever poor soul was still laying there in the bed ...my hands frantically doing their best to cover my "big boom" and my itty bitty titties, while still struggling to pull my clothes back on...mortifying...

Luckily, things took a dramatic change for the better (as far as my self-image was concerned) after I made it through pregnancy and the birth of my first child...Sounds strange perhaps, but I gotta tell ya', the ole modesty goes straight out the window once you've squirted out a pup (or four) in front of a handful of complete strangers, along with your gyno and your husband. Having a baby is like being naked...in triplicate...times a million...under a spotlight...in front of an audience...and the whole humiliating process somehow miraculously eradicated my prior inhibitions. Post pregnancy and childbirth, I was immediately comfortable with my body...I nursed anytime and anywhere that my babies were hungee (descretely, but I wasn't foolin' anyone) I often paraded around the house naked as a jaybird (much to the chagrin of the poor UPS guy) and consequently, so did the rest of my growing family. To this day, I still prefer to be au naturel and find clothing in general, to be a sorely overrated concept.

So, pretty much from Oct. '95 - Sept. '03 I was either pregnant or nursing (my youngest nursed til she was 22 months old, ridiculous - I know - but she was hooked) When I finally snapped out of my years long maternity-induced fog, I not only realized that my ailing marriage was beyond resuscitation but also that my drastically overworked breasts, ehemm...had literally had the life sucked out of them. Unlike Demi Moore and others, I did not come out on the other side of the young mommy years replete with a voluptuous new set...my chest was now nothing more than tightly stretched skin over ribs (with cherries on top!) And it was a demoralizing wake-up call when my 2 year old daughter (whose first word was not surprisingly, "booby" and who continued to climb into bed with me, ever hopeful that I might reconsider this whole ridiculous weaning thing) reached up under my shirt one morning, felt around a bit and jarred me from the tail-end of my slumber when she declared, "litta booby!" Well, that was freakin' it! Something had to be done, and I knew just the thing...

During my consult, the plastic surgeon that I'd chosen to restore my womanhood, told me that throughout his entire career, he had never met a better candidate for a boob job... So see? There ya' go...

I absolutely LOVED my new tits, (to this day, they're my #1 favorite accessory) even taking into account that mine were the smallest implants that my surgeon had ever worked with. He had vehemently tried in vain to get me to go a couple of sizes bigger, promising me that I would be disappointed if I stuck with the size that I'd picked, but I was sure that they would be just perfect for my boyish build as well as - terribly convincing. I'll never forget the first time that I got to check those bad boys out for myself. Standing in front of my mirror, I unzipped and unhooked that Fort Knox of a bra which had kept the precious packages safe and secure during their first 24 hours inside of my body...and then just like that...there they were (can you hear the harps and angel chorus in the background?)...I was flabbergasted by how thrilled I was with 'em. They looked so insanely good to me...that I got horny...no lie...

You're probably wondering where I'm going with all of this pointless blabber. My explanation is twofold.

First: I am not the slightest bit shy about my body anymore, which has dramatically upped my game, so to speak. I have learned how to get what I want out of sex and curiously my selfish motivation to satisfy myself, has helped me to become a much more giving lover. And I hope that by enthusiastically making sure that my own needs are met during sex, thus learning how to truly enjoy it - I may have inadvertently become a better sexual partner in general...especially with the lights on...

Second: Exhibitionism...I'm afraid that I may have let this whole concept sorta run amok...

So by now you know that I've been posting racy(ish) photos of myself on my online dating site profiles to entice more men to "view" me, my falling down stairs vids. and my blog - so there's that. Ok, so a few weekends ago, as is customary, Willow and Curlymoe and I went out to paint the town red. We ended up at our usual, favorite haunt and glory be! There was a DJ spinning all of those crappy pop songs that somehow, like the Sirens, lure my ass out onto the dance floor. This night, the bar was crowded and the place was hot...temperature hot. I was glad that I had made the decision to sport a virtually nonexistent (I'm talking like one step down from pasties) bikini top under my simple black sheath. Down below, it was ripped up black tights and a teeny pair of boy shorts and heels. I lifted my dress a little, to cool my sweaty body and Willow was like, "Awww, just take the damned thing off, already!" And so with a modicum of prodding, I did just that...

After a song or two, I figured it was inevitable that management would be over soon to ask me to please get dressed, and so I decided to beat them to the punch and went to go put my dress back on. I returned to the table where our drinks and pocketbooks were still in place, but discovered that my cute, little black dress was...GONE?!

I didn't react, because I knew that some stupid bitch was just fuckin' with me, and I didn't want the scag to mistakenly assume that she'd gotten to me. (Not sure why any girl would want to draw attention away from herself by mandating that another girl stay nearly naked on the dance floor, but whatever...) The only thing that upset me was losing the little dress, it was cute and I didn't want that ho' to have it...Aaaaand...there was still the potential threat of the staff insisting that I cover up - and at this point - that would pretty much be impossible. But no one ever bothered me. In fact, I wound up ordering drinks for the rest of the night, right up at the bar alongside the hot and sweaty fools who had worn all of that superfluous clothing out to the bar that night (hee hee) and nobody said a word. Only once, did someone untie my tiny top (probably the same hag who stole the dress) but I caught the strings in time and Curlymoe tied it back for me before disaster struck. Everything was cool, until I realized that I would eventually have to make the 3 block walk back to the car, rawther scantily clad, drunk and wobbly on my four inch heels...

My friends and I made it back to the car mostly without incident. Sure, I withstood a few cat calls and all that, but no one solicited me for sex even though I did pretty much resemble a common hooker...so that was good...

After a night like that one, where hanging out in a bar with nary a stitch on shoulda been awkward, embarrassing or humiliating - but wasn't, I realized that even though I'm probably too old to act the way that I do (although it might not be an age thing, since I don't often see young people display even remotely similar behavior in public...hmmmm...) evidently dignity is a trait of which I may be devoid and that shock value has become a rewarding byproduct of all of my antics. And so, because of my conduct and the fact that I advertise all of my questionable behavior in a public forum, there are lots of people out there in the world who truly don't "get" me. Most people make up their minds that I'm a certain way and they form opinions (some dead-on, some completely off the mark) based on this bizarre persona that I have created...I'm used to it by now (hell - I ask for it, for cryin' out loud!) and I seriously DO NOT care about what people (who are not my close friends or children) say or believe about me, I mean that. I do however, care about the idea of being alone...forever. And so the real question is this...After portraying myself as such a wackjob, what man out there is gonna be willing to put up with all of the nonsense that goes along with, well...me? He'd have to come to the table equipped with a high tolerance for imbecility but also meet my extreme standards of excellence and I'm afraid that finding the embodiment of THAT, may be a tall order to fill...So have I rendered myself undate-able? I'm friend-able, and I'm fuck-able...but am I date-able? Maybe not. And I have recently learned that I might not even be marry-able. After changing my "relationship status" from single to married on Facebook the other day, just to try and incite some innocent laughter...what I mostly wound up with was negative spin including a comment from one sceptic who ascertained that "married to yourself doesn't count" Jesus Christ! Do I seriously come across as THAT narcissistic? This is precisely why I fear that I may be paving the way to miss out on that critical part in anyone's life...settling into the golden years with a buddy, a traveling companion...a forever lover. I don't want to be alone forever. But I also don't want to manipulate my personality in order to fit into society better, or something...I dunno.

I would love to think that I could distract myself from all of this postulation by getting together with some brilliant, new hopeful this weekend (specifically a certain Mystery Man) but it looks like I'm heading into the third straight weekend of deferment from him, and - lest I look even more the fool and under the expert tutelage of my young but wise friends, I have decided to take the hint. (I'm thinkin' that he's way too good for a peon like me, anyway...)

So hey, how about a little online dating absurdity to lift the somber pall that has suddenly draped itself over this entry? Whaddya say, huh?

Late the other night, after my kids were tucked in, I was enjoying a cocktail, fiddling around on my trusty ole Mac when I was IM'd on one site by someone new. I didn't really have any business talking to the guy since he lives 500 miles or so away, but I was bored and buzzed and wanted some company. I'm not really sure why, but I always prefer the ones who dive right into the juicy shit as opposed to the ones who just say what they think that you want to hear...b o r i n g...So anyway, this guy opened the conversation by telling me that I reminded him of his first crush (respectable)...allegedly his neighbor...who was also his mother's best friend (ah ha! The plot thickens!) Right away, I knew that I was in for a treat. I asked him if he'd ever acted on his crush and he said not really, but that the woman had once watched him spankin' the monkey up in his bedroom window, as she sunbathed in her yard below. And that after that, he'd heard his mother and the crush, discussing his more than ample size...which oddly enough - got him more excited about his mother, than the crush...So now, I was like, "Oh dayum! This shit is mess up!" But in the interest of my Big Ugly Blog (and my own perverse fascination with most things off-kilter) I continued to put him at ease and goaded him into telling me more. He asked if I had ever done anything taboo, to which I honestly responded, "Yes" (don't even ask me to tell you what the thing is that I told him, cuz this is one secret that will NEVER rear its big ugly head in my blog) which prompted him to divulge even more...He said that as a young man he had become obsessed with his mother and his sister and that even now, he still ogled mother and daughter duos, while oh - say...strolling around the mall (gulp) He next told me that the reason that he had contacted me was because of the picture on my profile of me with my young (11 YEARS OLD, for godssakes!!!) daughter. Now I was beginning to regret responding to his IM...(CREEPY!) and I was more than grateful that he lived so very far away! Next he willingly offered up the fact that he had messed around with his sister (ewww?!?!) but not his mom (phew)...Feeling almost like I needed to contact some authority or something but before I had bailed out of the convo., the sicko dropped the other shoe, confessing that he'd had REAL LIVE ACTUAL SEX with his sist..."K BUD, PARTY'S OVER!"

You talk about awkward! Sheesh! I couldn't believe the Pandora's box that I had mistakenly opened...Close it, close it, close it up again!!!!

I sew this entry up with the secure knowledge that no matter how demented and warped I am or may appear to be, there are peeps out there who are WAY WORSE OFF THAN I!!! I may put people off with my brazen wantonness, but at the very least, I always feel understood, accepted, cradled and loved by my kids and my true friends, and because of that...it's all good...

Holding Out for Something Maybe Better...

As much as I would love to lavish upon you, my trademark, smutty tales of poor decision-making and dire consequences, I'm afraid that offering up the slew of mistakes that I HAVEN'T made, recently - is all the better that I can do...

Lars (or - "No Car Guy" - as my friends so cleverly refer to him) did in fact, get back to me a couple of weeks ago, about meeting up the following Saturday night, and for a split second I was almost kind of excited about the prospect of getting the heck outta Dodge and finally going on a real date for once in about a million years...not so much because I thought that No Car had the potential to be "the one", but more because if our evening together went anything like most of my prior dates with online guys, it would at the very least provide juicy fodder about which to scribble.

A few days before the slated big night, I pulled up No Car's profile, just to make sure that I still thought that he was cute and all (even though at this point, I was ostensibly locked into our date) and what I discovered was that - yeah - he's still cute and all, but he's only 30 flippin' years old - that's (approximately) 10 years younger than I am...(poop)...I'd had it in my mind that he was like 36...34 at worst! I mean I guess it's entirely possible that No Car is one of those rare, highly-evolved 30 year olds which might improve our odds for success if a long term relationship were to actually be in our cards. Nonetheless, ever since my miserable 15 month tangle with Jimmy (the poster child for why NEVER to date a man [in his case a gross overstatement] 10 years one's junior) I have had no end of difficulty spitting that damned, young guy taste outta my mouth. I am of the firm opinion that guys, 10 years younger or more, are good for one thing and one thing only...casual sex, end of story (Oh incidentally, if you're a new reader and want the low-down on Jimmy, refer back to old entries: "I Just Lost My Blog Virginity" and "Check This Out") Anyway, reinforcing my reluctance to mix it up with yet another youngster, was my gruesome misfortune of having been accosted (again) by fucking Jimmy at a local bar the Friday night before I was to meet No Car. Jimmy's and my conversation was polite at first...nearly friendly, even. But in textbook Jimmy form, he tactlessly drove a jagged dagger deep into my mended heart when he abruptly shifted from benign chit chat about his gardens or some shit - to describing for me, a scenario which featured him and his girlfriend - together in bed, the fuck (there is no bigger asshole in the universe, I can say this with absolute certainty) His callous recollection proved the consummate catalyst to incite my effortless extrication from our deteriorating colloquy (as well as my barstool) and - sincerely grateful to have made even more headway in my methodical ascent from Jimmy's Hell - I confidently strode out of that building to a soundtrack of Jimmy pathetically hollering my name (hee hee) What I particularly liked about this priceless vignette, was the comforting conclusion drawn, that poor, sad Jimmy has been officially self-relegated to a well-deserved relationship purgatory of sorts. Yeah, he's got a girl...he's getting laid (whoop dee doo!) but it is abundantly apparent that he considers her nothing more than a warm body. To wit: (and I quote) "ehh...she's a "space-filler"" (what a charmer) Jimmy's actions further corroborate his palpable ennui, i.e.; in true two-timing fashion, he lamely tries wooing me with cheesy compliments, citing how good I look, these days (damn straight, bitch! Cuz I'm no longer beaten down by you!) and attempts to tug at my heartstrings by reminiscing about all the "good times" that we enjoyed together, HA! The handful of happy memories are completely overshadowed by his unmitigated abuses. He then rounds out the onslaught by chasing me around the place, indecorously pawing my ass, as if my booty is somehow still his property...I'm not sure which is worse, realizing that the behavior that Jimmy's displays these days when he sees me out, depicts the shit that he was pulling behind my back with other girls the whole time that we were dating...or...conjuring up how awful it felt to worry and wonder about what his lame ass was up to all of the times that he went out on the town without me....And just like when he was with me, I do believe that Jimmy is merely "settling" with his current twist. A diabolical smile covers my face each time I hope that he's filled with regret for having run me off forever (cuz truth be told...I was really good to him...and he knows that) But better still, is the fact that I can honestly say - that despite the absence of a bf in my own life - I'm pretty damned calm, these days...and inexplicably...immensely happy. Which is more than I can say for Jimmy.

Woah! That was quite a nasty, little diatribe...I feel much better. Now...where was I? Oh yeah...No Car...

Ok, so seeing Jimmy, hammered home how utterly disinterested I am in wasting my time on dead end dudes, which in turn caused me to backpedal (a lot) on my plans to hang out with No Car. I weighed the balance between - canning the date, hence freeing myself up to stay home and mow my grass and weed my gardens and burn my brush piles, and wake up at home in my own bed early the next morning in order to get a jump on my chores, once again...and...driving an hour and a half, to flirt with a young stud, get too drunk to drive home, possibly drunk enough to accidentally fuck him, lose a chunk of my Sunday to traveling home painfully hungover and being totally non-productive once I arrived...hmmm...which one ever shall I choose?

I decided to opt for the former (which is so not like me) Early Saturday morning, I sat down to my trusty ole Mac and typed this note to No Car:

"Hey listen, I've been thinking about us getting together tonight, and I kinda don't really see the point. I know that may sound horrible, but let me explain...

First of all, there is the age gap. My last bf was ten years younger than I and it was easily the most devastating relationship in which I was ever involved, partly due to the fact that we were simply at two totally different places in life. I am nearly convinced that a relationship between an older woman who's done having children and a younger man who will one day want them...has minimal chance for success.

Also, there's the geography issue. Let's just say that we did go out, and subsequently we enjoyed each other's company...what then? You don't own a car, so in order for us to see each other, it would be up to me to drive to and from the city each and every time we wanted to meet which frankly, I'm not all that keen on doing.

And lastly, I am definitely not interested in any sort of random hook-up.

I'm sorry to bag out on you at the eleventh hour like this. I just think it would be better for us to be realistic about the whole thing.

Good luck finding your perfect girl, I'm sure you will have no trouble doing just that!

All the best..."

I was picturing him, opening the email, angrily cursing me as he read it, and then never hearing from him again.

But this was not the case. No Car quickly responded with a kind note that I have to admit, made me feel pretty stinkin' guilty about ditching the guy...

"I'm very sad that you don't want to meet up.

First of all, I actually do have a kid, a 12 year old daughter. I don't list her on my profile because she doesn't live with me and I thought mentioning her might dissuade women from contacting me.

Second, if we do enjoy each other's company then the geography issue can be overcome. I can borrow a car from a friend, rent one, or find other ways to visit you without you having to make the journey each time.

I am definitely not thinking of this as a random hook-up and I am completely cool with you being done having children.

I really think that you should reconsider and at least give it a chance. I promise we'll have a good time. It would be a shame to give up on something before it's even started."

Uggghhh...

Ok, so instead of dwelling on my hasty change of heart, I hopped in my little car and headed to my son's Birthday Party at my ex's house. I parked my cute, little car at the pizza shop, went in to fetch the grub for the party, and when I tried to start my car, it was totally...d e a d.

I convinced a chivalric, young man to help me get the derned thing started, made it to the party, had tons of fun and when it was time to go home, I performed the very same trick with the screwdriver on the starter, that the cute, young man had used to revive my persnickety automobile, before. I left the sickly, little car at my mechanic's, walked home and felt better that I now had an excuse which would legitimately get me off the hook from having to reconsider meeting No Car...I suddenly had no car, myself. I mean I could've driven my big ass Suburban out to the city, but it's such a gas hog and - call me crazy - but wouldn't most guys rather see their date pull up in a shiny, silver Datsun, rather than in some grunged out old hooptie? It may sound silly, but I consider my little car a critical quotient in the coolness equation that is my single girl status. That being said, I responded to No Car's benevolent email by explaining to him that after reading his last note I realized that I might very well be a fool to give up on him before even giving him a chance, and that we should still meet someday...but unfortunately this new transportation snag had, for all intents and purposes, tabled our date...until the next time.

But there's something else impacting my ambivalence about meeting No Car...you see...there is this Mystery Man...

I'm not going to say too much about him (you know how I can be about jinxing myself) What I will tell you, is that the Mystery Man and I were introduced on my favorite networking site, by a mutual friend who believed that if the two of us got to know each other, we would "hit it off"...(I'm game!) I've since learned that the Mystery Man is well-educated, a brilliant writer, his career is beyond commendable, he's a world traveler, he's attractive and active and about my age and...he's read the blog...and he still talks to me...

A soon as the Mystery Man and I began corresponding with one another, I totally lost interest in the IM's and email from other men who now paled in comparison to my (potentially hyped-up) image of him. And if I did allow any of these jackleg suitors to breach my fortress, it was only in order to stall their incessant requests to meet for lunch or to go bowling or to come over and help me with my yard work (uhhh...that ain't ever gonna happen, bro)...I shut down a boatload of guys, this week, when I asserted that - no - I am not currently dating anyone, but there is someone new who has tickled my fancy a smidge...and that I just want to see how things go with him before I say "Yes" to anybody else....(again...not like me at all) In the old days I wouldn't have necessarily paid favoritism to any one man, instead I would've strung along as many of them as absolutely possible. In the past I've been more about quantity than quality. Like, "let's see how everly many different guys, no matter how questionable, I can get under my belt before the weekend's out" type of thing.

My recent lackadaisical attitude about dating is somewhat perplexing. What happened to the panic to occupy every childless minute in the company of some new man? Lately, I'm fine staying right here at home, or messing around downtown with Willow and Curlymoe. I can't help but wonder...Am I calming down? (perish the thought) Is complacency something that is suddenly ok with me? Am I just worn out from trying too hard for so long and for what? Nothing but a big, fat goose egg...Or am I really just holding out for something maybe better?

During this interim period of kicking back until I can (hopefully) make the Mystery Man's acquaintance, I have been using the time wisely by focussing on promoting my "falling down stairs" videos and trying to generate more interest in the blog. Since I have included links to both the vids. and my blog on the dating sites where I continue to loiter, I decided to update my profiles, by putting up an unapologetic cheesecake shot in the hopes that it might attract some new viewers/readers. Attracting bf material has become slightly less of a push.

I was thunderstruck by the immediate and absurd spike in "views" of my profiles on all of my favorite sites, since posting the shameless frontal shot of my glistening, wet, bikini-clad torso. Evidently, the photo was too racy for one such site. I got an email from the administration who fussed at me for breaking the photo-upload rules and consequently, they deleted my pic....the killjoys. Anyway, the good news is that I experienced a glut of messages from folks yuckin' it up about my unusual hobby of falling down stairs (and somehow not killing myself) But even more exciting, was the feedback that I was getting from men who had read the blog...and actually really LIKED it!

Somewhere during these last few weeks, I got a call from an airline pilot who'd witnessed Willow and Curlymoe videotaping a couple of my first big falls. The pilot, (or Jesus Sandals, as Culrymoe dubbed him) was mesmerized by the stunt and blabbed on and on about knowing some hot movie producer who he thought might find my talent(?) of interest. I gave him my # on the back of my Big Ugly Blog business card, hoping that something might come of it...

What came of it was Jesus Sandals calling me up, and inviting me to meet him back at the same restaurant for drinks, one night. It was kinda late when I got his message, and I wasn't terribly motivated to shower and get dressed to go out, but I kept thinking about his connection with the producer...

It was overwhelmingly apparent after talking over drinks for an hour or so, that Jesus Sandals' m.o. for calling me had little to do with advancing my "career", all he really wanted was for me to go back with him to the place where he was staying while he was in town (great)...I actually contemplated joining him there and most likely fending off his unwanted advances - my single objective - to continue encouraging him to plug the "falling down stairs" vids. (as well as the blog!) to his producer friend. But I was starting to think that all of that was horse shit, now...so instead...I went on home...

Here's the part where I recap (and toot my own horn, a bit)...

So...Inspired by my acute disdain for Jimmy as well as my developing friendship and collateral fascination with the Mystery Man, it was nothing for me to nix Jimmy's attempt to schmooze his way back into my good graces (and possibly my pants?)...I did not (yet) waste gas or time to gamble and potentially lose on a date with the age-inappropriate No Car...I stiff-armed a bunch of overzealous Romeo wannabes...and I did not prostitute myself with Jesus Sandals for the sake of possibly (but not likely) getting my videos and blog into the hands of some movie producer...Proud of me?

And Speaking Of...

Right this very minute, I literally cannot find one teensy tinesy thing about which to gripe, grouse or groan...I am perfectly content to be lazily lounging poolside, bathed in sunshine and lighthearted banter. Meanwhile, my kids are frolicking nearby with their own friends under the watchful eye of our attentive lifeguard, Kevin...(god love him!) Adding to the transcendent tableau is the fact that I am mere moments away from mixing my very first cocktail of the day. And guess what? The forecast predicts a three month long continuation of this idyllic sojourn, to be spent right here in my own, tiny town - yet far away from the tedium of cold, dark days, endless packing of school lunches, sporting piles of bulky clothing and clocking in and out of the daily grind. Come Autumn? Shit will predictably revert back to a less palatable version of humdrum and ho hum, but for the time being, I am basking in this desirable display of vacuous decadence.

And Speaking of vacuous decadence...Way back, 10 years ago or so, when I was a happily married, financially secure, stay-at-home-mommy, my station in life afforded me the luxury of setting a precedent to which I now - post-divorce - shakily persevere to still adhere. Since abandoning my marriage, I make the necessary sacrifice in order to stay home with me kiddles during the summer. I forgo enrolling them in endless camps and/or daycare which, if they went, would allow me to stay on at whatever "job" I might currently be slaving for some piddly-ass $10/hr. wage. Consequently though, I am forced to limp along on even more negligible fundage than most of the rest of the year. And because my summertime income doesn't even come close to covering our general living expenses, to say that we exist "hand to mouth" during these months, is quite the understatement. I can always count on getting way behind on my bills and by the end of the summer, my phone line will be inundated with calls from unfamiliar area codes, presumably utility providers and credit card companies trying to collect something...anything, that they might apply to my disastrously delinquent accounts. Last summer, after Directv had no other option but to cut off our service, the kids and I attempted to mask our dismay by adopting the mindset that NOT having television, might not necessarily be such a bad thing...right? Pseudo-positive attitudes notwithstanding, it was apparent that every one of us found the loss of this basic privilege to be more of a stigma and an embarrassment, than an inconvenience. This summer won't be much different, I'm afraid. I will only be working for my beloved elderly couple, on the one day during the week that my ex keeps the children, making the pittance that I will be bringing home, hardly worth the gas consumption and hour's worth of travel time to get there and back. But you know? I sincerely enjoy the gig and the folks for whom I toil and therefore, I shan't complain about making a brief, weekly appearance in exchange for a little coin and more time with my kids. Also...I am determined to be most efficient with the plethora of extra time that I will be spending at home, carving out hours-long chunks of every day (which I will gleefully spend here...in front of my trusty ole Mac) plunging ever deeper, into the receding world of online dating in the hopes of dredging up something noteworthy about which to blog. I am geared up to grit my teeth behind an upbeat smile, as I muddle through the next 3 months of financial strife. Nothing, not even poverty, will prevent me from relishing my summer of dating and writing, and hangin' wif my kids and my tight-knit group of loyal friends...(you buyin' it?)

And speaking of "loyal" friends...I felt wounded for only about a nanosecond, upon learning that someone - who I've apparently erroneously believed to be a genuine friend as well as a staunch supporter and promoter of my blog - was instead a fountainhead of vituperation in regards to me, my blog AND my hair color. Rumor has it that the perpetrator (I'll call her Miss B.S......short for Miss Backstabber among other things) is on some sort of campaign (along with her equally two-faced sister) to dissuade random folks from reading my "trampy" blog, citing the content - too trashy for general human consumption. I have to admit, that after I digested the recounted derision, the betrayal was not actually all that surprising to me. I've been warned that you can't trust her as far as you could throw her, so I shoulda seen this coming, long ago. But then again, I do tend to be a "benefit of a doubt" kinda gal. My consistent bad judgement of character has turned around and bitten me right in the ass cheek, innumerable times before. You know though, it's really ok...I feel good that I never wasted my breath on her in my Big Ugly Blog ('til now, that is). And following this - her 15 minutes of Big Ugly fame - she'll have gotten herself officially written out of the script, for good! Frankly, washing my hands of this "friendship", is no skin off my back. I don't have a problem with trimming the friend fat, a little...the fewer, the truer...the better.

And speaking of my hair color...ok fine, so I dyed my hair a fucked up color, but what the hell difference does it make to HER, anyway? Answer me that! And...even though I don't really NEED to explain why I did it..I shall...There are several reasons why I dyed my hair navy blue:

#1.) It's a freaking free country and I can do whatever the fuck I so desire - to my own person

#2.) I had my hair this same color, for a short period of time 20 years ago...and I loved it...I've always wanted to have it that way, again

#3.) I was on this whole, "Fuck online dating" kick for a spell, and figured that since it appeared that there was nobody left on the planet for me to date, what better time to fulfill a nagging desire, eh? (But then again, what if I reverse jinx myself, in the process? Like, say after all of this languorous online dating downtime, I finally stumble upon the most amazing guy ever...But then tragically, it turns out that he's not the kind of fella to dig on some bizarre, "blue-haired old lady"...)

And speaking of amazing guys...I've been loosely communicating with Lars over the past 3 months or so....The other night, while IM'ing me for the first time ever, he ended up asking me out. (Hot damn! A real live date...FINALLY!) The deal is this...I will drive an hour and a half into D.C. (and later, back home again) and once I arrive, Lars will squire me about the city. (Sounds like mama's getting the short end of the stick here, but whatev...) I have to admit that he did lose a bit of his "amazing guy" cred. when he cited that not owning a car was the reason that he needed me to do all of the driving...(Isn't that sorta strange? I mean, who doesn't own a car?) But who am I to judge...I've got problems of my own...namely the hair color dilemma. So, now I've gotta figure out how to handle the blue hair sitch. Like, do I come clean with Lars about my unusual choice of hair color prior to our date? Do I just show up and hope that he either doesn't notice or that he simply doesn't give a rip? Do I hope that by the time I go on the date, the color has faded dramatically and it'll have become a non-issue? Or do I do the suck-ass thing and dye it a "normal" more acceptable color? I'm half tempted to re-dye it an even more intense shade of blue just to thumb my nose at Miss B.S...Oh, and if you're reading this, could you kindly ask your kids to refrain from gluttonously gorging themselves on our pool snacks every time? Preesh...

And speaking of my date on Saturday night...it might now be a moot point.

I believe that I mentioned that I've recently become obsessed with a favorite new hobby - falling down flights of carpeted stairs. I've decided to have my friends film me performing the stunt on as many different staircases as absolutely possible and to then post the videos on YouTube with my blog address emblazoned across the bottom of screen, in the hopes of maybe generating a little more interest in the blog. Additionally, I added the link to my videos (and hence - the blog address) to my profiles on my favorite dating sites (a little risky, no doubt, since any guy that might end up reading the blog would most likely have zero interest in getting mixed up in my ongoing soap opera) I happen to know that Lars peeked at my profile soon after I made the new additions, and...surprise, surprise...I haven't heard from him since. It's entirely possible that I've run the guy off for good...

And speaking of having my friends videotaping me falling down stairs...My friends Willow, Curlymoe and a new, young buck - Tall Drink-o-Water - recently met me out at a venue with an exceptionally long, carpeted set of stairs. We all sat at the bar and chatted for a spell, preparing to film the big fall, during which time I got Tall Drink up to speed on the blog and it's general theme and candidly narrated a few of the more noteworthy stories. In the process, I think I unwittingly misled him into believing that since I portray myself as such an easy lay, that he himself might be getting lucky sometime in the near future, and possibly even make his own appearance in my Big Ugly Blog. But frankly, from the first minute that I saw him, I thought that he and Willow would make a very handsome couple (turns out...she did too!) and so even though he continually cast his line my way, I wasn't at all tempted to nibble on his worm...

Instead, I fell down the stairs a couple of times and canvassed the crowd, handing out business cards and talking up the blog. It cracked me up when a well-known, local socialite and her date, stopped me to tell me how much they liked my "look" (huuh?) and I said to the woman, "Hey, Sheryl! How are you?" She answered with a blank expression but when I told her that I was So-and-So's ex...the light bulb immediately went off (on?). Simultaneously, a light bulb went off (on?) with her beau as well, who upon learning that I blog about online dating, realized that not only had he viewed my profile, numerous times, but that he'd even sent me an email or two...I seriously did not recognize the guy and I apologized for not responding, at which time Sheryl chimed in, relieved, "Well I'm so glad that you didn't!"

My three friends and I closed down the bar, Willow said "Goodnight" and the two boys and I came back to my house for a nightcap. When it became obvious that Tall Drink was sticking around in the hopes of gettin' some, I pleaded with Curlymoe to back a sistah up and please take Tall Drink on home...Unfortunately, they were both totally hammered and I worried that if they drove away from my house, chances were better than good that they would end up wrapping their car around a tree and would I be able to live with that? Curlymoe, curled up on the couch with one of my pups and frickin' Tall Drink followed me up to my room, as I chanted over and over again, "We are NOT going to have sex! We are NOT going to have sex!"

And speaking of not having sex...The instant my fully-clothed body flopped onto my broken down bed right next to Tall Drink's fully-clothed body, the only thing that we did was fall fast asleep...no kissing...no snuggling...no fucking. Looks like mama's making good on her pledge to stay on the sex wagon...