men

The Feins Go (Mid)West

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

Six months ago, I moved to Wisconsin.

Er, WE. We moved.

I moved with my husband.

HUS-BAND!

(I got married?!?)

Yea, I didn’t leave him 51 days after our wedding – we moved together.

There’s no way we could split up the kids.

Also I love him.

But Wisconsin. Who does that, right? Seattle to Wisconsin. Cheese, brats, humidity, Packers dontchaknow, Wisconsin.

You know who moves to Wisconsin from Seattle? Pretty much anyone who doesn’t have a job at Amazon or Microsoft, that’s who.

Thanks, Jeff Bezos.

But really, we headed east because Jon went to school in Madison, and it had been a goal of ours for a long time to end up there and be real-life season-ticket-holding Wisconsin Badgers fan’s.

We were ready to trade “Starbucks on every corner!!,” for “Starbucks on every other corner!!,” and after we got back from our honeymoon, I guess it just seemed like as good a time as any to keep making huge life changes, so we took the leap.

Or maybe the thought of going back to the exact same job and routine that we had pre-wedding and pre-honeymoon was just so unbearable that packing up our entire life and moving thousands of miles away seemed like the only logical thing to do.

Either way.

So we drove across the country with about 4 possessions because of course our SUV was on it’s last legs right on the cusp of our cross-country road-trip, forcing us to have no choice but to fit all of our necessities into a sedan. We packed the two of us and our two pups in the car with as much as we could fit in our little trunk which is, NEWSFLASH: not much. As we are now pro’s at this, let me tell you what you can pack on a road trip with 2 dogs and 2 humans in a small car: 1 air mattress, 2 pillows, 1 coffee maker, and 3 pairs of underwear.

4, if you wear two pairs at once.

It was SO tight that I didn’t even bring all my makeup. You guys. I entrusted the moving company with my entire (and fabulous) makeup collection. These guys, who probably have never even HEARD of Sephora, let alone step foot into that magical kingdom. These guys, who definitely don’t know how invaluable a beauty blender can be, or how long I waited for Charlotte Tilbury’s Pillow Talk lipstick to be restocked – THE AGONY!!

That’s right –  I only packed the very basics and you know what? I feel liberated. I am a bra-burning, liberated woman now. Honestly though can we have another bra-burning moment because I hate bras and I know you do, too. The only women who like them are 14 year old girls going bananas over getting a training bra.

Not that I have graduated out of a training bra yet but that’s neither here nor there.

And besides, that’s what having babies is for right? I’m sure there are other reasons to have babies, but finally filling out your shirts is the main one, no???

I wish I had some hilarious road-trip stories of not being able to get to a rest area in time, or one of the dogs terrorizing a hotel room, but it was honestly pretty smooth-sailing. Of course we want our dogs to behave (and they do most of some of the time), but when a chance like this came along to really make some funny and lasting memories, they actually DID behave, and way too well. I mean, they really made us look like we knew what we were doing!

Ugh. Parenting is hard.

Taylor Swift’s album came out right before we left, and I’m still waiting for my ‘Wife Of The Year’ trophy to arrive since I listened to it non-stop BUT WITH MY EARBUDS ON, lest my dear spouse be tortured to death by nasally melodies about boys who done her wrong. (I love her and I hate her and I love to hate her). My husband, on the other hand, loves listening to sports radio, so even if I really hated Taylor Swift, I think listening to her album is still better than the alternative.

I feel like I know enough about sports to know that I don’t need to know anything sports radio is gonna tell me, you know what I mean?

I think the craziest thing that happened on our road-trip was having the epiphany in a Best Western that the best Indian food you’ll ever eat is found in the state of South Dakota. I don’t think this opinion has anything to do with us being near-death starving, pounding curry on a hotel futon and thanking any godly beings up there listening for making curry vegan.

We finally arrived at our new digs, but with zero things to furnish our house or cook with, and no real idea of when the movers would arrive. I was tasked with going to Target for “necessities.”  Naturally, I bought a giant cactus painting and a fake Christmas tree. Apparently necessities are more along the lines of “food,” and “toilet paper.”

I am nothing if not practical.

Thankfully my husband hasn’t fully caught on to the fact that I cannot be trusted alone in stores that sell home decor, clothing, animals, makeup – okay any store with any product really –  and so that is reason #379 that my husband is the best husband.

I can make a list later of all 379 reasons but for now I’ll just mention that they include his bacon-making skills (which we no longer put to use but it scored major points way back when) and also he picks up all the dog poop in the yard. Never did I think this would be such a turn-on, but having a husband who picks up the dog poop is a kind of sexy that I never knew I needed.

After several more trips to acquire the “actual” necessities, we stood in the middle of our empty house, with no real clue of what to do next.

For 14 days and 14 nights, we ate, drank, slept, played board games and watched Netflix on an air mattress, fantasizing about box springs and Tempurpedics.

You would think that on that 15th day, seeing that giant moving truck finally pull around the corner and onto our street would induce overwhelming emotion at the mere thought of sleeping on an actual bed that night.

The truth is that all I was really worried about was wether or not my makeup had survived the journey.

It survived.

1,989 miles, 6 states, 5 dog parks, 13 gas stations, 87 potty breaks and several tumbleweeds later:

We are midwesterners.

The Feins went (mid)west.

 

Love,

M

 

Shit Girls Say to Their BFF’s

/ Love, M / 2 Comments

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Girlfriends.

They’re basically the only way to keep your sanity in life.

AMIRIGHT?

Preach.

Furthermore, there are just certain things you only say to your best lady loves; those dark, dirty secrets or (embarrassing) everyday happenings that you just really need to share with SOMEONE so that you can be validated that yes, you are crazy but you’re not the only one.

As much fun as men can be, your husband/baby daddy/boyfriend/FWB/secret lover will probably (hopefully?) never have a vagina, and sometimes there are things that you can only say to people with similar parts.

Do you catch my drift?

I’ve been keeping a list for awhile now, of a bunch of the random, embarrassing, and ridiculous and things my girlfriends and I have said to each other.

I’ve been contemplating whether or not to publish this particular blog post for awhile, now. My thought was that it might be a little over the top and/or offensive (as if posting pictures of my underwear or talking about my sexcapades gone wrong are not either of those things). But then I said to myself, Self, have you ever read the title of your own blog? Okay? Okay. 

And also, I recently gave a fellow human a few examples of some of the quotes I’d planned on using and his response was, “I’m pretty sure you say way more inappropriate and weird things to me on a regular basis.”

Touchè.

So it’s happening.

(What that person doesn’t know is that I secretly took that as one of the best compliments ever.)

Keep it weird, people. Keep it weird.

I would like to emphasize that these did not all come out of MY mouth. Most of them are things other people have said to me…mm hmm, yea…especially the ones that really make you contemplate the status of my mental health. Definitely didn’t say any of those ones.

Definitely not.

…aaanyway…

Without further adieu,

Shit Girls Say to Their BFF’s:

—

I just had to tug unnecessarily hard to get my thong out of my ass crack.

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I don’t want to hear from you again until there’s been actual P in the V. I love you. I believe in you. Good luck.

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GF1: The kissing was WAY too much. It was like, “Here, let me swirl my tongue around your tongue for 16 minutes and then right before your mouth completely dries up from being wide fucking open and catching flies, I’ll kiss your lips.” I’m exhausted.

GF2: Stop kissing him.

—

GF1: Do you know what you’re wearing on your date tonight???

GF2: No idea! I want him to see me and choke on his own saliva. What does that outfit look like?

—

(At a bakery)

I am SOOO bloated. Do I look bloated? Don’t you fucking dare lie to me right now, ___. Do I? I don’t? You swear? Okay, lets split a cookie then.

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Don’t mind me while I furiously rub my vagina with face-cleansing towelettes.

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I just said this to somebody: “These almonds are EVERYTHING.” Everything? What am I, a fucking Kardashian? No. Please feel free to unfriend me from your life.

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I only ended up getting my ass waxed, so maybe we’ll just do doggy style and he’ll never see the front.

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I wish the reason that I have disproportionate forearm muscles was as pleasurable as the reason that guys do.

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How do people go commando in a dress? I feel like something is gonna fall out of my vagina at any moment.

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Ummm I’m growing a national forest on my face.

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My swamp ass is so real right now.

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My pants are literally going to just fall right off of me when he gets back from his trip and I’m going to have zero control over it.

—

GF1: Please tell me you’ve had multiple orgasms in the last 72 hours.

GF2: Best sex of my life.

GF1: Marry him.

—

My uterus is about to erupt. My vagina is literally housing Mt. Vesuvius. I’m dying. Why am I a woman??

—

I took the next day off so that I can get drunk just below the “get-sent-to-the-hospital” level, and then make bad decisions regarding my love life.

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I had to change out of my dress and into jeans because you could feel my leg hair through the fabric. I’m obviously not getting laid.

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If a guy doesn’t even want you to talk to him while he’s pooping, why the fuck would he want to stick it in your ass?

—

I def just ate a cookie that was god knows how old and stuffed behind a bunch of shit in one of the drawers at work. I have know idea whose it was but I do know that it had chocolate in it and also that maybe I shouldn’t drink sangria on my lunch break.

—

If you stopped talking to me for more than 36 hours without having a death in your immediate family, I’d be a little butthurt. Especially if I had texted you that I got laid.

—

Just because he’s British does NOT mean he gets a free pass into these panties.

—

He had this little twitch in his eye and this weird cough thing happening and I don’t know if he was just super nervous but I do know that it was adorable and made me wanna give his penis a hug. With my vagina.

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Hahaha your fiancé is the best. I need a fiancé who’s also the best so that we can just be sister wives and brother husbands already.

—

You know that if I see your ex on the street, I’m going to walk straight up to him and kick him right in the balls, right? Like, multiple times. This is what bitches do for each other.

—

Is it weird that we get really excited about each others’ sex lives?

—

Would you rather take a shot of your guy’s cum, or a shot of your own phlegm?

—

Do you think he’d think less of me if I boned his brains out before being exclusive?

—

I saw an ex last night who was in town, and I was expecting it to be along the lines of Fifty Shades of Grey, but it was more like The Notebook, except that Noah and Ally don’t ever end up together, and just…TEARS. TEARS EVERYWHERE. So yea, now I’m just eating a lot of cookies.

—

WTF I’ve pooped three times today already.

—

GF1: I have a bunch of leftover Plan B pills, do you want them?

GF2: Hahaha what do you think I am, a whore?! Yes. I do want them.

—

I’m so dehydrated that my poop looks like a pile of burnt popcorn chicken.

—

He hasn’t asked me on another date  yet, but I’m sure he’ll ask before the weekend is over…right? If not, I’m just going to eat three whole ice cream cakes and then drown myself in a kiddie pool.

—

GF1: Why am I watching Katie Couric learn how to give a newborn baby the Heimlich?

GF2: You’re lonely.

GF1: And my uterus hurts.

—

I just started my period and my back is fucking killing me and all I wanna do is crawl into a gallon of ice cream and eat my way out of it.

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 When I think about being skinnier, my first thought is always: it would be WAY easier to shave my vagina

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I love you so much I just hugged my phone

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I just shaved my entire vagina and I don’t get how this is so fucking attractive. I look like a really tall ten year old with way too much makeup on.

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He’s so sweet I might just kill myself purely because he’d write the best eulogy.

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He makes fucking delicious bacon, so…basically that seals the deal.

—

I tried using conditioner instead of shave gel on my lady bits and my vagina feels like a pair of silk panties.

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I need you. In the most heterosexual way.

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GF1: At what point is it appropriate to ask the question, “So, are you gonna cheat on me with free dating websites or completely disappear for a week and then I’ll randomly run into you in a park and you’ll be holding a bottle of bbq sauce and a loaf of bread, like the last guy?”

GF2: I’d say that’s a good fourth date question.

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GF1: How to know your date tanked – you leave and drive straight to the KFC drive-thru window.

GF2: Oh no! He was that bad?

GF1: Give me all the Chicken Littles.

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I’m totally the whore in this relationship.

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It’s so hot out I have a cup of ice between my legs but the heat radiating from my vagina is already melting it.

—

You know it’s time to get a brazilian when you move and your jeans tug on your pubes.

—

SWEAR to me that you’ll always tell me if my ass is sweating through my pants. Swear it.

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GF1: What percentage of guys do you think try to suck their D’s?

GF2: 100%

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On a scale of 1 to eating cold chicken out of a plastic bag before bed, how lonely are you?

—

Btw I’m so bloated I wanna kill myself, and I don’t even wanna binge on junk food first, because TOO BLOATED.

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Confession: I was holding a pen in my mouth and fully drooled all over my chest, but it felt good because I’m so bloody hot.

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GF1: Sorry your leg wax didn’t turn out well!!

GF2: Oh, it’s not that terrible. just thought I’d sit up and cum at touching my own legs.

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GF1: You may also have to hold a fan directly against my vagina while I hold my wedding dress up, so I don’t drip sweat all over everyone’s shoes.

GF2: I’m just going to buy you a strap on dildo and replace the penis with a fan.

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GF1: How do you ask a guy if he’s a virgin without making his dick go soft for all of eternity?

GF2: You can’t.

Dedicated to my lady loves. I’d be lost and even more crazycakes without you.

Love,

M.

Date Fails

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Do you think the reason I’m single right now has anything to do with me belting out The Proclaimer’s “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” at 7:30 in the morning while marching up and down my hallway with no pants on and using my giant bottle of Coconut Creme coffee creamer as a microphone?

Yea, me neither.

So, I’ve been on way more dates than I care to remember. At one point (years ago) I had eleven first dates in one month, and that is not including any second or third dates I went on. What in the holy hell was I smoking, you ask? I’d really like to know the answer to that, too. Shouldn’t I get an award for that or something? I got zero STD’s because nobody got laid and so I guess that’s my award. No chlamydia. Lots of free sushi. Win.

I think Larry David says it best.

pdshoto

Now I’m not quite as cynical as Larry (yet) and I can’t say all the dates I’ve been on have been bad. I’ve had some pretty great ones. Some really great ones. Some, “OMG you’re going to DIE when you hear this” ones. Some, “I’m 96% sure I’m living out a very popular book series, right now,” ones.

When a date goes sour, though, it’s bad. Sometimes my encounters make me think that this cannot be real life. It’s appalling, some of the things men think will be impressive to do or say. I’m not 100% sure yet that my love life isn’t being Punk’d. I’m just waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind my bathroom door with a camera. Except I hope it’s Andrew Garfield instead, and that he decides that he’s single and then also has no pants on.

I digress.

So, without further adieu, I want to share some of the Red Flags I’ve encountered on dates. This was originally going to be exclusive to first dates, but I didn’t want to discriminate and leave out all of the awesomely fucked-up things that guys have done at any point in my knowing them.

All of these things have actually happened to me.

Laugh it up.

The amount of FAIL that I’m giving these situations is obviously only my opinion…

But seriously, guys, stop it.

– If your date discloses that both his father and brother were admitted to the psychiatric hospital that you are currently working at. Okay well I guess I’ll be seeing your admission papers soon enough. Thanks for the pizza, okay BYE NOW. 

– If a guy tells you his favorite past time is working out, you might want to start lunging your way out of the juice bar you’re probably in. If I hear one more guy say how working out his his religion, I am literally going to throw up in my mouth, swallow it, and throw it up again. I am 150% sure that there are a billion exercise-obsessed men that are fucking cool as hell, but I can’t say I’ve ever had a good experience with a workout whore. I can’t listen to you talk about your “WOD” because it makes me want to “FKM.” And also because I can’t hear anything over the sound of myself chewing handfuls of Cheez-its.

– If a guy sends you a dick pic. Okay. Can we just chat for a second about dick pics? GUYS. A picture of your PENIS. really? Do you realllly think those things are that attractive? Besides the fact that it’s probably going to make us jump out of our skin when we open the picture, and then drop our phones into a puddle out of sheer terror, can you please tell me your thought process on sending me a picture of a giant worm attached to your body? It’s not sexy. You should know that 99% of the time, we are laughing at it. It’s a PENIS. We are laughing. And showing our friends.

– If your date says this: “I’m not a major stoner, just a mild stoner. At my worst, it was 10 to 20 bowls a day. Now it’s only like 1-3.” Do you remember what your last name is? Can you please recite the alphabet for me, sir? I’m going to need you to step out of the booth, and start walking in a straight line…and then just keep walking. Yep, right out of the restaurant.

– If a guy you haven’t gone out with gets your number and the FIRST thing he texts you is “Whattup?,” or “I ain’t got shit on Friday if you wanna hang,” or “You free tonight?,” we are probably not going to be on the same page with much of anything. I may swear like a sailor, but I actually AM a lady, and I’m most definitely not your homie or your booty call. Unless we’re role-playing.

– If a guy bails/reschedules on you three times in a row. You’re an idiot for giving him a third chance, and he’s an idiot for being so goddamn immature. Cut your losses and move on (but not before eating a giant Kit Kat).

– If he looks like he’s aged 20 years from the picture you were shown of him. Can someone please tell me why guys (or girls) think that their dates aren’t going to notice that their grandparent has replaced them at dinner?

– If this conversation happens: “I’m pretty apathetic, in general.” …Do you mean empathetic? No, I mean apathetic. Sooo, you have complete disinterest in everything? Yea, pretty much.” Oh..okay. That’s good to know. Shoot me.

-If your date says he doesn’t eat sweets. At all. Oh…okay, well, fuck you then. Anyone who hates sweets is either the devil, or wants to be.

– If your date ends the night by saying, “Good luck on your next date!” …*slow blink*

-If he proceeds to tell you about the two really hot girls at a wedding the previous weekend that he and his buddy tried to hook up with, and then immediately realizes that he totally just said that out loud and tries to back track. Um no, my friend. You can’t back track that. Goodbye.

– If he still lives with his parents, at an age where you do NOT live with your parents.

-If, after your date, he sends you a bathroom mirror selfie of him wet, naked, and holding only a very small white hand towel over his manhood boyhood which includes the caption “Night night, sweetheart.” FIRST OF ALL, do not call me sweetheart. I just met you, dickhole. Secondly, the only thing your little white towel picture is doing for me is making me want to stick a butter knife into my eyes. 

– If your date gets legitimately mad at you for not wanting to drink as much as he is (even though he might be, say, over a FOOT taller, and have at least 100 pounds on you), you should take that as a cue to bail. Any man who actually tries to make you feel bad for not drinking, wants you to drink more so that he doesn’t feel bad about how much HE is drinking. Oh, I’m sorry that I’m not an angry alcohol-abuser like you are, and that I actually like to be able to go to work the next day without wanting to give myself a lobotomy. Find a meeting, love. 

– If, on a date, a guy decides it’s a good idea to say, “I watch a lot of porn. What can I say? I haven’t had a girlfriend in five years!,”  A) How the fuck did we get on the subject of porn and B) Were you done with your glass full of beer because I need to chug it and then puke into the glass. 

– If, after enthusiastically explaining what you do in your career as a Recreation Therapist, your date LAUGHS AT YOU and says, “Isn’t that kind of a joke? You’re actually getting paid for that?” Lord give me the strength not to ruin this man’s chance of ever having offspring.

– If your date shows up late. ESPECIALLY without calling. Either way, it’s super inconsiderate. Unless your dog died right before you left the house, your ass should be at the restaurant before mine.

-If your date pays the bill and then says, “You should feel really special right now.” You should feel really special that your face doesn’t have my handprint on it right now. 

– If your date says, “So I guess I should probably mention that I’m in a cult.” I don’t even know what to say about that.

– If within the first 15 minutes, you feel like you’re on a date with a clone of your super narcissistic/borderline-sociopathic ex-boyfriend, you should probs just stick a fork in that bitch because he’s done.

– If your date says, “I don’t think I have much empathy. Things happen to people, but it doesn’t really bother me…I only really call my friends or family if I need something from them. Yea, I’m not really a good friend.” Are you hearing yourself right now? You are? Okay, just confirming that my ears aren’t full of all of the starving children in the world that you give zero fucks about. 

– If a guy acts completely smitten by you on a first date, and never calls you again. A four hour conversation, sharing personal stories, holding your hand across the table, acting like he’s so moved by what you say, saying over and over how much he’s going to have to thank our friend for setting you two up…and then nothing. No call. No text. No nothing. Don’t be that guy. But thank you for not wasting anymore of my life than you already did. 

-If a guy tells you on a FIRST DATE, “I have $350,000 over in Europe that I’m sitting on.” First of all, no you don’t. Secondly, who the fuck says something like that, and especially the very first time you go out? Hi, I’m super insecure. Can you please believe my blatant lies so that I feel like I’m something other than the cold, empty shell of a person that I actually am? Also, would I really believe that you’re sitting on 350,000 bones when you’ve taken me to a restaurant that makes Applebees look gourmet? I should’ve known that going to a place called Rock Bottom on a first date was a bad omen.

-If your date talks an absurd amount about how attractive other women are (except I really think that talking about it any amount is pretty fucking unnecessary).

-If your date says, “So…do you hook up a lot?” Well, yea! Obviously I’m a slutbag, I thought you’d never ask!

-If your date tells you that all of his friends think that he’s really arrogant, but he doesn’t see it. DUDE.

-If, on your second date, he tells you that you guys will work out just fine because he’s planning on having interracial children, you should probably just start running and not stop running.

Well, that’s probably just part 1, unfortunately. Or fortunately?

—

Happy Monday, lovers!

Love,

M.

Online Dating — You’re Doing it Wrong

/ Love, M / 1 Comment

Confession: I recently made an online dating profile. Recently, as in a few days ago. Why did I do this? I’ve asked myself this same question about 67,000 times in the last 72 hours, but it’s basically the same reason why I came home yesterday from what was supposed to be just a chiropractic appointment, with shopping bags from Zara and Nordstrom Rack filled to the brim with useless clothing items: I’m a wee bit IMPULSIVE.

(okay but they’re not totally useless clothing items and I got a gorgeous new white top because I’m obsessed with white and ohmygodicantstopbuyingallthewhitethings. This is 100% a cry for help)

Anyways, what really happened is that this site lets you make a profile for free (so obviously I got super curious), but you can’t see anyone’s emails or pictures or anything unless you pay, so once the messages started flooding my inbox and I couldn’t even see who was sending them, I caved and said FINE TAKE MY THIRTY DOLLARS, NOW SHOW ME THE SIX-FOOT-FOUR HUGH JACKMAN AND RYAN GOSLING LOOK-ALIKES ALREADY!!!

Also, dating websites are fucking hilarious. The best. I’m telling you, it’s better than reality TV. I think it’s safe to say that it’s pretty much exactly like being on The Bachelorette, but without having cameras following you around. Except that I think I can pick out at least 7 men on this website that would definitely follow you around with a camera.

And maybe also a weapon.

JUST kidding.

But seriously.

I feel like I should be embarrassed to reveal this recent venture, but then again, I posted a picture of my torn up underwear on here, and also, when I brought up this concern to my girlfriend, she said, “Wayyy more people are doing this online dating stuff then you think. They just don’t wan’t to admit it.”

SO THERE. I’m admitting it. I’m on one. Now piss off. Just kidding, I love you. Keep reading. And feel free to laugh at me. I’m laughing at me.

Oh and ALSO, one of my other girlfriends once said to me, “If you’re ever feeling shitty about your life, just remember that I got super drunk a couple weeks ago and slept with a toothless guy.”

…so there’s that.

Now, I’m about 15% taking this seriously, and 85% using this as a social experiment and having my mind blown by some of the stuff I’m seeing and/or reading, immediately taking screenshots of the madness and sending them to my equally inappropriate, we’re-both-on-the-first-train-to-hell-but-it’s-totally-fine-because-we’ll-be-singin’-the-whole-way-there-and-besides-everyone-we-love-will-be-there-too-oh-and-also-WEWILLBRINGTHEMARGARITAS, girlfriend. Love her.

So are you super curious as to what MY dating profile looks like? Well, I was feeling generous today so I uploaded a picture of it for you. Enjoy!…

Hahahahaha

No.

If you want to see my profile, fork over the money to be on the site and stalk me that way, like a normal person would.

Anyways.

For every one message that I’ve received or profile that I’ve come across that has actually made me laugh in a non-creeped-out way, or raise my eyebrow with a look of Okay, well you certainly don’t suck to look at and you also actually write about yourself using sentences that go a little deeper than “I like to have fun. Beer is good,” there are 103 ridiculous ones.

The majority of the time I’m shaking my head in disbelief. So, I thought I’d share, in my humble opinion, how to tell if you should NOT go out with a person you meet online.

If his main profile picture is of him wearing a fish hat.

phortto 2

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If he states that his pet peeve is “chipped nail polish.” Nail polish? Really? If you’re going to abstain from playing ping-pong or wrestling around with your girlfriend because you don’t want her chipping her nail polish, you need to re-evaluate your life. Wait, first remove the giant stick from your ass, and then re-evaluate your life.

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If he has no pictures whatsoever on his profile. Yea, you seem super legit and not at all embarrassed to show your face on here. Your mug shot is probably plastered on light poles in every residential neighborhood. 

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If his email says, “You won’t be disappointed.” Honey, I’m already disappointed.

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If his name is MacGregor, and he actually wants to be called MacGregor.

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If he is the Hispanic Tom Selleck. Except that I think this guy may actually be doing it RIGHT. Let’s be honest.

phoeeeto

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If he sends you emails that are in style of a Shakespearean sonnet.

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If he can’t even spell his own name right in his email.

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If he’s Jesus Christ’s doppleganger. Like I mentioned above, I’m already on the south-bound train for writing this blog post and I can’t look at someone so Christ-like everyday, wondering how much he’s judging me for drinking coffee out of a mug with the word “cunt” written on it.

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If his spelling is so bad that he confuses the word “horse” with “hores,” multiple times, thus asking you if you currently live with hores.

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Two words: Bathroom selfies.

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If he takes the term “Profile picture” literally (and also burns worse than you do — for the sake of your unborn children)

phodddeeto

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If he puts up pictures of himself completely hammered and standing next to the Señor Frog mascot in Cabo (or any other monument/mascot/anything while shitfaced and slumped over). Stop it.

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If the subject line in his email to you is, “Who doesn’t like a good box?”

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If the subject line in his email to you is, “I have a gorilla.”

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If he posts this picture:

photeeo 1

I do not care that your muscles are chiseled and glistening with fake sweat. You’re an idiot. But have fun getting winks and emails from a bunch of girls who pop Valtrex like they’re Flintstone vitamins.

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If his message to you is anything along the lines of: “I’ll keep this short and sweet. You’re hot. What’s your cell number?” What this message ACTUALLY means is: “We should text for a couple of days and then have sex and then you can immediately regret it while I find someone else to text/sex/repeat.” And as romantic as that whole idea is my darling, you can just take your Costco bulk package of condoms and fuck off. K thanks. 

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If his username is “CreepyMcCreeper”

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If he sends you an email with this subject line:

photdsdso

Thank you for that. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment I’m going to go throw up and then pour acid in my eyes. 

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If his username contains the phrase “Rico Suave.” If you feel the need to make it known that you are the Rico Suave type, then you are not suave, you are a d-bag.

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If he’s wearing a big red helmet in 90% of his pictures. Take off your helmet.

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If he has someone take a picture of him talking on his cellphone, while strategically placing his other hand casually through his belt loop, and also just happens to be looking at the camera and giving a casual smile that says “Oh, were you taking a picture of me? You silly goose I wasn’t even ready!” You are not posing for a spread in LL Bean. Get out. 

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If he sends you multiple emails in a row, because he kept forgetting things that he had wanted to ask you. Let it go, my friend. Oh and also, Xanax. 

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If his pictures are literally from a modeling agency and so incredibly photoshopped that it looks like you could use the hollow of his cheekbones as a vessel for guacamole dip. Stop. You are not real, and if you ARE real, I am 98% certain that you have never been able to give a female an orgasm. You probably also do weird shit like only drinking water and sucking on lemons, except for on Tuesdays when you’ll let yourself have some organic soybeans.

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If he posts his Instagram username in his profile with the caption “Follow me on Insta!!” HONEY. You look so desperate. The douchebaggery that you are sending out into the world right now is really messing with my chi. 

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If any (or all) of his pictures are taken with various bikini-clad babes that CLEARLY are not his sister. Oh, please let me be your next lay. I can tell that you’re really into monogamy and class. Puke.

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Lastly, and on a slightly different note, if you’re a widower whose wife died of cancer 2 years ago and you post pictures with the adorable little girl that you had together, and you write happily about how most nights nowadays are spent building forts and watching Frozen, you should know that I’m just going to start bawling. So thanks for that (but you, kind sir, are NOT doing it wrong, and I hope that you find a deep and mighty love). But seriously, I cried. I know, I know. Throw me a tampon.

 It’s not all bad, really. This ain’t my first rodeo. I’m living proof that good things (and horrifying things) can come out of this interweb-correspondance. I know quite a few people who have a certain finger that is a little extra sparkly these days, thanks to one of these silly websites. It’s really no different than meeting people the “normal” way. No matter how you end up getting involved with someone, you’re always going to run the risk of  them being a fucking nutjob. Or a narcissist/sociopath. <— worst case scenario. But you may also just meet that dude (or lady) who is YOUR kind of weird, and it just works.

Well now that I’m feeling sappy, I’m gonna go snuggle my cat and then run around outside until it’s time to drive up north for the day and get into trouble with some old amigos.

Cheers!

Love,

M.

Self-Esteem Boosters

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

If you ever feel like you’re the only one struggling, read this and then high-five yourself.

You’re welcome.

Did I mention I tried to make a thong out of a pair of white granny panties?

Well, I did try to do that.

It turned out well.

photo

Now before you start going off with, “Good gracious!! That girl needs to keep her skivvies to herself! Who in their right mind would go around posting pictures of their panties?! She’s coming off looking like a goddamn hooker!,” let’s take a step back for a second.

People. Look at this pair of underwear. Does it LOOK like I was trying to make them into something that I was planning on having anyone else actually see (until now)? I do have a shred of dignity, sometimes.

I was trying to make them into something that I could wear so that certain things would NOT be seen through all of my white summer dresses because APPARENTLY, it’s really trendy right now for companies to make transparent clothing.

Lovely.

This endeavor clearly did not work out (and no, I didn’t end up wearing any of the dresses because I try to save my hoe-bag looks for never).

If I ever do manage to be successful in creating a thong out of granny panties though, you’ll be the first to know.

Or, I could aways just go and stock up on some of those string-y underwear bullshit things, like a normal person, and not have to sit on my floor trying to go all Martha Stewart on my underoos.

Either way.

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Did I mention I went out to dinner and the human that I was with happened to get accosted with death threats at our table by a wild, yelling, arm-flailing man who claimed to “know all about him?” Yea. That happened. Was I surprised that it happened? No. Of course that would happen to me. And as I watched this all going down, with wide eyes, a forkful of lamb shank and giant gulps of my whiskey cocktail, I thought to myself Self, is this an appropriate time to get your phone out and start video-taping? I may be witnessing an attempted murder. Or a real murder. Or even my own murder. If this man actually takes a swing at the human across from me, is possibly knocking over my delicious plate of lamb really worth jumping in on the action and trying to be a hero? Is this person I’m with right now the Seattle version of Jordan Belfort, and I’m about to witness his downfall when twelve cop cars come screaming around the corner in about 30 seconds? I better start eating my lamb faster because if this happens I probably won’t have time to ask for a box. 

Did I mention that on this said ‘dinner-with-a-fellow-human,’ it took nearly an hour for me to get the half mile to the restaurant because the driver of the car that was sent for me couldn’t spell or pronounce the name “Harrison,” and kept trying to find a “Sheraton” street while I was standing outside in 6-inch heels and about ready to call Pizza Hut so that I could at least have something to munch on while my life was passing me by?

Did I mention that my fellow human was super romantic that evening, sending me texts while he was waiting for me to arrive that said things like,  “I’ll probably be drunk when you get here,” and, “Pouring Jameson in my eyes.”

Did I mention that the aforementioned dinner experience ended with a hilarious rejection of mouth to mouth contact, and the town car driver later telling my fellow human, “You’ll kiss her next time, champ.”

Aaahh, optimism.

Dating is really fun, guys. REALLY fun.

(okay but seriously, though, that one was really fun)

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Did I mention that I resemble a zombie pretty much all of the time now and I’ve probably bought Sephora out of all of their under eye concealers because this little feline thing that I rescued is actually a human toddler? A toddler that doesn’t stop meowing from the time I get home until the time I pass out, UNLESS I let him drape his furry body across my face and start snoring in my ear? A toddler who, like clockwork, puts his face in front of mine at 4am every single morning and starts loudly meowing at me until I wake up, and once I’m up he promptly goes back to sleep, because he’s trying to KILL me? He thinks that because he’s so goddamn cute with his one eye, he can get away with murder.

He’s right.

Did I mention that I bought said feline a gift from Vegas, to try and remind him that I am actually the boss and will put uncomfortable, too-tight pieces of human-looking clothing on him whenever he gets sassy?

My efforts to embarrass him were fruitless because he gave absolutely zero fucks about it.

photo

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And finally, since it’s 4th of July weekend, did I mention that I once had a new brazilian wax client, who’s name on her consult sheet was spelled “Merica,” and when I went to introduce myself and take her back for her service, I called her Mer-i-ka? Yes, like ‘Merica, in the style of Larry the Cable Guy.

Do you want to know how her name was actually pronounced? MUH-REE-SA.

Do you want to know what ethnicity she was? African-American.

Do you know how badly I wanted to crawl into the crevasses of the couch she was sitting on and never, ever ever come out ever again?

So, so badly.

SO badly.

I still almost throw up when I think about it.

Well folks, If THAT doesn’t make you feel better about yourself, I don’t know what will.

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I hope all of you abstain from holding Roman Candles by the wrong end this weekend, and have lots of fun writing swear words in the air with sparklers.

Happy 4th!

Love,

M.

Cast Away’d

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When I told one of my really good friends about the time a guy went all “Cast Away” on me, he asked me if I got a bloody handprint to the face like Tom Hanks had given to that volleyball. I wish it would’ve been that harmless. Oh no, my friend. I didn’t get “Wilson-ed.” This was much worse. 

 

Normally after a date, the phrase “It felt like something straight out of a movie!” is cause for you and your BFF to momentarily turn into giddy 13 year olds again, jumping up and down with the squealing and the hugging and the, “Tell me eeeeverything. Now.,” which is promptly followed by spilling all the details about said date’s unit stamina O-face political stance.

I totally had a movie moment.

It was not cause for the aforementioned reaction.

Let’s call this guy “The Eager Pleaser,” shall we? Now, this man was a super sweet and kind-hearted human being. Super sweet. Bless him. We’d been on two dates and he’d pulled out all the stops. Fancy restaurants that I’d never been to – filet, lobster, top shelf alcohol, desserts that catch on fire; he picked me up, opened doors, walked on the street side of the sidewalk. Everything. AND, he didn’t for one millisecond have me feeling anxious over whether I should offer to split the bill. As in, I really think he would’ve laughed in my face if I asked. HELLO, men out there: put down the xbox controller and take notes. You don’t have to pay for EVERYTHING for the rest of your life, but for pete’s sake, maybe start trying to prove that chivalry isn’t dead. This guy even went so far as to surprise me with a stuffed teddy bear from his trip to Vegas after I had randomly told him the devastating story about how when I was 4, my family took a road trip there and I managed to lose my best friend and beloved stuffed teddy bear, “Bear” (I was a very creative child). Are you KIDDING me with this thoughtfulness right now, people.

So why am I not pregnant with his third child and driving a Range Rover that he bought me for Christmas, you ask?

Keep reading.

It’s our third date. He wants to cook me dinner at his apartment. I want to see how this man lives. He makes me my favorite drink that I apparently mentioned in passing and he LISTENED. It’s important to note that despite his incredibly sweet gestures, I’m still very much on the fence as to how I feel about this guy (hello, I’ve known him for two seconds). I also haven’t kissed him yet because well, because I can totally be a Nervous Nelly and also who doesn’t like a little tension build-up? (Don’t get me wrong, I have definitely kissed guys before the third date, and I have definitely  kissed guys because “Well, I’m never gonna be in this country again so I probably should just do this.” What I’m saying is that I’m not a saint and nobody needs to name a church after me. But those are stories for another day).

Anyways. Eager Pleaser. He suggests watching a movie on the couch after dinner. Alright Slick, I’m onto you. I was genuinely mostly having a good time but something in my gut was literally giving me the Mckayla Maroney. Maybe because it was 9:30 on a work night which is obviously bedtime and I didn’t want to turn into a pumpkin (unless you are Hugh Jackman in which case, should I take my pants off now or later?). What I’m trying to get at is that my intuition already knew some important things and my brain was just being a little bitch. SO, naturally, my stupid mouth opened up and said “A movie? Okay, sounds great!”

Alright men, this is where you want to stop taking notes.

We make our way to the couch. There’s an exhausting exchange over what to watch because he’s just trying to be considerate and I’m just trying to survive the next two hours of my life. I took the initiative to implement my own “six inch rule” because, well, I didn’t know what to do with myself and basicallyimawkward. At this point I still could’ve pulled the “ohimsosorrybut___” and get the heckfire outta there. But, I didn’t. I sat. I watched. He inched closer. I prayed. I wanted so badly to like him the way I liked my high school crush, Jason. The one who asked me to the Homecoming dance my freshman year via the hip, new computer instant messaging program, and I jumped up and down on my bed giggling uncontrollably for ten minutes because I just KNEW we were going to get married. The one who, on Homecoming, I literally didn’t say a single word to the entire night because I was so utterly terrified and flustered that I forgot how to speak English altogether, let alone form a sentence.

What I’m saying is, ‘my penis wasn’t gettin’ off the couch,’ with this guy. The  Millionaire Matchmaker has taught me well.

It’s probably ten minutes into pretending like I’m watching something with some shooting and some swearing when my Eager Pleaser makes a comment about how cute my freckles are. This is weird since the room is pretty damn dark and I don’t know how he’d possibly even be able to see them. So I look over up at him (he is a very tall man) to say something really clever like “Huh?,” but before I can deliver my line he swoops down and his face is suddenly on my face. Well, it looks as though contact is being made, I note. It’s almost an upside down kiss, which would’ve been totally welcomed if he was in a Spider-Man costume and was also Andrew Garfield (sorry, Tobey). I decide to give this kiss a shot, though, and see if there’s chemistry, but I quickly come to the conclusion that he took kissing lessons from these poor souls. Or maybe a woodpecker. Anyway, just as I’m getting ready to pull a really clever exit move (that I swear I was about to come up with), I feel a sensation that I’m pretty sure only sticks and tinder are ever supposed to feel.

Out of nowhere this guy’s hand lands on the no-no zone of my jeans and starts Going. To. Town. His hand has turned into a scouring pad and my sacred promised land has become his cast-iron skillet. This man is trying to start a fire on me, people. He is literally attempting to create FIRE using his hand, AND MY VAGINA.

How did I get here???

My first thought is, “Well, it’s happened. I’m in Castaway. Tom Hanks is here and in his state of delirium and starvation he seems to have mistaken my body for a pile of kindling. Perfect.” My second thought is “Please don’t put a hole in my jeans with your furious and incessant rubbing because they actually make me look like I have an ass and also this denim is the only thing keeping my cookie from being pulverized right now.”

I should mention that I also took a moment to mentally high-five him on his efforts though, because let me tell you, the ferocity and diligence this guy was putting into this endeavor was something for the record books. What I’m saying is that if this guy was ever stranded on an island and needing a source of heat, he’d be golden.

As I awkwardly wriggled my lower half out of reach, I mumbled something that I don’t remember now, probably because I blacked out. What I DO remember is that I WANTED to laugh hysterically and maybe cry just a little bit and then ask him what kind of porn he’s been watching.

Suffice it to say, this “spark” did not go any further then my, now, “distressed” denim.

To this day, I’m still baffled by what exactly I did to make this guy think we should roast marshmallows over my vagina. Unfortunately, this may forever be an unsolved mystery. Either way, I guess I should just be thankful that no body parts were seriously harmed, but I do sincerely hope that I’m the last fire he’s tried to start.

 

And THAT, my friends, is how you go all “Cast Away” on somebody.

 

Oh, and the next time any of you men want to put your lady into some dreamy Tom Hanks movie reenactment, maybe try Sleepless in Seattle.

 

 

Love,

M.