Rules for Online Dating

How to Lose a Lady in 10 Seconds or Just Really Quickly

I've been dating since I was fifteen. I'm exhausted. Where is he?
~Kristin Davis

Spring has sprung in the South and it looks like it will be beautiful! Spring always brings with it an air of love potential for blooming (like the damn flowers constantly having air sex and thus screwing with my allergies) and of course the opportunity for rebirth after a dismal winter.

Alright I will admit I have dated online more than any one normal person should. In my defense however, you have read my entries on what happens when I meet someone through friends, or at a bar. So bearing that in mind, dear ten readers, I am sure you can excuse my alternative methods. At least I hope you can either way I don’t guess I have really have a choice… so I probably should not give a rip what you think; but you keep reading so I guess I kind of have to care what you think otherwise I should just go back to talking to my dog. He usually starts snoring, farting, or licking his bits or some combination thereof so I am suspicious he is actually listening. I should also mention that the one time I believe I truly was in love came from an online relationship, so they can’t all be bad right? I tried to “Snopes” that statistic that one in five relationships begin online though I can find no solid evidence on it other than a really great marketing ploy. As a communications major, I salute you Match.com.

It is with all that in mind that I will tell you how to turn off a potential date in ten seconds or maybe a bit more if you seem viable for a minute and then… not so much.

The first thing people should bear in mind when setting up an online profile is that they should supply a recent photo, when I say recent I mean it was taken at MINIMUM in the last decade. Seriously there is nothing worse than showing up for a date and being approached by an elderly gentleman (old enough to be your grandpa) and him welcoming you to the date. How do you get out of that? He is like your grandfather… You can’t kick Paw-Paw in his baby-makers and take off running. This is especially creepy if his “screen name” was something like “Luvinforyou”.

Which leads to the second important part of profile building; name selection is key. Usually on your name alone I will decide whether to even open message, if that is what I have received and I am not just trolling pictures. Recently I got a message from a service I had forgotten I even had a functioning profile on; so I, of course, out of complete curiosity went and had a looksee. The first message in my “mailbox” was from a guy who called himself “Dr.Nothing”. Yeppers, that right there is a big negative ghost rider. What am I to glean from you calling yourself “Dr.Nothing”? That tells me you are a nothing… and have a doctorate at being nothing. Or perhaps you have a PhD that you printed off one of those sites and truly a Doctor of nothing. Anyway you go at it that is a poor choice.

Any screen name about Satan, Aliens, LARP, or being a Good Guy makes me immediately question anything you have to say. Usually I will read these messages for sheer amusement, but rarely reply unless I see more hilarity ensuing. For example, I messaged a guy back that had a name along the lines of “Klingon4Life” and he queried back as to whether or not I would be willing to learn the Klingon and the Elvish languages. K4L, said that he found that hot and fully expected any mate of his to speak in each one around the house and teach them to their offspring. Two things here Mr. Worf (yes I grew up on an extremely healthy diet of sci-fi so I am allowed to dork out sometimes), beyond the fact that you are counting on your date to learn two imaginary languages; you also brought up having offspring in the second email. DELETE.

When forming and shaping this public image of yourself, just as you would prepare yourself to go to a bar or wherever you preference is for mate seeking. Pictures speak volumes. First there should be one. As previously mentioned a recent one, one that reflects you, not one taking in your bathroom mirror, by your mother/grandmamma, not taking from that weird above your head angle ie: the myspace photo, any Photo Shop work should not be obvious, and a picture of you with your previous girlfriend (or boyfriend, yeah that’s happened) scribbled out with MS Paint is no bueno. That picture of you holding your nose like a pig, is funny fun times for you and your damn idiot moron friends, but is not going to sell me or any other normal functioning female on you. Having a large quantity of drugs in the background of your picture, legal or illegal, leads to a lot of awkward questions; drawing a beautiful halo above your head with MS Paint causes me to delete without even reading a word. If your spray tan is darker than the best dark chocolate, and you were Irish white to begin with… no go. If you are orange like some kind of whorish Oompa Loompa, your collar is “popped” you are wearing a Ed Hardy, Affliction, or a shirt with a deep V cut neckline, and show yourself wearing sunglasses at night, then I can only assume you think you are from/a huge fan of the Jersey Shore and I am not interested.

The only thing worse than a profile with no information on it is one that reveals too much; yes you should tell about yourself. You should never, however, tell me how your “hoe ex grilfired cheated on u wit every guy on da block”. This type of information tells me two things one, you cannot spell or have suffered some kind of brain injury or perhaps think you are Lil’ Wayne, and you are clearly not in the shape for a new relationship because you are still dealing with the wounds from the last one. I can see the constant text arguments and stalker ex “grilfired” showing up at all hours/places trying to create havoc. Clearly you two belong together and I am not interested in standing in your way. Also, side note: “hoe” is a gardening tool, my good sir; I do believe you meant “ho” which would be a shortened slang version of the word whore.

Do not tell me you live with your parents in your profile, even if you do. I cannot judge you there, but do not advertise it until you know I am okay with it. I do not mind because I know how it happens but other girls not so much. Do not tell me that you have seven kids and you love them so much and loved each of their momma’s for giving them to you. Although this clearly appeals to my ticking biological clock and my instinct to pick a virile mate, it logically makes me question you decision making skills and possibly the health of your penis.

Any rant on political views, religious ideologies, and/or drugs is an immediate turn off. It is fine for you to mention you are devout Roman Catholic but to go off on other religions being unholy or going to hell, as a Baptist I am probably not going to respond. Political views usually best saved for a few dates in and only if you are the type of people that have the ability to agree to disagree. Any mention of being a KKK member or a Nazi and I am out, the same goes with “I have a tasteful facial tattoo.” There is no such thing as “tasteful” facial tat. Sorry.

Finally, if you come across my profile that clearly states I am heterosexual and you are a lesbian or bisexual woman and I have not indicated an interest please for love of Sweet Baby Jesus do not message me and ask if I would like to take a walk on the “wild side”. I have no problem with your choice; I do have a problem with you trying to change mine. It makes me feel a bit icky. No hard feelings, I just do not swing that way.

Lou Reed…. You have to love this song… because it gets stuck in your head. HA HA Song headache.

So there it is the big issues I have found with online profiles… I did not even get to the actual writing of messages. Although I think you could clearly glean from my writings that I expect you to speak English and not some version of it or text speak. What has happened to gentlemen and the digital age? Where are you hiding? Please find me! (And some of my poor friends who haven’t yet lost the nerve to continue with this online dating thing)

xoxo ~A

1343

Princess of Poo and the

Queen of Crap

Some of my friends that read this blog may already be aware and some of you who are paying attention and not just scanning the blog or looking at the pictures or just clicking on the page because I harassed you into it; I have Crohn’s disease.
There I said it. Out loud. Literally I said it out loud as I typed it; I typically type out loud to myself because I am that annoying person who does those sorts of things. Griffin, the dog, seems to love the sound of my voice as he snores and licks his dogly bits. I think he finds my voice soothing. Anywho… I figure the sooner I put it out there the sooner it is no longer an issue and you can run away screaming now. I have pooped my pants as an adult… more than once. None of those times were intentional; and in all but one case not a full on baby pant load.
Nobody likes to talk about poo, dookie, cow patties, poop, dung, excrement, manure, feces, crappy craps and/or just shit. I was one of those people. Talking about poop rates right up there with discussing my recent pap smear; if you are male then that’s like talking about your last prostate exam. No one wants to discuss those sorts of things; bathrooms have doors for a reason, right? Once Crohn’s enters your life there is no avoiding this topic; ever again. In fact the topic becomes kind of main-stream. You start discussing poopies with everyone; the nurses, the doctors, the medical assistants, your family, my dog as he sits and stares at me… because to him a closed bathroom door is an obstacle meant to be overcome.

The first time I ventured on a date with a guy after learning of my Crohn’s disease and still in deep denial about the entire ugly thing. I had that weird crampy feeling hit. The one I now know means to find an alone place. This guy was really kind of cute, he had just bought the SUV we were riding in and he was super proud of it. A bit too freaking proud of it if you ask me; it was really nice… it had heated and cooled seats. I did not even know that was a possibility, but apparently leather seats can have holes tiny holes punched in them in order to force cool air through the seat. Pretty damn nifty on a hot day.

We were stuck in traffic; the bad traffic of the disorganized roadways of the south mixed with a shitload of people who think they are NASCAR drivers and a bunch of Yankees who think that the horn must be mandatorily honked at certain intervals. I have yet to figure out what this does, or how it affects traffic but they are running around out there. You know by the finger they hold out the window at you when you do not return the “horn greeting”. Maybe that’s what it is… a form of communication that we more genteel Southerners have yet to learn? Hell, what am I saying I am sitting here typing about shit.

I lean across the rather impressive console of the massive SUV that may in fact have had a bathroom somewhere in it, trying not to touch the knobs and buttons and thingies on console and very politely asked this young man to pull off onto the shoulder. There were a copse of trees nearby and I had at least thought ahead enough that I had some wipes in my purse. My thought was we would pull off I would excuse myself in my best drawl and take off running for the trees. He looked at me as though I had lost my damn mind. In fact he said
“Have you lost your damned mind?”
“No, but I need to use the ladies room.” I replied
“There are no ladies rooms out here, you will have to wait.”
More cramping; I knew waiting was not going to be an option much longer. I had yet to broach the subject of this ailment with this guy because as I previously mentioned no one likes to talk about crap. Also I had not yet figured out quite how to explain it to people, most people have never heard of it.
Crohn’s is an auto immune disease, in which the immune system spends all of its time attempting to kill off your digestive system. You can be affected anywhere from mouth to ass; it is painful. It is a precursor to cancer. The disease varies greatly from person to person; my Crohn’s is not another person’s Crohn’s. Due to its relation to immune systems anything can affect it… stress, anxiety, diet, illness, depression, sudden weight gain or loss, allergies… you name it. Yes it is spelled Crohn’s because it is named for Dr. Crohn that discovered it. That is it in a nutshell. I invite you to visit the Crohn’s and Colitis Foundation of America’s website for more information if you wish to know more.

So I cross my legs and start praying… Sweet Baby Jesus please either let this young lad pull off the roadway, allow me to be able to hold it, or teach this mother trucker (see I cleaned that up for you) a lesson he won’t soon forget. God heard my prayer.

Moments later, my guts made a noise that is truly unforgettable. It sounds something like a dying animal, crossed with the howls of labor. The look on the SUV guy’s face was fucking priceless. I had then resigned myself to what was about to happen and that a second date was not gonna happen. Hell the first date hadn’t even happened yet. Then it happened.
I could no longer hold back the tide. I just sighed; it was a bit of a relief. Sheer terror and sweat was all I could see on the guys face as I filled his beautiful air cooled leather seats with well… poo, lots and lots of poo. Some of it even got on his console, carpets, and I think the little door cubby hole. The scream of horror that erupted from his mouth was not one I will repeat here, and you know that must be something for me to be embarrassed to say it. He then pulled off the road. I sat in the seat smiling smugly as he came running around to my side and opened the door; I assume he wanted to better assess the damage. He did not even have his permanent plates yet, this was a very new vehicle. He asked me why in all that is sacred and holy would I shit in his car. I corrected him and said
“No, I have now shat in your car. I did ask you politely to pull over.”

The tantrum was worth millions. I only wish cell phones at the time had video cameras like they do now. I could be a billionaire. Nothing could be done there on the shoulder of the road. So he rolled down his window and drove like a bat out of hell up the shoulder and took me home. I waddled out of his car; hoping to keep as much as I could still in my pants… I really had done as much damage as this asshole deserved. I had also managed to shift my weight around enough that I am fairly certain I got enough in his “air cooled seat holes” that his car NEVER smelled of new car again. I offered to go change and help him clean up. It really was the least I could do; I had did crap in his car. He just yelled some more non-repeatable explicatives at me as he sped away…. I hosed myself off and waddled into the house. Cleaned myself up, washed those trousers more than was likely necessary, and rarely ever wore them again. I just threw the shoes away.
I have never really told this story to anyone. Who would? I guess that is why this is a blog called Confessions…. So there it is my loves, I have shat myself before.

Worst possible parody ever… but better than the “Poop Song”…. so… here you go.

On a side note, in this still quite small town word got back to me that he eventually married a preacher’s daughter. When she told him she was in labor he wanted to wait just a bit to make sure. (Do you notice a learning curve here?) Well she gave birth in the back seat of his next new SUV… God does work in mysterious ways.

xoxo~ A 

PS: Learn more about Crohn’s and Colitis at www.ccfa.org

It has to start somewhere...

Some great Dubliners traditional reels and a jig (one everyone should recognize) enjoy! It is March! 

Krav Magoo Hullabaloo

Krav Magoo Hullabaloo: Epsom salts and Mr. Bubble

I have a punishing workout regimen. Every day I do 3 minutes on a treadmill, then I lie down, drink a glass of vodka and smoke a cigarette. ~ Anthony Hopkins

Okay because I love each and every one of my eight readers (yeah I found out some more of y’all are actually reading this)… I am sitting in a desk chair typing at you about my Krav Magoo class. Which I can sum up right here: really fun at the time… Pain now… class again Wednesday. (FYI I started this post on Monday night after class… and here it is Thursday… so sue me.) (Wait, please don’t I do not really own anything but a really great dog who generally hates other new people… especially men.)

I never thought I would ever find a need to have my father rub my back down with Arnica gel and Badger Sore Muscle Rub… Our father/daughter relationship just went to a new place. The good news is I know what a Badger smells like now, those angry little guys do not smell of Honey. Which had been previously suggested to me by a You Tube video; but I was also told if I said carrots really slowly it sounded likely gullible. I may be book smart and all but I will generally trust you assholes.

The class was great except that whole calisthenics thing we started with; running, jumping jacks, push-ups (of which I have never actually completed one…)reminded me far too much gym class and the whole reason I got my gym class waived. Well that and the evil freaking gym teacher that said ballet was not athletic and my knee injury was all in my head and I should run. Run, run, run, run, until you vomit and then run some more. I looked at the bitch like she was a nutcase. I told that wicked witch of shiny hardwoods, that I am not a runner, never have been a runner and never will be a runner. (Along the same lines of telling my algebra teacher I would never in my life have to solve for X; and I have yet to have to do that stupid equation.)

Monday night it was confirmed again; I am not a runner. Not even in a small space. I think it had a lot more to do with the extra amount of chesticles I happen to be sporting now and the Calvin Klein Men’s Underwear photo shoot also happening in the same room. I know that not one of those damn guys was looking at me but it surely felt like it. Well they could have been looking at the significant amount of bouncing that seemed to be going on… I was truly afraid to look down for fear of earning black eyes or worse knocking myself out with my own knockers. Why can’t bra makers make a sports bra that actually works? I mean for women that actually have boobs? Real boobs, the fake ones don’t do a lot of moving so they do not count, but chicks with actual God given chest puppies need to have something to hold them into place. Do not one of you dare leave me a message about how I should wear TWO of those damn things.

And back to: gym class was hard enough with hormones and awkward teens running around… Also my general dorkiness was a problem. Well that combined with my serious lack of hand eye coordination, but now with grown hot mens gallivanting about shirtless and pushing tractor tires and other glorious feats of strength… My ADD goes into overdrive. It is like someone is over there throwing glitter into the air. I want to fucking stare. I am supposed to be focused on punching and kicking “through” things and there are beautiful mens prancing around and wrestling. Part of me can now seriously understand why guys love to watch chicks wrestle; except for me it isn’t sexual it is to weed out which one of the group is the strongest… intelligence gathering. Natural selection and all…

Rubber pants, was there again. I saw him without his shirt on; I can tell you that he does not have a single trace of fat on his body. It was like looking at a very nice looking skinned squirrel in damned ugly rubber bloomers. He had the “V” (which every girl knows about) so I will excuse the toddler pants and just stare at the rest of him. Rubber pants, is really pale like me so I started thinking that maybe pale babies would be his thing, so my highly distractible mind started to run with that whole scenario in my mind and kept dropping my left hand so I could stare more. Really putting the cart before the horse there, but a lady must keep a lot of things in mind when selecting mate material. Rubber pantaloons, not so great… but the V that can excuse a lot of wrongs; watching what he does though I am concerned about brain injury, further intelligence gathering will have to be done.

The other significant observation I made was that the local police keep stopping in and hanging out for a while… I started to worry that they were there to haul off any asshole (me) that could not cut it. The next class will be worse because I can barely move; this means I will attract more attention and get yelled at by big guys that wear shirts that read “Guns don’t kill people. I kill people.” They do not mean to be mean… it is supposed to “inspire” instead it just makes me jump and attempt to stifle a squeal. Sweet tea and baby Jesus if I ever sneeze in there. My sneezes sound so squeaky. I am positive this will be taken as a sign of weakness and the pack will kill me and devour my bones. Did I mention only the good looking local Barney Fifes come rolling in… not that fatty one that I never see do anything. Now that I have said that he will catch me and my lead foot. Knock on wood and kiss the ceiling. I must go prepare for my class now. Owie.

I do actually really care… but this is one of those songs that helps me feel like I don’t care when I fall over or look like an ass….

2335

Wednesday Night’s class: 

T Shirts and Testing

I am Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, your senior drill instructor. From now on you will speak only when spoken to, and the first and last words out of your filthy sewers will be "Sir". Do you maggots understand that?  ~ GySgt. Hartman from Full Metal Jacket

Tonight’s class was a bit different. The owner/main instructor was there the whole time so it was a bit more like having GySgt Hartman in the room with you; total reference to Full Metal Jacket right there in case you missed it. To keep things interesting they try and keep things changing and thus not routine or expected; did you know fights are not predictable? Well y’all do now!

Rubber pants, wasn’t there, of course, because as I mentioned I wanted to collect further intelligence on him. There was a new and more varied assortment of hot mens. Some I had seen but never worked with; others entirely fresh. New hot mens is always acceptable, and when they arrive in cop cars I see people I need to be friends with. Especially since I enjoy seeing how fast the damn hamster in my car can run. I should mention it isn’t all that impressively fast but enough to keep me in trouble, if I do not watch myself. Still I keep waiting for the oil to come out and rub downs happen… the only thing I saw was hand sanitizer though and only on their own hands. Bah.

The hot cop from Monday night’s class is actually married to one of the new virgin girls with my group. We will call her Hot Cop’s Wifey. She is really sweet and her husband seems alright… although slightly terrifying because I think he could kill you weapon or no weapon. Also with me in my “virgin” class is a girl who we will call Baby Mama since she has a child and smells of really great baby lotion. Then there is Harley, called as such because he wears a Harley Davidson shirt. He is the biggest in the class, I do not mean fat, I mean BIG. He is at least as big as GySgt Hartman perhaps even taller; pushing him around is hard! So we little bitty noobs just sit there looking at him, like a gazelle seeing a lion. He has a bad knee, and if this was in fact a street fight… my instincts say “Hmmmm… obvious weakness…” but I am not that cruel and bitchy. I like Harley he is like a big daddy bear.

Wednesday night apparently was test night. Which means after all that running and warm up and me taking a shin/face plant to the floor in front of married Hot Cop and as yet undetermined other Hot Cop along with several other hot mens; who I am positive saw that if nothing else they SURELY saw me fall over with all the grace and elegance of a dying, gassy, water buffalo. That’s how life is… no one sees you triumph they only see you fall over and bite your tongue to keep from crying like a little girl (please say that in an Arnold accent or a Scottish accent in your head). The ever poised fall direct to shin bone, then roll to the face I plan to perfect into my secret weapon. I just have not worked out how to perform a full on attack as I lay on the floor rubbing my bone. Do not fear I will figure it out… I am a smart one.

So after the run around the mats we played some horrible rendition of four corners (remember that game). The more senior members got to pick their favorite warm up and we had to perform each one a certain number of times, then get up run a full circuit then arrive at the next one. Married hot cop is on my shit list at the moment because he chose some horrible invention called, in our class “Dirty Bastards”, although I have seen it in old movies called by other names. Basically you drop to the floor and jump pushing your feet and legs out behind you then jump up and clap your hands only to repeat it again. It was not pretty. I got through one or two… sort of. Then just sort of passed out/fell on my girls, I tried to pretend to be dead but no one cared. I did manage to get six “half-ish” pushups at one corner but I think that had more to do with GySgt Hartman standing behind me than my ability improving over one night. The last corner was something called a “Dive Bomber”; it looked a bit like Yoga and I thought finally something I can do. WRONG. DO NOT BE FOOLED this was no Yoga. This was some kind of evil Satan Yoga.

Then Hartman set the virgins off to one side and we were instructed to watch the tests. For the remainder of the class time I watched as each of the levels basically beat the shit out of each other increasing in intensity as they moved up the ranks. Married Hot Cop, who I was still pissed at over the Dirty Bastard thing, was apparently not feeling well… his wife informed me. She was worried. If he was sick and that was his “sick performance” I would not want to meet him at his peak. Sweet tea and Baby Jesus; the guys in his level were fucking amazing. One of them started bleeding and just kept going. One of the lower levels threw up, twice. It was good for everyone there that he made it to the bathroom; I happen to be a sympathetic puker. Also had it gotten on the floor I am not only afraid of what Hartman might have done but it would have stopped all the awesome male on male wrestling and my views of whatever those MMA fighters were doing.

In the end everyone passed, though had I been grading Hot Cop would have had to take a few home in what Hartman called a “Waaaambulance”. Clearly I know nothing but a few of them looked like they might die and perhaps should not be in the class. I am sure I look the same but I am judging them… not me. (mostly) I even got a shirt. I guess because I came back after the first class. I think the real test will be coming back on Monday after seeing that test night… and Hartman looking at us babies and informing us our first test would be in six to eight weeks. I think I will be sick that day? 

For some freaking reason they wouldn’t let me embed the actual video so you get this crap. Either way… I would like to be sedated until the sore runs out. Thank you.