Bright eyed, good looking, middle aged woman with increasing waistline looking for workout partner to help with weight loss. Totally platonic, no exceptions. Unless you’re really hot and there’s chemistry… but under no circumstances can it be sympathy sex (grudge fucking is okay though). Must know a tremendous amount of varying exercises and weight training techniques to help stave off the mundane routine of working out, which I never fucking liked as much as I do eating; there are so many delicious things to eat, and in so many wonderful combinations, it never gets boring. Must have all necessary workout equipment, if you know what I mean *snicker… snort*
ahem… you know, like weights ‘n shit.
Must enjoy the unknown as there’s no way I can commit to doing this every damn day. Look, I have a life, unlike some of you gym rats, so don’t expect me never to call you and demand we work out on a whim. Also, must like to shut up. You can’t talk too much, or at least, you must know how to hold a goddamn conversation and not go on an incessant monologue like a lot of people I know and avoid (so annoying). Must like cats. No, not because I’ll be bringing them to the workouts, but because I like to talk about them like they’re my kids, as that’s what middle-aged, childless, single women do. No, not really, I’m trying to fit into everyone’s stereotype for approval because I have low-self esteem. No, not really, I’m making a point: middle-aged women can’t get a break, whether we’re accused of having low-self esteem, too many cats, for being chubby (okay, that part’s true), for being desperate, or having lost any interest in sex. Wait, I never said anything about being desperate!… and I still want sex, I’m just no longer willing to put up with bad sex! Which leads me to believe, men, of any age, who date younger women, do so because they know they can get away with giving them shitty sex because they think they don’t know any better. Not that I dated older men when I was younger, yuck… I didn’t want some old guy touching me! But in a sick twist of fate, now I do! I like those older men, find them attractive and want them touching me all over!
Younger men are not off the table though… just depends.
Oh, and I can’t pay you anything, this has to be totally free because there’s one stereotype about single, middle-aged women that is unarguable; we generally don’t make a lot of money, and we certainly don’t get paid as much as men for doing twice the work, all while wearing high heels, might I add (or flats when we need to kick some corporate ass!) And more than likely, there’s been a male charmer… aka, freeloader, user, manipulator, narcissist… in our lives at one point or another who took advantage of us financially and otherwise. Ironic, since women are the ones who are constantly being called gold diggers. You do realize that phrase was attributed to the male gender, don’t you? Remember the ’49ers? No, not the football team, the actual gold diggers from the turn of the 19th century during the California gold rush? Yeah, them. Funny how things get turned around. Anyway, this ad is costing me a small fortune because I like to use words; big, small, intelligent, foul, you name it.
If interested, call me at: 1-800-yourealonelypieceofshit
You guys probably don’t know this about me, but I have a serious physical disability.
It’s been really difficult, so I don’t really like to talk about it. But I’ve concluded that if I don’t allow myself to be vulnerable, to open up and share with you people a very profound part of me, then how can I be an inspiration to other fucked up handicaps?
If you saw me in person, it wouldn’t be immediately apparent. For instance, I don’t have to use a wheelchair or crutches or anything, but it’s still a serious physical disability. It’s called Menopause.
When this first happened to me, I was very upset because I knew what struggles lay ahead… and if you don’t, just Google it. I know, I know, you’re probably thinking “How can you be upset that you’re not fucking bleeding once a month anymore?” and I’m here to tell you, it was so much more than that.
For instance, I could use it as an excuse to get out of, well, pretty much anything. Especially work, exercise, and sex. I could use it as revenge. I could use it to mark my territory, like with a boyfriend; I could easily leave a smudge on his jeans, or wallet, or sock, so everyone understood that, yeah, he’s mine.
Look, periods have meaning, period.
I should have seen it coming, I had all the symptoms: weight gain, hot flashes, an unusual fascination with anything cat related. Like I’m obsessed with watching cat videos because not only are they entertaining, they’re really educational. Have you guys seen the one with the cat that gets caught on the ceiling fan and is spun around and around until it gets flung off and thrown across the room? I learned a lot from that one and so did my cat.
I just can’t get enough of cats, I even went out and bought hand towels with cats on them. Not only that, if I don’t stay on top of my semi-annual Botox injections, I’ll have resting Grumpy Cat face.
I’m in deep.
I just want you to know I didn’t take this lightly. As soon as I got diagnosed, I did the responsible thing and immediately went to the DMV to get my handicapped placard.
I always do the right thing.
I’ve discovered once you’re in Menopause, you’re automatically banned from the opposite sex, did you know that? Men want nothing to do with me. It’s like I have leprosy or something. I guess I’m not desirable anymore just because I’m handicapped… how fucking rude! Okay, so I have some gravitational pull on my tits too, big deal. It’s not like I look like a dog that’s had several litters. However, every time I jog, I get slapped in the face by two water balloons.
Which is bullshit because I’m willing to tolerate everything that’s wrong with a man… starting with his own sagging body parts; two used wet tea bags and matching coffee stirrer (they come in a set). I am truly perplexed as to why men choose to ignore their own disabilities while judging a woman’s.
I’ll have you know, this isn’t my first time at the handicap rodeo, I have other physical disabilities that have affected me my entire life: being a woman, chubby, and blonde. But despite my physical limitations, I’m still mentally strong!… sort of. I mean, sure I have some issues like forgetfulness, suicidal thoughts, and then there’s the cat thing… but nothing a little medication could probably take care of, if I were interested in that sort of thing.
But hell, who’s got the inclination for that crap, huh? I certainly don’t. I hear it just numbs you and turns you into a zombie fuck. Well, screw that, I say! Unlike my body, I need my brain to work at full capacity in order to navigate this thing called “life”.
Admittedly, I sometimes do some really stupid things, and sometimes I don’t find out how stupid until much later; there’s like a delay… a stupidity delay. Anyway, I got to find out what one of those stupid things was this past weekend, and it was drug related.
I don’t do illicit drugs. I don’t like the feeling of being too high or the feeling of loss of control. I do, on occasion, take a drug prescribed to me for my IBS when it rears its ugly head. Now, I’m super sensitive to any sort of medication; even a normal dosage can sometimes be way too strong for me, so I’m very careful about what I take.
Well Saturday morning I took a pill because my IBS was really bothering me, and later that day, as I was driving home from L.A. I still wasn’t feeling right; I was overly nauseous and I attributed it to my IBS, so I decided to take another pill. About 15 minutes later, I started to feel really, really high, like abnormally high… like, there’s something seriously wrong here, what the hell is going on?
It got worse very quickly; I couldn’t catch my breath, I was getting very dizzy and I started to freak out. I realized I needed to get off the freeway immediately or something very bad was going to happen because I felt like I was going to pass out, and I had to cross several lanes of traffic in order to exit. Luckily I managed without incident, found a quiet street and pulled over, and I sat there trying to calm myself down.
I even pulled out my phone and went on Facebook to feel some sort of normalcy, which is a problem in itself, but that’s a post for another time. So I’m sitting there wondering what the fuck is going on? I mean, this is not normal, and I’m thinking, there’s no way the medication is that strong; I’ve taken many times before and never had this reaction. Anyway, I stayed there for some time before I felt the high start to subside a little.
I decided to get back on the road because I think “I’m going to be okay”, which is ludicrous because someone that high, cannot determine for themselves whether they’re okay enough to do anything. Plus, there are varying levels of being “okay”… I think there are ten levels, and I was only at level one.
For some reason, the nausea had something to do with it: Every time my stomach rolled, this wave of being really fucking high would wash over me and I had to brace myself, then I had to be prepared to pull off the freeway again at any moment. Now you should know that this is a very thrilling, heart-racing activity; being over medicated and risking your life like this. I mean, if you’re the adventurous type at all, I highly recommend it.
At one point I look at myself in the rear view mirror and my pupils are like pins and I’m thinking, if I get pulled over it’s going to be a dead giveaway I’m high as fuck. So I started practicing the conversation I’m going to have with the police officer, assuming before any evidence presents itself, that it’s about to happen. You ever do that? Practice what you’re going to say when you know you’re in deep shit?
So now I’m almost home, but instead of going straight to my house like a normal, abnormally high person would do, I think to myself “You know what I need? I need to get something to eat in order to settle my stomach and absorb some of these drugs, so I’m going to stop off at the dollar store. I fucking love the dollar store!” You can only really love something that shitty when you’re high, by the way.
The dollar store has cheap, interesting snacks. They carry ones you’ve never heard of before; snacks that were rejected by society and the FDA. Nobody eats these snacks except poor people, because poor people will eat anything. They don’t care, they’re hungry, they’ll try anything, even if it’s got poison in it… and everything in the dollar store has poison in it.
We don’t know where this stuff came from, really. I mean yeah, some of it’s got the English language on the packaging, but some of it doesn’t; some of it has foreign language on it, but we don’t really know from what country. Hell, it doesn’t matter… even if it’s American it still doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous… probably even more so. I try not to think about it while I’m filling my basket.
I couldn’t even wait until I got to the register, I ripped open a bag of rice crackers, and started munching away while I was walking around the store, which looks completely different when you’re high, by the way; it’s much more fun and interesting. I started to feel so much better after having some crackers… and some pretzels… and some fruit… and cookies. Look, I was hungry, okay? I think I bought enough snacks to last a month.
The next day I kept turning it over in my mind: What the hell happened? Then it dawned on me… and here’s where the stupidity delay comes in: I had taken an older bottle of medication and dumped whatever was in there in the newer bottle, without checking for the expiration date on the old ones first, which doesn’t even matter, you should never mix medications anyway.
Now I know why they put expiration dates on drugs.
What do quilts, masturbation and driving have in common?
I don’t know but let me tell you about my shopping experience.
If there’s one place I feel the squeeze of overpopulation (besides the freeways), it’s at a local shopping center. This one is particularly annoying because of the layout: the only two entrances are each situated on busy streets, so there are always tons of people pushing and crowding into its parking lot. Clearly, whoever designed the center died before statistics of population growth were published.
I wish I could avoid it altogether, but I can’t since that’s where I go to buy a particular brand of cat food from the only pet store that carries it (cat people will understand this).
The shopping center contains Joann Fabrics, Tuesday Morning, Home Goods and Marshall’s clothing store, all in one place. This may mean nothing to some of you if you don’t recognize them, but they’re all popular, corporate, suburban shops for the criminally mundane. They draw all the women in town, especially Joann Fabrics.
Do we really need so many goddamn quilts ladies? Don’t you have anything fucking better to do? Is sewing what your life has amounted to? Do you really need those chocolates you plucked off the shelf by the cash register?
For the amount of women that go into that store to buy fabric or what have you, you’d think there would be more unique and fashionably dressed people around, but nope… everybody looks the same, and since they all sew quilts, it leads me to suspect there’s some history of incest in this town; we may very well be the Arkansas of the west coast.
People from Arkansas, do not email me.
Look, there’s no denying there were a lot of poor mountain folk in the Ozarks sewing quilts who never left their small towns and married people who may or may not have been their first or second cousin. They even made a movie about them, so it has to be factual.
Wait, did I just hear a banjo?
Anyway, back to Joann Fabrics: that store is the main offender because sooo many women go in and out of it all day long… in, out, in, out, in, out. If they were doing more of that activity at home, they wouldn’t be wasting their time at Joann Fabrics, I’ll tell you that much! And if there were any sewing of quilts it’d be because the old ones got stains on them, not because it was some sick hobby.
And by the way, who in the holy hell thought putting chocolates by the registers of all the stores where women shop would be a good idea and not insulting to our intelligence? Because that’s what they do now; put chocolate in every line up to the cash register. It’s not enough we try to fulfill our empty lives by shopping for crap we don’t need at poorly designed shopping centers, now we need chocolate to placate ourselves further?
Do you see fish bait at registers where men shop? No! That’s because… hmm, that’s not a really good example, is it? I mean, not all men go fishing. Okay, let me rephrase it: Do you see porn at all the registers where men shop?
Come to think of it, yeah! They have those dirty magazines at the counters of liquor stores, which is where all men shop… isn’t it? I don’t know, it’s been so long since I’ve had a man, I can’t be completely sure. Sounds right anyway; drink some whiskey, look at porn, wiggle your noodle.
But back to the annoying shopping center, the easiest entrance for me logistically is right next to Joann Fabrics, but I discovered there is a route that runs behind the back of the stores, you know, where the trucks go to make their deliveries, so I just pull in, drive around to the back and make my way to the opposite end where the pet food store is, avoiding the riffraff in the process.
It’s not foolproof though. Upon leaving the other day, I was almost at the exit when some yahoo cuts in front of me from the side. I hate when people do that! You all know the type: the driver with the “me first” mentality. They see you coming but they can’t wait two fucking seconds, so they cut right in front of you because they need to be first, even though you have the right of way.
When I caught up with the greedy bastard, I had to see what type of animal would do that to a lady, so I unrolled my window, and wouldn’t you know it? It was a Millennial Bro! I tried to give him a dirty look, but he beamed this roguish grin at me, which was his way of acknowledging his assholeness, and I just couldn’t be mad anymore, which made me even more frustrated!
But as he sped off, I came to the realization that he was likely rushing home from his “shopping”, if you know what I mean…
…probably makes quilts, too.
I’m not having a good day.
I’m feeling so crummy right now, I wish I never got out of bed. In fact, the whole world can all go suck it!
I’m in a real quandary because I’m not normally like this. My outlook is usually so bright, and cheery, but this morning… nah.
I nearly ran over this old guy and I didn’t even care, that’s how bad this is.
I was about to turn onto the road and I was looking to my left for any oncoming cars, but I forgot to look to my right, and as I started turning, I see this old guy standing at the corner with this grimace on his face. Apparently he was irritated I didn’t see him, and I got startled because I didn’t expect to see some moron standing there.
So I waved a “sorry”, you know, that little hand gesture you wave to someone, acknowledging their presence and that you’re sorry you almost ran their sorry-ass over? Yeah, one of those. But he just stood there with this shitty look on his face, like he was expecting something more. Of what, I have no idea, because a wave was all I had, I didn’t have anything else to give to the old fucker.
What the hell else do you want, dude? Do you want a written apology? How about ten bucks, would that work? What about if I say I’ll never do it again? which would be stupid because I would never commit to something so stupid like that, so why are you still standing there with that look on your face?
And anyway, why, since you saw me coming and I didn’t see you, didn’t you just walk around the back of my car and keep going on your walk, so that it wouldn’t have mattered that I didn’t see you?
I’ll tell you why: because he’s a fucking moron, that’s why. Because people like that don’t want to take responsibility for themselves, they’d rather play the victim so they can blame the other person for making their life just that much more difficult.
Shall I go on? I think so.
Because for him walk around the back of my car to avoid any mishaps would mean he wouldn’t have anything to be angry about. It would mean his morning walk went off without a hitch, and then what would he have to complain about?
I sped off, tires screeching.
You know, when I’m feeling this crummy, all I want to do is console myself with something yummy to eat. Experts refer to this as “emotional eating” and I refer to it as: Shut the fuck up and let me eat whatever I want, you morons, why do you have to put a label on everything?
Anyway, I wanted to get a delicious deli sandwich from this particular Italian deli, but the problem is, they always have a long line and it takes forever to get your order. Okay, these are really delicious sandwiches, so I can understand that, but I didn’t want to drive over there and wait.
So, I thought I’d be smart by calling ahead, but I got a busy signal, so I hung up and dialed the number again. But again, I got a busy signal. I got nervous as dialed once more, my palms growing sweaty, my breath deepening, and my heart beating quickly… what if I never get through? But I finally did… only to be put on hold… damn it!
No music whatsoever, just blank on the other end. And as I was waiting, I started to worry that I wouldn’t be connected at all, that I’d be on an eternal, no-music hold while all the people who actually waited in line, got their sandwiches, one after another, until there were no more sandwiches.
But finally someone got on the phone to take my order and by then, I was so thankful, I didn’t yell or scream… I cried… tears of joy, and I blubbered my delicious sandwich order into the phone.
Vegetarian sub, if you must know.
Saturday night I was back in Hollywood to perform. It’s always an adventure going to Hollywood because you never know what you’re gonna get. There’s so much to see, and do… and smell.
Los Angeles has this image in the media of glitz and glamour, but it’s not glamorous when you see it up close. Firstly, it stinks of urine because people pee everywhere. It’s not just the homeless either, I’ve seen countless comedians whip out their dicks to pee outside… the disgusting little monkeys. The streets are filthy because it never rains in Southern California, so nothing gets washed off, the quality of residents has significantly decreased, and despite the exorbitant cost of living, people keep moving here in droves… and most likely end up homeless.
Hollywood used to be an exciting part of the shithole I call L.A., but not anymore. Actually, parts of it were always rundown and crappy, but there was a time when some of it still held that magical glamour of old Hollywood, like the kind you see in Film Noir. I used to hang out on the Sunset Strip, which, back in the day, had a vibrant scene. Now it’s just a tacky version of its old self.
Even the homeless have attitude. Don’t get me wrong, I love the homeless, I really have a soft spot for them. Whenever I exit the freeway and see them standing on the corner with their signs asking for money, I always roll down my window and hand them a couple… trash bags, and tell them if they want to make money, they should clean up a little, make their area nice and presentable.
You guys ever rate the homeless? You know, size them up to see if they deserve the money? I do. If they look like they just got a haircut… hmmm, probably not gonna give ‘em anything, but if they don’t have shoes on, they’re gonna get a fiver.
After I left the club, I promised a friend that I’d stop by his place. He’s a long time comic so I wanted to pick his brain. When I pulled up his address on my navigation, I saw he lived in a really nice area. On the way over, I saw this giant billboard that read “Gentrification in California Sucks” which is a very thought provoking statement, don’t you think?… and the thought it provoked for me was “Well, not if you’re white.” and I also thought “Isn’t it ironic this billboard is in one of the nicest sections of Los Angeles?”
I arrived at my comedian friend’s house and as soon as I entered, I was overcome by the stench of what I could only describe as tear gas. Now, I’ve never been bombed before because I’m Caucasian, but I would imagine this is what tear gas would smell like if I were bombed. Turns out it was only his dog.
His dog stank so badly, it permeated the entire house. It was so bad, the smell stuck on me until I got home and stripped off my clothes. Come to think of it, I never saw any dog. Maybe it wasn’t a dog at all, maybe that was a total assumption on my part. Maybe his dog is dead and he just keeps it around because he can’t bring himself to get rid of it. I should probably give him the number to my taxidermist, just in case.
My friend is what you’d refer to as “someone you could really take advantage of”. He’s not mentally strong enough for a grown woman like myself; I could eat him for breakfast. For some reason, I’m really good at seeking out the weak, and if I weren’t the kind of person I am, I could really fuck up their lives. I mean, c’mon, who hasn’t thought of taking advantage of someone before? It would be like ignoring the ripest fruit on the tree.
There are some people out there who, when they encounter a weak person, crush ‘em like a tomato without hesitation, but I’m not like that at all. I mean, not face to face. I’ll do it on my blog like a normal person, but I can’t look someone in the eye while crushing them, it’s too painful for me. That’s because I have what you call “self-restraint”, “good genes” and a “moral obligation”, whatever the fuck that means.
I just love it when I do the right thing, you know?
In honor of my friend, fellow hiker, and all around exceptional human being.
You will be missed.
I think I may have just put the last nail in the coffin…
…I participated in a Jazzercise class yesterday.
I danced, jumped, pumped my fists, swiveled my hips and yelled “Woohoo!” when the instructor yelled “Woohoo!” and now I have to live with that decision for the rest of my life. I’m absolutely sick about it! I can’t believe I would ever stoop to that level, but I did, so I have to face the facts, admit what I did, and try to reconcile where everything went wrong.
It all started when I went to use the bathroom at the park’s community center before I headed out for a hike. I heard music coming from the large rec room and curiosity got the better of me. I slowly opened the door and saw a bunch of middle-aged women in workout clothes dancing around in what I can only describe as suburban hell in exercise form.
I was about to about-face and head back out (does this sentence even make sense?) when I was approached by an angelic looking lady in pastel leggings asking me if I was going to take the class, and when I told her “Um, no, I was just wondering what this was.” she smiled beatifically and said “Jazzercise” in the sweetest tone you ever heard.
Then she grabbed a class schedule, handed it to me and proceeded to tell me the best classes to take, who the best instructors were, and that she hoped I’d come back real soon, beaming that beatific smile again, and for a moment, I thought I was in an episode of The Andy Griffith Show.
She was so warm and her enthusiasm so infectious, I felt like I was going to be part of something very extraordinary; one that only the specially chosen belong to, so I made up my mind right then and there I would be attending a class the following week. She thanked me for stopping by, turned on her golden sneaker-clad heels to join the class and I could’ve sworn I saw a glow of light follow her.
During my entire hike all I could think about was Jazzercise, Jazzercise, Jazzercise… and a weird sort of smile spread across my lips. I wasn’t really focusing on where I was going, it was like I was hypnotized somehow, like Jazzercise was the messiah and I was enraptured.
Well a week went by and it was time for the class, but by then, the appeal (spell) had mostly worn off, so I was on the fence about going. See, I’m an avid hiker; I climb mountains and scale vast expanses of open space in all kinds of weather, what on earth was I doing thinking about going to Jazzercise?
Aerobic exercise isn’t my thing, I like to be outdoors in nature, not inside wrapped in spandex. But the voice inside my head took over and said, “Just go, you might have a really great experience, meet great women and make new friends.” Admittedly, I have been thinking about expanding my already vast social circle as I’m running out of people to offend.
Well fuck that voice, because I did go, and as soon as class started, I immediately regretted my decision. These community group classes suck ass. You can read about my previous experience with one of ’em here.
It was… it was… well I don’t know how to explain it other than I felt like I was being indoctrinated into the worst kind of religion: A suburban housewife’s afternoon activity. I mean c’mon, I already made jam over the summer… twice, what the hell else do you want from me, suburbia?!!
Look, I know it’s about me, not them. It’s the fact that I cannot stand mediocrity, suburban lifestyles and pastel workout clothes. I have no patience for dogma, whether in the form of a congregation or Jazzercise class. I’ve always been that way and I always will… thank God.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to a bake sale.
I don’t know what you guys had planned last weekend, but I’d bet good money it wasn’t to be a dumb-ass.
You know how I know this? No one ever plans on being a dumb-ass, it’s inadvertent (inherent for some, but that’s an entirely different post). It happens because of some choice or action which turns into a mistake. Not to say that every time someone makes a mistake, they’re a dumb-ass. We all make mistakes and it’s not to be looked down upon.
But some mistakes do make you a dumb-ass; it’s a universal law, and just how much of a dumb-ass is determined on a sliding scale. Let’s say it’s from one to ten, with one being only a very slight mistake, so no dumb-ass, and ten being an oh boy, are you an ever-loving fucking dumb-ass… you dumb-ass!
Hey, I don’t make this shit up.
Anyway, I don’t know if this happens to you, and if it does, whether you’re even aware of it, but have you ever had a thought about something that you wanted or needed, and then you let it go and kind of forgot about it, but then it shows up in your life? This happens to me frequently. Some call it coincidence, some call it the law of attraction, some, serendipity.
Whatever thoughts one cultivates, their life experiences reflects those thoughts. If you have a positive mindset and tend to see things on the bright side, your life experiences will reflect that, and you will have mostly positive things happen in your life, where if you think life is shitty and full of assholes, more assholes will come into your life to make it more shitty and you’ll have negative experiences.
Personally, I can’t relate to the latter because I always see the glass as half full… or even, refillable.
“Get out of my way, asshole!”
Sorry, I’m driving while writing this and some dumb-ass is gesturing wildly in my direction.
Where was I? Oh yes, a couple months ago I thought about how nice it would be to add a big, comfy chair to my room; somewhere I could sit and read instead of reading in bed, which always puts me to sleep, and as I was driving down my street, I saw a big, comfy chair sitting curbside with a sign on it that said: Free.
Literally, this happened just days after my initial thought, it was amazing! The only thing was, the chair didn’t really match my decor, so I passed on it. Well lo and behold, a week later, I see another big, comfy chair in my neighborhood. Yes I’m totally serious! I passed on that one too though because I thought it was just a little too big.
Well after that, I was anticipating the next big, comfy chair coming into my life, but nothing happened. Zippo, zip, niente, nada.
Then it occurred to me that the Universe had responded to my wish, but then I rejected it not once, but twice, so no more big, comfy chairs and I thought perhaps the Universe was giving me the finger for rejecting the first two.
Well I let it go and hadn’t really thought about it since, until this past weekend, when I was perusing online garage sales and saw this big, comfy chair on sale for only twenty bucks, and I thought to myself “I’m going to get that chair before I fuck this up again.” I looked at is as a sign, and for twenty bucks, I’d be a dumb-ass to pass it up. I arranged to go look at it right away.
It was big and comfy looking and although I really did not like the color (it was a poopy brown), I decided to take it because I didn’t want to piss off the Universe again, which I found out later, is not a good basis for making a decision. When I got home, I struggled to get this large, awkward chair onto my patio so I could vacuum it and remove the pillow covers for washing, then I struggled to get it into my bedroom and once it was there, that’s when I noticed the smell.
Note: Do not buy used furniture from people who have dogs.
I was looking at this shit-brown sofa chair sitting in my room, thinking “What the hell did I just do?” I tried to make the best of it. I thought once I wash the pillow covers, it would help with the smell, then I could buy a slipcover for the thing, which would hide the hideous color, and it would all work out just fine.
Well try sleeping in a small room with a piece of furniture that smells like a dog’s ass all night.
That was it, it had to go. I would never get rid of the smell, it was all a big mistake, and the Universe was getting a big ‘ol laugh outta me. So the next morning I put the pillow covers back on, hauled the fucking thing out of my bedroom, and over to the local Goodwill store, the whole time praying they wouldn’t reject it because then what? Dump it somewhere?
Well they took it, thank God (suckers) so it was gone, out of my life for good! However, the Goodwill store, no matter how much good will they offer, could never take away the fact that I was a dumb-ass.
Let me break it down for you: I paid twenty bucks to haul away someone’s shitty smelly chair for them, plus time and gas.
On the dumb-ass scale, I’d rate this a solid fiver.
I wish I had the luxury of self-confidence that men have.
You know, the kind that comes with living in a patriarchal society where you can behave anyway you want, anytime you want and flaunt a negative aspect of yourself without any blowback.
You can be the biggest crook, or jerk, or aggressive, or narcissistic, or selfish, or a total weenie, or sooooo not fucking funny, and still get away with it because you’re a man (mainly a white man, but any man, really).
Our president is the perfect example of this.
You’re a “bro”, dude! You’re part of that special group of human species where you can get away with practically anything. You can guzzle beer and vape and grow a beard on your face that looks like a mountain goat’s ass and still get a promotion because no one is gonna look down on you. That’s because you’re already above the glass ceiling.
You can have an enormous gut spilling over the top of your pants, and you’ll still think you’re hot shit because society won’t judge you like they would a woman with the same physique.
It’s not self-confidence more than it is hubris, ignorance, and flat out blind to just how privileged men are. Not that I want to have any of those character defects, but still, I like the idea that if I were to have them, I wouldn’t be judged for having them while simultaneously being called a bitch or a cunt.
Being called a whore would be alright though.
Like this guy, who I don’t even really know, asked me out on a date the other day, through social media, which, by the way, is not the way a proper whore wants to be asked out on a date. He has no car (which he posted about on Facebook), but that didn’t give him pause; he still had the hubris to ask me out. Naturally it would imply that I would need to pick him up for our date if I agreed to one, which I would not… ever.
Okay, in all fairness, I was without a car last week and posted about it on Facebook, so he probably saw it and said “Eureka! I found my soul mate!” Or maybe I should say “sole mate” as we’d probably be walking.
Hahahahaha… hahahaha…. aha… aha… ha… ahem, sorry.
Who asks someone out on a date when you have no car and live in the suburbs? How are you supposed to get around, bus? Bicycle? Okay, there’s Uber but then it left me wondering if he would ask me to pay half. The guy works as a barista too. Not a bad occupation if you’re in your twenties. I mean, you can hardly support yourself on that wage, much less be on the dating scene.
I’m not knocking the guy for his lifestyle, but… wait, I am knocking him for his lifestyle, and why shouldn’t I? He asks me out when he doesn’t have any transportation and nothing to show he has more to offer; he doesn’t even know me and is probably making all kinds of assumptions about me based on my Facebook postings, which is what I’m doing with him right now, but never mind that, let me finish my point…
My point is… my point is…
Oh yes, my point is that he assumed a woman would just accept him and his situation without demanding he try harder. He’s a man, he doesn’t have to try harder so why wouldn’t he just put himself out there? No matter how he comes across, society won’t hold him accountable. He’ll probably get a back slap, a high-five, and a “Hey buddy, good job for trying!” from his beer-swilling man friends!
He would be better off focusing on improving his situation before seeking out dates, but men don’t have to think twice about that before hitting on a girl because they’re the cat’s dinner no matter what their situation is… at least, in their own minds.
My reply to him was “I’m going to say no, but thanks.” and then I was irritated that I felt the need to soften my bluntness by adding that “thanks” at the end because I wasn’t even thankful he asked me out! But I didn’t want to be thought of as a bitch or a cunt or a whore because I rejected him.
Have something to offer besides just your bro-ness and the need to get laid, for fuck’s sake. And shave those hideous beards while you’re at it. There’s food stuck in there!