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...

Reclaiming My Mojo, But Misplacing My Moxie

Ok, that is freakin' IT! I am SOOOO on the wagon...And I'm not talkin' about layin' off the sauce either, mind you (although that too, is probably imminent) I'm talkin' about taking a requisite, self-imposed hiatus from SEX...until further notice...I fucking broke my bed! Or rather......I broke my bed......fucking...

So by now, you all know that as far as online dating goes, I have reached an impasse of sorts. But don't let this little bump in the road fool you into thinking that I am totally bereft of a social life, oh hell's NO! Mama has definitely been finding her fun - faaaaaar away from her trusty ole Mac! And, giving credit where credit is due...the thing that has saved me during all of this online dating downtime, has been - carousing on my childless weekends with my (16 years my junior) partner-in-crime...Willow.

It practically makes no sense at all, that Willow and I should have cultivated such an effortless friendship. For one thing - she is a gym teacher and a coach at the school which my children attend. One might expect it to be awkward or uncomfortable for my kids to have to tolerate a teacher from their school, hanging out at their house a couple of nights a week sometimes, for cocktails with their mom and dinner and reality TV with them...not so. In fact, my son Jamie asks, every Wednesday afternoon when I pick him up from school, "Is Willow coming over tonight?" and if for some reason she's NOT able to join us, he always humphs, "That sucks, it's always so boring when she doesn't come over". (He's undeniably smitten with her...)

As far as looks go, Willow possesses an altogether preeminent beauty - next to which my own mediocre looks are even more diminished. I should HATE her...seriously. But for some reason I never feel the least bit self-conscious whenever juxtaposed to this spectacular human specimen, despite that fact that I become virtually invisible to men when I'm in her company. This probably has a lot to do with the fact that Willow seemingly has no concept of how gorgeous she really is, and so for me, it is relatively painless to concede to her dominant, yet humble beauty. Her statuesque, athletic frame which is sheathed in unblemished, naturally bronzed skin (as well as killer clothes...always) commands positive attention from nearly everyone who casts eyes upon her. And she has the most exquisite face humanly possible, I swear to goodness! Her "soldiers courses" smile barely knuckles under to her triumphant opalescent green eyes with which she cluelessly slays everyone...man, woman or child (just ask little Jamie...boing!) And I believe that part of what makes her transcendental beauty even more pronounced, and simultaneously makes Willow surprisingly approachable, is her magnetic, party-girl personality. The fucking bitch has it all...and I love her for it! 

Of course, there is also our exaggerated age gap which should negate any semblance of a social middle ground between us, but since my maturity level is retarded at best and Willow is inordinately sage, (per her mere 24 years on this planet) we meld together pretty well. We spend boatloads of time, commiserating over our parallel idiosyncrasies in regards to men. One such example; we are both hypercritical to a fault of nearly every guy we meet. I was chastising myself for horrible behavior towards some poor soul one time, and Willow minimized my dismay by saying, "Ha! That's nothing...I declined an invitation go out on a second date with this one seriously HOT guy, simply because he showed up for the first date, wearing Crocs"...Ahhhahahaha! Loved that!

Anyway, all logic aside, Willow and I do get along famously. And although my appearance is radically incommensurate to hers, I simply shift gears when I'm out with her. I can count on always having a great time, but I never delude myself into thinking that I could ever possibly bag a babe with Willow there by my side. And the weird thing is, that instead of becoming all bunched up about my physical inadequacies, I tend to relax a bit more than usual and catch myself laughing and goofing on the dance floor, rather than obsessively searching for a man. 

A couple of months ago, Willow and I made the usual rounds down in Old Town, traipsing about, from bar to bar until we wound up at the obvious hotspot of the night. Within minutes of our arrival, Willow had a choice target in her cross hairs. Only problem was...she was too bashful to make a move (she is still human, after all) So I - dutiful friend that I am - and with no designs of my own on any potential victims...devoted most of my evening to playing cupid...and it worked. 

After last call, Willow and I followed her handsome jock to a small party in town and while the two of them wiled away the hours getting better acquainted, I entertained myself by learning how to fall down a flight of stairs. I would stand at the topmost step facing forward, pretend to lose my footing, take a header, barrel roll the rest of the way down and ultimately crash into the drywall at the bottom. I even learned how to do it backwards...It never hurt, not once...ever (which could've been due entirely to the excessive amount of alcohol coursing through my system...maybe) Anyone who saw it for the first time, believed that I had actually fallen down the stairs...accidentally. At some point, after most of the partygoers had gotten wise to my prank and subsequently insisted that I STOP such nonsense, a chivalric young man with whom I had enjoyed a delightful repartee (mainly centered around his daffy assertion that his dick was the size of a blade of grass) in between tumbles down the steps and while Willow was indisposed, decided that it would be prudent for him to sit at the bottom of the staircase to catch my fall, not only to spare the sheetrock wall any more undue harm, but also to prevent me from suffering injurious repercussions...awwww, what a sweetie! After about my 20th trip down the flight of carpeted stairs, Shane (24 years old, 6' 5", 250 + lbs., big, bright, inquisitive blue eyes, and a wicked sense of humor) determined to break my lucky streak (as well as quell his anxiety), by curling me up like a warm, little cinnamon bun in his post collegiate, basketball-playin' arms and bestowing upon me, an unexpected kiss. And even though I had been highly entertained while perfecting my kooky, new stunt, I have to say that making out with Shane far surpassed the alternative...that youngin' can KISS! 

At around 5 a.m., Willow and I realized how godforsaken late (early?) it was and after exchanging cell #'s with our adorable boys, we bid all, farewell...

A couple of weekends later, I drove into Alexandria to meet up with Willow and some of her equally wild-ass lacrosse buddies, to make an appearance at a party before hitting the town in the (bigger than Willow's and my own) city. It turned out - that a new (way too young), online guy with whom I'd been chatting for no more than 24 hours, lived within blocks of the apartment where I was to be crashing that night and so I conveniently got him on board to come hang out with all of us gals. One of Willow's friends was particularly interested in meeting my "date" after I informed her that he was mid-20's, Jewish and an online dater, as was she. And since Joel was definitely closer to her age, I willingly offered him up to her, sight-unseen...I had no attachment to the guy and it just seemed to make sense. 

Joel arrived at the party just in time to catch me boisterously engaging in my wholehearted attempt to fudge mad wrestling skills on a half-serious opponent. My inspiration? The Pay-Per-View MMA fights hypnotizing the bulk of those in attendance. (If you ask me, I fairly well held my own, especially considering the fact that my challenger was a trained fighter and easily twice my size) Anyway, once I finally (begrudgingly, grrrr...) admitted defeat, I struggled to catch my breath, and then introduced myself to Joel. His face was...unique, but not totally off-putting. And since I was somewhat ambivalent about his looks, I remorselessly lived up to my promise, and promptly introduced Joel to Willow's friend. It was immediately and painfully obvious that there was clearly no spark between the two of them, in fact, they quickly showed signs of literally detesting one another, whoops. Their conversation escalated into a minor tiff in a jiffy and I broke it up before they commenced their own MMA fight. After all of that, I figured it would (and rightfully should) be up to me to babysit Joel for the night. I definitely did not, however, let his presence cramp my style. 

The entire party relocated to a raucous dance club/bar where I flitted about the dance flo' at will, with Willow and all of her friends, but made sure to check in with Joel (who apparently preferred the bar to the dance floor, which was not necessarily a bad thing) every time I returned to order another drink. And you know? The more I looked at him, the cuter he got, which could've had everything to do with my steady alcohol intake. But no matter how much THEY drank, Willow and all of her friends NEVER found Joel attractive. Every time I tried to endear him to them, they shot me down with wrinkled up noses and sourpuss grimaces, blaming their disapproval on what they unanimously considered to be his alarmingly vampire-esque appearance and demeanor, all pale and skinny and aloof...but whatever - I was drunk and he WAS a great kisser, fangs and all!.

When it was time to hit the road, Joel asserted that I should go back with him to the house where the party had been, so that we could fetch his car together (wink, wink) and I was like, "Umm, nah. I think I'll just go back with the girls, to the apartment where I'm staying" He got instantly seriously pissed off, like ridiculously so, and the rest of us were all so relieved when he quickly left in a huff in his own goddamn cab. The good news?...I didn't really give a shit AND...it looks like mama finally made a good judgement call, for once.

And now, for the big climax (get it?) 

So, a few weekends after my fun time in Alexandria with Willow et al, I was away out of town and got a text in the middle of the night, from Shane. His message was indiscernible (hic!), but the next day when I called him, he explained that he was back in (my) town and asked if I was free to hang out over the weekend. I told him that I was heading home right then, and that I would call him when I arrived. In the meantime, I called "finger-on-the-party-pulse" Willow to find out what those boys were up to, she gave me the skinny and within hours, I was on my way to reunite with brawny Shane.  

For the sake of expediting the conclusion of this entry, I shall paraphrase...

I met up with Willow and Shane early in the evening, at the same house where I learned how to fall down the stairs...got into an argument with some stupid punk...went downtown with Willow and the cute boys to check out the cheesy Apple Blossom Festival midway...pissed off a "carney"...hopped a cemetery fence and slunk around until Willow and the boys alerted me to the fact that the night-watchman had called the cops...climbed back out...walked the boys back to the party and got into an even more heated argument with the dumb, under-age punk (who had made off to a neighbor's party with MY bottle of vodka, the prick) as well as the puerile members of his entourage...left Shane at the house while I drove Willow to her car which was parked downtown...nearly T-boned a cop...narrowly avoided getting a DUI...texted Shane to ask if he wanted to blow the party and come to the country with me...returned to the fucking party...waited in the roadway in my cute, little car while Shane collected his shit and fielded negative rhetoric about his "date" the whole long walk out to my car...drove Shane's adorable ass out to my place where we doinked like a Great Dane and a Chihuahua...annihilated my bed and both of us, along with my two space-invading doggies, all squished together in the low spot of my collapsed bed...finally got some freakin' shut-eye... 

Do you have any idea how humiliating it was for me to have to call the catalog company from which I had ordered my bed frame, unconvincingly act all shocked and surprised that my bed had bottomed out without incident and then have to grovel for them to send replacement parts, pronto...The girl on the phone was like, "              " and so I broke her silence by asking if this had happened to anyone else, before and she was like, "Uhhhh...Not to my knowledge..." And then she gave me the news that my particular model of bed frame was backordered for the next month and a half and that its arrival date in the warehouse would be the soonest that I would be able to get my new parts...So now, every time I crawl into my bed, (these days, simply a mattress on the floor) and then turn my eyes over to my crippled bed frame, leaning against the wall, I can't help but wonder if maybe my bed was just a fucking lemon. But then again...I suppose it really truly could have buckled under strain from my inordinately enthusiastic and somewhat large lover. I just can't accept that I might've racked up such an exorbitant amount of mileage on the derned thing, over my crazy year of online dating, that I plumb wore the fucker out...not possible, right? 

The long and short of this entry is this...instead of giving myself mad props for turning the head of such an eligible, young stud (and in Willow's presence as well as a slew of other more age-appropriate girlies', to boot!) I considered my broken down bed as a sign, that enough was enough already...time to take a little breaky poo from a whole loooong year of excessive wear and tear on my bed as well as on myself...Plus, it did cross my mind that if there ever was to be a "next time", if we weren't a bit more careful, my partner and I could be on pace to crash all the way through the floor and clear on down to the living room...and THAT might be a bit more tricky to gloss over...

Big Nothings #'s 1 & 2

Yeah, yeah...I'm still here...sorta...

So, a little over a month and a half ago, I landed an unexpected, new job (which I heart! More on that later) but this positive new development in my otherwise sluggish life - coupled with and compounding my stunted online dating growth - has effectively curtailed my good intentions to more diligently work on this sorely lacking (of late) Big Ugly Blog...Dedicated servant that I am, however...I shall give you what I've got...

I hadn't heard so much as a peep from Mr. Dreamy, in what felt like an absolute eternity (but was more likely just a few agonizingly loooong weeks) I convinced myself that the excuse that he had finally given to me - for constantly bailing on our many tentative "dates" - was utter poppycock and that the (what I considered) moderately embarrassing inconvenience, on which he pinned all the blame for being so noncommittal, was potentially far more grave than he had previously led on. Channelling my ridiculously overactive imagination, I determined that his mysterious disappearance must certainly mean that he was doing like 30 days in the clink or something. Worse yet, maybe he'd fallen for one of the multitude of adoring babes who clearly worship him on Facebook (And no, I do not actually hold the high honor of being one of Mr. Dreamy's official "friends" on said site, but thanks entirely to the fact that his profile is set for public viewing, I am free to [unbeknownst to him] voyeuristically stalk him, unhindered...suck on that!)

After being completely inactive for an abnormally (for him) long while, I concluded with absolute certainty, that Mr. Dreamy was now indefinitely a.w.o.l. from the dating site on which we met, as well as on Facebook. In my best estimation, all of his silence must mean that something was really up, after all...since typically, he was quite the social butterfly. I finally succumb to my insatiable curiosity and emailed him to ask if he was all right. He responded right away, which I definitely did not expect. (Does an inmate have access to the internet or a cell phone while incarcerated, btw?) Mr. Dreamy assured me that he was fine...he was simply overwhelmed with the demands of a new client at work (like 24/7, dude? Me thinks not, but whatevs...) and that if I was able, he could meet me for lunch, the very next Friday. I knew better than to give his impromptu invitation much credence, nonetheless - I answered with a "Yes" (albeit a decidedly skeptical one)

I heard absolutely nothing from Mr. Dreamy, to say firmly - either yea or nay - in regards to this, our most recent, tenuous plan to meet...that is until the eve of the big day. I opened the email he'd sent inquiring as to whether or not we were still on for lunch the next day and I was like, "Feckin' 'ell!" I wouldn't be able to meet him for lunch...I had mistakenly double-booked! To be perfectly honest, it had completely slipped my mind that he had even mentioned the possibility of getting together. After all, he has essentially conditioned me to expect nothing more than disappointment and rejection every time he gets my hopes up, am I right? And so, though it pained me to do it, this time I was forced to be the one to bail.

See, the problem was this - when I had originally given Mr. Dreamy the thumbs up, I didn't realize that my kids (as well as a few of my friends' children) would be home with me on the day of the lunch date, since it happened to fall on Good Friday (no school, duh) I wrote to him and apologized profusely for the scheduling snafu and assured him that the NEXT Friday would work beautifully, if he was still up for it...and do you know what he said? Absolutely NOTHING...not one thing - never...NOT EVER! (It's weeks later now, and I still haven't heard a squeak) Which particularly irks me since most likely HE was gonna find a way to slither out of our date at the eleventh hour, anyway. But besides that...if he was pissed for some reason because I cancelled our 5th freaking attempt to go on a date, he can fuckin' eat me! I mean seriously, I NEVER copped an attitude with him any of the many times he ultimately wound up ditching ME, for godssakes...

You know what? Whatthefreakever. I chalk the WHOLE Mr. Dreamy delusion up to being The Big Nothing #1. My consolation prize? Well, that would have to be The Big Nothing #2...

I ran across a refreshing profile, a few days after digesting Mr. Dreamy's final rejection of me. Jackhammer was artistic, tall and the right amount of quirky, best I could tell. After chatting online briefly - we decided to speed up the process a bit, and planned to meet for dinner, mere days after introducing ourselves (this is all becoming so painfully redundant, no?...y a w n...) I arrived at our mutually agreed upon destination - once again, my preferred "online date haunt" - well before Jackhammer made his appearance, and got comfy in a cozy corner by the fireplace. I waited for a nerveracking 15 minutes or so and became steadily, (and uncharacteristically) more and more jittery. The positive spin on anxiously waiting though, was that I now held the propitious post of manning the catbird's seat...i.e., I had the advantage of being able to size him up first.

Jackhammer finally loped his long, lean body into the pub and as I watched him methodically glance at each face in the room, gradually sweeping his gaze closer to its intended target (yours truly) I took advantage of the 15 seconds that it took for him to finally locate me, and assessed his overall appearance. The verdict? I liked his looks. He had a messy mop of thick, dark, wavy hair...a long, angular nose and once our eyes met...a genuine, friendly smile - brimming with good teeth. He plunked his long, lithe body down, into our intimate corner booth - his shoulder meeting mine at the vertex. We ate and drank and after a couple of hours of relaxed easy conversation, I got the sneaking suspicion that he would be joining me back at my house before this whole thing was all over with. And not surprisingly...he did. Now, here is where all of the positive, promising groundwork that we'd successfully laid, started to backslide just a touch. Jackhammer, by outward appearances, is a tender, mellow almost granola crunchy chap, but when it came time to do the dirty, I was like "Woah there, cowboy! What the hell?" He was so rough, which CAN work (don't get me wrong) but he was devoid of the skills necessary to parlay such savage indelicateness into hot sex. I should also mention that he was completely ignorant regarding rudimentary manual handling of the female anatomy. Basically, throughout all of our "lovemaking" sessions (we hung out a total of 4 times, if I'm not mistaken) I found myself inaudibly chanting at varying intervals, "Ow, ow......ow..." Jackhammer's normally kind and gentle disposition was superseded by his brusque and clueless alter ego the instant that things turned sexual. I shudder when replaying in my mind, the corny catch phrases that he habitually barked at me during sex, which he punctuated by hauling off and walloping my ass so violently that my teeth clanked against each other, that I braced myself for them to shatter. Making each subsequent attempt to find some middle, sexual ground with the Jackhammer even less likely, was the unfortunate fact that he had breath that went from moderately bad to fucking rancid, as each night together wore on. So even kissing him was not really all that great, and completely out of the question by the morning time. I guess I kept getting together with him, because I'm growing so weary from being on the perpetual Man-Hunt, and Jackhammer was definitely not the worst guy that I've met. He was physically attractive and there was a bunch about him and his station in life that could've aligned beautifully with my own weird world, if only I'd had the gumption to try and work through the horrible sex dilemma. And until I concluded that the necessary effort to do just that, would potentially far outweigh any rewards we might reap, I'd remained hopeful over those few doomed dates - that I might eventually coax him into slipping a pair of kid gloves onto those iron fists (heh heh)

The last time that Jackhammer stayed at my house, there was this one funny(ish) thing that happened. You guys know that I am a diehard condom-usage proponent...there is the obvious "safe sex" issue, but using condoms also helps minimize my feeling like a total ho' bag, for some reason...don't ask me why, cuz I don't know. So anyway, this time, after we were done, he properly placed his condom into the trash can (I'm on a septic system and it is my understanding that rubbers should not be flushed), came back to bed and we drifted off to Slumberland. The next morning, it was glaringly apparent that one (or both) of the dogs had gotten into the trash, during the night - oh joy...After picking up the debris strewn all over the bathroom floor, I noticed that the yucky condom was conspicuously missing. I panicked a bit, my primary concern being the welfare of the naughty (and utterly disgusting) little thief who'd absconded with it. I was afraid that if one of the dogs actually did ingest the nasty, latex morsel, then it would certainly clog up her insides and ultimately kill her, or at the very least, end up costing me thousands of dollars for emergency surgery not to mention acute humiliation at my local veterinary clinic. Secondarily though, I worried that should the little mongrel successfully pass the condom, then it could theoretically be spotted by one of my children, (or one of their friends - perish the thought!) in a pile of dog doo, out where they play! I can hear it now, "Mrs. W., there's something really weird twisted up in this dog poop" as umpteen puzzled kids looked away from the pile and up at me for answers...I went on a reconnoissance mission around the yard over the next day or two before it was my turn to have my kids back with me - in the hopes of recovering it, but I never did find the damned thing...and fortunately, neither have the kids. BTW, both dogs are fine...

So my new, accidental job has been really good for me! I was actually shocked by how perfect it wound up to be, especially since I was prepared to hate it. What is my new "career", exactly? Well...I am a caretaker, cook, driver and gardener for an elderly couple. Essentially I am getting paid to do the job that I have always loved to do the most (minus the diapers)...I get to be a "Mommy"...only now, it's for old folks - instead of for kids. And I think, if nothing else, I'm encouraged to discover that I am capable of getting through the better part of a day, without cussing! The woman (Claudia) is infirm, due to multiple strokes and Parkinson's Disease and because her illness is terminal, the Hospice organization in our community sends nurses and case-workers to the house on a regular basis. One day, soon after I had started working for the dear, old couple, the husband (John) answered a call and when he hung up the phone, he told Claudia and me, that the Hospice-affiliated chaplain would be coming by for a visit, the next day...and this is where my uncontrollable boy-craziness rears its ugly head. The instant that John mentioned that a (male) visitor was to be stopping by the house - instead of doing the sensible thing, which would have been to discuss with him the next day's activities in order to try and plan around the appointment - I found myself biting my tongue just shy of blurting out, "Well, is he hot?" I shit you not, I seriously almost said it! What the hell is wrong with me? But even acknowledging at that moment - what a sicko I am, couldn't even suppress my excitement over the chance to meet a new man (even if he is already in a serious relationship with god, or whatever the deal is with those religious guys) In fact, I think it was actually fuel for my fire...I wondered if I could lure a man of the cloth into cheating on God? This was truly the ultimate challenge...

The next day, the chaplain arrived and settled in with Claudia and John while I tasked away in the kitchen and even though I was just itching to go have a peek, I diligently tackled my chores while unsuccessfully eavesdropping on the low murmur coming from the living room. I finally couldn't take it any more, I mean...what if he left before I had a chance to beguile him? I came up with some bogus question that I could go ask John so that it at least looked like I had a legitimate reason to barge in on them. As I tippy-toed into the next room, I wondered if the chaplain would look anything like Richard Chamberlain did in the Thornbirds...I politely interrupted the virtually nonexistent chit chat by asking John the phony question, introduced myself to the clergyman and after finally getting the opportunity to compare him to my fantasy priest, I shuffled - crestfallen - back to my safe-place in the kitchen. Ummm....yeah...God can have him...

I almost forgot to tell you about my new tenant, Max. So, I met Max at my rental house ages ago (he did agree to sign a yearlong lease, thank goodness!) and he was really handsome, nice body and good job and all, but he's really young, too young for me, even. I'm gonna try and set him up with my good friend, Willow.

And in closing...During the first weekend in April, I spent a chilly Saturday afternoon and into the evening, mowing my seemingly endless yard, for the first time this year. As I putted around on my lawn tractor, all bundled up in a winter coat and hat and mittens, it occurred to me that one year ago to the day, I was doing the exact same thing - freezing my ass off while mowing for the first time of the season. Which then reminded me that it was also the one year anniversary of the eve of my very first online date. (Holy SHIT! Have I really been messing with all of this nonsense for a whole flippin' year? Pathetic...) It was kinda weird though, that there I was - unwittingly spending my weekend doing the exact same thing as I had done, precisely a year ago...well, all except for making plans with a hot 22 year old to shoot pool the next day...

Slowly Crawling Outta the Depths...

I got into a conversation with someone a few weekends ago, about blogging and brutal honesty and all that, and I made an admission that those within earshot, found...odd? I dunno, it seemed to make sense to me. See what you think...

So, I was telling this girl (who also blogs, but she writes about gardening and organic veggies all savory and pure) about how in life, in general, I tend to "wear it on my sleeve" and when it comes to my blog, things are no different. I spare the reader few of the gory details of my dating adventures, whether they like it or not. But there is one thing that I have always intentionally omitted (well, until now that is) and planned on never revealing, and that is the fact that I smoke cigarettes...sometimes. And the reason behind that is cuz I never want my CHILDREN to know that I sometimes smoke. Now don't get me wrong...I don't HAVE to smoke, in fact I regularly go for long periods of time without smoking at all. I can even hang out in a smoky bar drinking, and abstain (although I might struggle with hanging out in a smoky bar smoking and not drinking...but that's a completely different topic for a whole nother day) But there are times, when all I want in this life for lord's sake, is a fucking hollow-filtered Parliament Light...and so I have one, and sometimes still another...

I am fairly certain that my chilluns have never read my Big Ugly Blog and for now, they seem to sincerely have zero interest in checking it out, even though they are aware that I write a blog and they know of its basic premise. But let's just say that one day they accidentally stumble upon it, or even intentionally take a peek - it would freak me out far worse knowing that I had written about and they subsequently discovered that I partake in the utterly disgusting closet habit of puffing away on cigarettes, than if they found out...oh say...that I don't mind being strangled a little during sex. Is that abnormal? I guess I can understand how this hypothetical situation might seem a bit obscure to the naked ear, but it seems totally reasonable to me. After all, sex is natural and in general, when properly practiced, has few negative ramifications (plus, I have a much better handle on my affinity for sex than I do for smoking, though it's not always by choice goddamnit) And although reading about some of my more outre sexscapades might tarnish my children's blissfully untainted(?) image of their mama, it's still not something that I consider to be a nasty vice. If they, or anyone else, called me on any of my questionable behavior, I would look them square in the eye and unfalteringly back myself up. Cigarette smoking on the other hand, has no redeeming qualities best I can figure, and I am in a near constant state of embarrassment about the fact that I subscribe to such stupidity. Fortunately for them, my children are inundated with nothing but negative spin on the matter, via the media and in the classroom. All of this has imprinted on their tender, young minds, the horrible consequences that can potentially occur from smoking, and that's why I am a bit touchy about the thought of inadvertently admitting to my babes that I smoke, sometimes. If they knew, they would rightfully assume that their mommy's lungs might very well resemble that text book photo of a smoker's lung - all ucky like a mish-mash of rotting liver and charred fatty tissue and worse than that, I believe that my kids would lose their respect for me, they'd look down on me, they'd be disappointed in me. Bottom line...it's ok (for grown-ups!) to have sex, but it's not such a great idea to smoke...(as I stub out, yet another...)

Lately, my online dating activity has been so slow and stagnant, that I rarely scamper out to my trusty ole Mac after my little darlings are tucked into their beds at night, to eagerly check on progress like I used to, simply because there's almost never anything going on online anymore. Instead, I hurry out to my studio to FINALLY haves me a smiggy, in silence and solitude and without risk of getting caught...I guess it's good to have at least something about which to get excited...even if it is likely killing me...

So there, I've said it. I've announced in a public forum that I smoke. The footnote to this potentially damaging revelation is that I went to buy a pack of cigs. a few nights ago, and the girl behind the counter said, "Ok, do you want to know how much they are, first?" and I said, "Well, yeah, I guess so...Why? Did they go up again?" And she said, "Yes, just yesterday. Your brand is now $5.25 a pack" I was like, "Holy crap! Never-the-freak-mind! Damn!" So, I have decided that I can no longer afford to smoke, and therefore I am quitting. I just smoked the last cigarette in my possession, like 15 minutes ago...we'll see how long it lasts...

Well, it didn't last very long...Sheetz still has smokes for under $4.

Nevermind, P-Funks are now $4.50, at Sheetz...Fuck! I guess I really am gonna have to quit...

On to other things...I have this friend, he's an artist, has the most amazing hands in the world and a terribly good-looking face (imagine Hugh Jackman with bigger, better, brown eyes) and this guy was my first major, post divorce crush...and boy was it a doozie! After consistently swooning in his mere presence, I was elated when the Octopus (I'll explain in a minute) and I initiated the process of striking up a more-than-platonic relationship. But all of our perfectly respectable intentions were annihilated when his pesky on again/off again girlfriend got wind of our mutual curiosity and - mermaid mane a-flowin', demon eyes a-glinting, scorpion claws a snappin' - she effectively put the kibosh on our, no more than 2 week, budding romance - the bitch. The Evil Mermaid and the Octopus reconciled for a spell, but their thing did eventually fizzle, finally and for good (muahhahaha!) I found it amusing when in her ensuing singledom, of all the men in the world for her to try and seduce, rumor has it that she unsuccessfully attempted to make my ex-husband her next victim. Did I mention that this hypocritical hag is one of my least favorite people on the planet? Anyhoo, following my abrupt dethroning, I slowly managed to soldier forth, through my heartbreak and mortification and surprisingly, as Octopus and I repeatedly found ourselves crossing paths at social functions and around the neighborhood and at events where both of our children competed, I eventually moved beyond that devastating sting of dejection and the Octopus and I were able to become civil towards one another and ultimately even friends. 

Several times, over the last 4 years, he has come by my place to visit and each time, before we say good-bye, he inevitably puts the moves on me. He's a big, strong man and when he launches his inevitable attack, I find it almost comical. The guy grows like 6 extra arms and as hard as I try to push his hands off of my breasts and pull them out of my pants, there seems to always be another one exploring some other part of my body. There are just so many hands, too many - I can't keep up! Eventually, I manage to break free from his relentless assaults and shoo him away, laughing nervously...Jesus! What I can't figure out is how each time he attempts to rekindle our short-lived flame, I feel absolutely nothing for him, which I find perplexing considering the fact that I carried that godawful torch for him, way back when. Best I can figure, it's a variation on the "Too Little, Too Late" syndrome, only this one should be called the "Way Too Much, Too Late" syndrome

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, he stopped by for one of his Tuesday evening grope-fests. You see, whenever he calls and asks if he can pop in for a drink, I always say, "Yes", perhaps hoping that maybe THIS time I might be able to dredge up my old feelings for him, I mean - I have always liked the guy and he does basically typify my physical ideal. So, the other night during his visit, we talked at length about my blog - for the first time ever, which in hindsight, could have been a subconscious attempt on my part to derail his impending advances by scaring him off with the details of my recent, grimy existence. He seemed truly amazed (and not necessarily in a good way, mind you) by my online dating antics and I found his comparison of my often reckless behavior to "hitchhiking", an interesting and somewhat accurate analogy. He swilled glass after glass of Glen Fiddich  and in classic form, he quickly became inebriated...As I could've predicted - he pawed me mercilessly on his way out the door and as usual, I sent him packing as I straightened my rumpled clothing ("Go on now! Git!") I regained my composure and in the end, shrugged the whole thing off...no harm no foul. I simply cannot figure out what happened to all of those feelings that I used to have for the Octopus...How could I have been so enamored of him just a few years ago, but literally feel nothing for him now? That shit just don't add up...

Normally, it takes a few months for the Octopus to come clambering back for another round of rejection, but this time I was surprised when he called the very next week and asked if he could come back by. I was like, "Damn! This guy's a glutton for punishment!" But, as usual, I told him it was fine. Once he got there, we manned our posts at my kitchen counter, each with our beverage of choice, and we carried on yet another uninhibited, captivating conversation. It is mindboggling to me, that following his predictably invasive advances, we never make strange with each other, things rarely feel awkward between us. 

So, as this particular Tuesday evening wound down, I prepared myself for his inevitable onslaught, but things were different this time when he left. He finished his last drinky, walked towards the door, and merely said "Thanks" and "Goodbye" and finally, "I know better than to try anything, you always kick me out..." and he got in his truck without laying a single one of his many roving tentacles on my person...Even weirder yet, was that for the first time in a  L  O  N  G time, I found myself astonishingly somewhat attracted to him. Evidently, "hard(er) to get" works a little better for me, huh...

Ok, so I hesitate to even tell you guys about the 54 yr. Ohio guy, Viagra...I shudder at the thought of my brief interaction with him, and if it freaked ME out, you know it has to be bad...I myself, still haven't quite gotten over it, yet...Oh well, sorry to do it to ya' - but here goes...

Viagra is a silver-haired, fit, tan, extremely attractive, older (for me) man (notice I intentionally omitted the "gentle" in "gentleman") After running across his profile, I was definitely interested in getting to know him, that is until I learned early on in our very first IM chat, that he lives nearly 5 hours away---what the hell am I supposed to do with that?! Viagra however, is an extremely persuasive son of a gun, and after charming me into a few more conversations, he insisted that he would gladly make the long drive to come see me sometime, citing "serious potential between us" as his motivation - which at the time I found kinda sweet. It didn't take long for me to realize though, that all the old horndog really wanted, was simply, to get down my pants. How could I tell? Well...our conversations morphed from the appropriate "how do you do's" to the dreaded dirty talk in a jiffy and during our third or fourth IM session, Viagra confessed, completely unprovoked mid-convo, to being "as hard as a rock"...oh bliss...Remember when that shit used to actually (un)zip my fly? These days it really just grinds my gears. (Am I becoming a prude?) Vaigra then started bragging to me, that during sex he's like the Energizer Bunny...he just keeps going and going......What he didn't understand was that this was not such an impressive sales pitch to me, since I tend to be more of a sprinter and less of a marathon runner, and when I reach the finish line, I'm usually completely spent and like to take a little rest. 

As you can see he was already starting to lose me, but things took a decided turn for the absolute WORST!!! 

In the upper corner of most any IM screen, there is a little box in which one can post a profile pic., if they so desire. Vigra's photo had always been a flattering, head and shoulders shot, featuring his handsome face, tawny complexion and neatly clipped, grey hair. He wore a golf shirt, not my favorite men's attire, but it accentuated his nice, broad shoulders, which I liked. I noticed as we talked this time, that his photo kept changing, as if he were putting on a little slide show for me, which I found distracting and somewhat egocentric. Most of these new photos were variations on a theme of his hairless and rather buff torso...whatever...All of a sudden though, there was a brief flash of something nearly indiscernible. I knew it had to have been lewd, cuz he yanked it almost immediately, and I was fairly certain that it was of his weiner. The scary part was that in that nanosecond in which I was able to catch that fleeting glimpse, I already knew that something was screwy. I asked him to please put it back up so that I could have another look, not because it got me all hot under the collar (which unfortunately, I'm sure he supposed), but because I was seriously confused and a little frightened by what I THOUGHT I saw. Viagra willingly put the mysterious image back on the screen and I can honestly say, that of ALL the many, many cock pics. I have viewed in my year of online dating, NEVER have I seen anything as terrifying as Viagra's joint...First of all, it looked sandy and rough and darkish grey like sharkskin, like it was dead or rotten or something. And it was all floppy...limply falling away from the camera, like it was barfing over the side of the couch where Viagra was apparently reclining. It was nothing short of absolutely disgusting, the texture and the color, for sure, but even the little pee pee's pose was all wrong. I mean who tries to impress a girl with a flaccid dick pic.?. I have never seen anything like it. Why in the world did he show me that? Doesn't he know how wrong it looks? Hasn't he ever seen another man's pretty pink, perky peener to know that his is illin'? And where the hell was all that rock hard shit that he bragged about so much. But wait, there's more...an unsightly 2nd weiner shot. In this photo, he was standing and his putrid, little penis hung out of his fly like it had no choice but to point south. He was holding it by a loose piece of skin, as if trying to encourage it, "C'mon l'il buddy, please stand up for everybody!" He asked me, "So....whaddya think?" WHAT DO I THINK??!! I had no idea what to say...There was this part of me that wanted to be perfectly honest with him and alert him to the obvious fact that he was severely malformed and that he should maybe consider hiding the derned thing from public view, forever! But instead I think I told him I had to answer the phone or something and then I split. I was so repulsed, I could not wait to never talk to him again. But I did talk to him, one last time. He opened dialog by asking, "You want me?" I thought I might vomit, seriously. I told him that it felt like all he was after anymore, was a booty call, seeing as how everything out of his mouth lately, was of an oppressively sexual nature. He huffily informed me that if he wanted a booty call, he could easily score one at home and spare himself the hassle of having to drive 5 hours to get laid and that maybe we should just drop it. I said, "Ok" and he said, "Good luck to you" and that was the end of that...thank god. 

I had a nice IM chat with Mr. Dreamy, the other day. We small-talked it for awhile and the good little angel that sits on my one shoulder kept reminding me to stay calm and NOT suggest we find a time to redeem his mounting rainchecks. I was doing great at first, I stayed under control and was just so happy that we were talking at all. But that damned devil guy, on my other shoulder finally couldn't keep it zipped and bulldozed the good little angel's advice shouting, "Fuck this!" as he forced me to type into my IM screen, "So, are we meeting in Middleburg for lunch, today?" I swear to god, it was totally out of my control...it wasn't ME who typed in those words. I knew better than to put myself out there again, like that - that fucking little devil made me do it, the bastard! Anyway, Mr. Dreamy was absolutely silent and I went cuckoo...I could not take the fact that he was ignoring me. I got up and went to the bathroom, I went over to the house and had a snack, I could not sit there in front of my trusty ole Mac and endure him not answering me, it was brutal. But I did finally return, thinking that he couldn't possibly be so rude that he would just disappear completely, could he? When I sat back down, there was a message from him and it said, "Can I tell you something about my social life?" and I was like, "Oh god, here we go...he's married or gay or diseased or I don't know, but it ain't gonna be good" And guess what? What he told me was a totally benign non-issue, I truly could not believe that he had gotten himself all worked up over it. This problem with which he is dealing, is a 100% surmountable obstacle. It's just gonna take a few months to get through it, and NO, it does not have a single thing to do with another woman. And since I like Mr. Dreamy, I am afraid that I cannot gonna divulge what "it" is...cuz even though he might never read this Big Ugly Blog, I still don't want to risk betraying him. I can't explain why I'm so hellbent on protecting this perfect stranger, but I'm gonna keep my pie hole shut...sorry. You're probably all like, "Well, why the hell'd ya' bring it up, then?", huh? 

I talked on the phone for over an hour (first time ever!) with Mr. Dreamy, a couple of nights after he explained to me why he's been so noncommittal about meeting me. His sumptuous voice matched all the visuals I'd already conjured of him, nice! We ended the call both optimistic that would would in fact, meet very soon...ahhh...

I went to D.C. for a field trip to the Air and Space Museum with my 2 oldest daughters. I was escorting the group that I was chaperoning, over to the flight simulators when who did I see lurking near an exhibit but Christopher, remember that sorry excuse for a man? A hot wave of fear seared my whole body and I quickly ducked behind a display so that he wouldn't see and possibly approach me. Writing this makes me realize that I've written about two different Christopher's on my Big Ugly Blog (sorry for the confusion) The Cristopher I saw at Air and Space was the short one with the itty bitty pecker (see: the "A new Star on my Walk of Shame" entry for clarification) Anyway, the long and short of this little snippet is that it felt really strange for my online dating world to collide with my normal(ish) parent/mommy world...It felt seedy and grungy and gross...I didn't like it at all...

A guy responded to my online ad for my "house for rent" and I guess I must be totally programmed to treat every man with whom I make contact online, as if he were a dating potential, cuz I'm all excited to meet this fella and show him the house, tonight. It's absolutely ridiculous! I know positively NOTHING about him, don't know how old, or what he looks like...nothing, well - I do know in what town he works, but that's it. And yet I'm treating the situation as if I'm going on a date. I took a shower and put on a cute pair of skinny jeans and even put on make-up, what? (My horoscope today, did say that I should pay special attention to my appearance, for some reason, hmmm...) Obviously, I am cheered by the possibility of renting my vacant house and padding my bank account a tad, but curiously, I am dying to meet Max, despite all logic. I'll let you know later, how it goes...But just think...I could be meeting the man of my dreams and if he likes the house he will be living only a mile away from where I reside...how convenient...love that!