Thoughts on My Birthday

Every year on this date I remember too late that I’ve been meaning to figure out how to hide my birthday on Facebook. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment behind “happy birthday”, I use the phrase myself to honor the wishes of those who choose to celebrate the anniversary of their arrival to the human race with excess carbohydrate consumption and merriment. For me, however, I don’t believe in “happy birthday”. I don’t believe in celebrating aging and, since the day I turned 30, I cannot for the life of me understand how anyone could feel happy being reminded that the sands of your hour glass are steadily yielding to gravity like magnetic nipples on the tin man and there’s nothing you or the best plastic surgeon can do to stop it.

On September 6th I acknowledge the anniversary of my arrival by choosing instead to just be present. To listen and take heed to the universe as it issues yet another warning that time is running out and asks “What have you done so far?” and “What do you have left to do?”. As I type those questions my heart rate picks up from my usual resting rate of 55 and skyrockets to an alarming 140bpm, at which point I’m sitting here thinking “Is that atrial fibrillation? Oh my god, bear down!” I will shed a few tears in memory of the hopes and dreams that were abandoned along the way and the mistakes that can never be undone. At the end of the day I will wipe away the last drops of self-pity and regret and send up my most heartfelt gratitude to the universe for reminding me that I’m still here and forcing me to take stock in the long list of what I have accomplished, to update the even longer list of work yet to be done, and to once again give thanks to whomever it was that invented Botox, Zoloft and Silicone. I will remind myself that others who persevered found great love and great fortune in the second half. I will never give up 5 minutes before my miracle. After all, the secret to a happy life is not that we arrive at our destination but that we enjoy the scenery along the way. Today I am most grateful to have so many beautiful and loving friends and family. Without them, there would be no one to lie and tell me I look fabulous for …29. ❤

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Does This Date Make My Ass Look Big?

If I don’t give up this serial dating spree soon I worry I might end up in a hotel in Bogata Columbia letting someone inject fix-a-flat into my ass.  I don’t know why. For whatever reason I seem to be really good at dating but good at dating the wrong kind of men.  In my quest for self-improvement hoping to attract a higher caliber male, I’ve created a shallow, narcisistic monster.

If I remember correctly, serial dating in my 20’s and 30’s there was always a handsome face on my mind when I went to bed and my first thought in the morning.  Every guy I went out with seemed like marriage material. Isn’t that what dating is all about? The excitement of wondering if the guy you met last night might be “the one”? I used to live for that feeling.  Last night I fell asleep thinking about a tummy tuck and this morning the first thing I did was to reach for my phone and search for “medical tourism Costa Rica”.  In case you’re curious, I’m now leaning toward Monterey Mexico or Panama and, what the hell, I might just throw in the facelift at the same time.

Also, if you want some advice, just because you can buy 70% glycolic acid on Ebay doesn’t mean DIY chemical peels are a good idea. (Don’t worry, once the burn healed and my face peeled off  I have hardly any noticible scarring and the rest is soft as a baby’s behind. Totally worth it, but in the future when they say “don’t try this at home, I might listen.)

 

 

Some people have said I have what they call “an addictive personality”. I guess they call those people “drug and alcohol counselors”, whatever.  I can see where vanity can become an addiction. I spend as much time online searching for Botox bargains as I do surfing dating profiles.

Sometimes I have moments of clarity when I’m struck by the absurdity of it all.  Have you ever wondered why lumps of fat on the chest are sexy but not the lumps of fat everywhere else? As far as I can tell, the only difference is nipples. What if I just have nipples implanted on my love handles? I could call them hipples. I think this could really catch on. My hipples will bring all the boys to the yard. They’re gonna be all “Man, she’s got bigger hipples than those loser Kardashians”. Then Ill design a line of clothing to accentuate this sexy new appendage. I’ll call it the hipple holster.

These are the thoughts that keep me awake at night.

So this weekend, after having enough Xeomin injected into my face to paralyze an elephant, I have two dates.   Saturday night with the stand-up comedian and Sunday night with the entrepeneur/ self-help author /motivational speaker.  If neither of these guys make my toes curl it might just be time to log off and go back to living in my sweats, eating junk food and reading romance novels on the weekends.

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Carlos Danger and The Evolution of Monogamy

Tuesday morning CNN’s Elizabeth Landau published an article on their website titled Monogamy, Who Needs It? .  It was somewhat buried in the Health section and the article itself rambled on a bit too much, for me, about the history of ape sex. The point she was making was spot on with what I’ve been saying in my blogs for years. We are not by nature monogamous. Monogamy no longer makes any sense for our culture because it’s not working and there is no natural reason to continue doing it. The evolution of monogamy, or rather back to Polygyny, has begun and our failed marriages and relationships are evidence of that evolution.

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Does that make you cringe? Is there some part of you, or every fiber of you dying to kick me in the shins right now? Of course there is for most of you who, like me, were raised in monogamous households where the American dream that we were taught to aspire to included one husband and  2.3 children behind a white picket fence.  I’m 41 years old and I still can’t shake off the sense that I’ve somehow failed at life because, even though my two beautiful, healthy sons were raised happily behind the proverbial white picket fence, they did so in a single parent household.  If the argument for monogamy is family values and what’s best for the children, then why are so many children thriving in “non traditional” households? Why are we not seeing wolves running through the streets carrying off our babies? Because the reality is, our species has evolved beyond the Monogamy as a necessary model for the protection of offspring. There is simply no social or biological reason that monogamy makes sense in our society except that it’s what we’re used to, what we’ve been taught to aspire to and it makes us uncomfortable to imagine rejecting it.

I’ll give you one of my favorite recent examples just because the mere mention of his name will evoke a reaction.  New York Mayoral Candidate, Anthony Weiner. This man’s first crime against monogamy actually occurred in utero when his mother had the audacity  to expose him to high levels of testosterone. The result is the supercharged, super testosteroned male you see in the headlines. Lean, powerful and endowed with a super sized “Carlos Danger”. His natural instinct to stick that massive Carlos Danger into every female that passes him on the streets is not an “addiction”, it’s a reflection of the natural consequence of excess testosterone and an exaggerated expression of the natural instinct of all men. Watching him grovel for forgiveness in front of the cameras over his recent texting scandal, it’s easy to forget that this is not a weak and timid man. A 2008 New York Times article described him as one of the most intense and demanding bosses and described a workaholic with a ferocious temper. I don’t believe that it’s natural or even possible  for a man like Anthony Weiner to contain his Carlos Danger and limit it to one woman. Furthermore, I don’t believe that smart and powerful woman like Huma Abedin believes it either.  Does it occur to anyone else that the reason she forgives his sexting behavior is because, knowing full well that she can’t be on that thing 24/7 to keep him satisfied, she understands that this may, in fact, be the closest he can come to fidelity and for all we know they may have had an understanding that this behavior was allowed in their marriage? They’ve been married since 2010 and just maybe the fact that we haven’t heard from one woman who’s actually ridden the Carlos Danger train is a testament to the mans character.  Now just imagine, for a moment,  if our society was accepting of polygamy. What if we all agreed that what adults do in their bedrooms is none of our business and we stopped judging their ability to lead based on where they stick their dick.  What if a man of power like Mr. Weiner married three women of power like Huma Abedin. Now imagine that power family in the white house.  It would be like Sister Wives on steroids and let me tell you, shit would get DONE.

Ok, so not all men are loaded with excess testosterone and packing a Carlos Danger, but certainly fidelity is and always has been the exception.  There are many women, also, who find that one man can’t satisfy all of the physical and emotional needs. More and more people are openly talking about the breakdown of monogamy and exploring polyamorous relationships. One of the challenges I’ve found  in searching for men in Seattle is that most of the really cool men that I’ve met online are dating in the context of a poly relationship and I’ve been unable to move past all of my pre-conceived ideals and fear of jealousy to even be open to the possibility of dating them.  I’ve given this a lot of thought over the past few days and on the heels of some colossal dating fails, I ‘m starting to realize that maybe 40 years of trying to fit a round peg into a square hole is enough.

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Maybe it’s time for the human species to decide that 16 million years is enough.

Relationship Status: Catfishing on J-Date.

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Broken Puzzle Pieces

Dating after 40 sucks. They only fish left in the dating pool are the ones that someone else threw back and the sharks that prey on them. Everyone you meet is so damaged in their own way they’re just hoping to find someone who’s crazy matches their crazy in such a way that they compliment each other like “Oh look honey, when you line up all our pills it looks like a rainbow” or “Baby, could you hand me the saws-all? I can’t quite get the head off this one”. What I’m saying is that dating is like a giant jig saw puzzle that gets more complicated with time. The pieces seem to grow more sides with every passing year until you look at a 67 sided puzzle piece and start just trying to cram it in any which way if it looks like it might be the general size and shape you were looking for. Long gone are the simple days of the 5 sided, age 7 and up puzzle. We started out with the capacity to love anyone who could meet the very basic qualifications of “Yes, I like your Barbie, you can touch my Tonka Truck if you’d like, and no, I do not have cooties. A simple negotiation and as long as he was willing to share his cookies with me, I probably did touch his Tonka Truck right there on the playground at recess. Now days there is a long online profile and 497 compatibility questions that must be poured over and analyzed to death in order to decide if you’re willing to meet for coffee (which we all know is just his way of making sure you aren’t fatter than you appear in your photo’s before he commits to buying you dinner). In the end, I’m still probably willing to touch his Tonka Truck, or at least show him my Barbie, but I’ve given up on the dream that he might be willing to share his cookies with me.

 

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 Are you getting tired of my metaphors yet? Too bad, they’re endless on this topic.
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Cranberry Vagina, What?

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Relax, I am not now, nor will I ever write a blog about my period.

As I was saying in my last post, you get the most fascinating and amusing replies on a dating profile when you resort to brutal honesty and self depreciating humor.  Take this gentleman who messaged me this morning. He posed some very thought-provoking questions including “favorite body of water?” to which I, of course, replied “my vagina”.

Now, in the interest of protecting my karma, I won’t copy and paste messages from someone from OK Cupid without their permission so you will have to use your imagination in filling in his response that, in turn, prompted me to reply with the following.

Hi _______,

Thank you for that well-informed synopsis on vaginal secretions. When I first started reading I was amused, although admittedly bored by the scientific refresher course in just what it is that seeps into the cotton between my thighs when a handsome man invites me to his gun show. Being at work I was hastily skimming your reply when something caught my eye and brought me to full attention.

“It can vary in consistency, texture, taste, color, and odor, depending on sexual arousal, the phase of the menstrual cycle, the presence of an infection, certain drugs, genetic factors, and diet.”

Diet?!!!

Now, It’s long been understood by both sexes, I think, that a considerate man will dine on pineapple and avoid asparagus the day before a romantic encounter in order to delight his lady with a sweet treat, however, It has never occurred to me that I should do the same. After all, I have always been assured that I do indeed already have “a sweet pussy”.

I did some research of my own and found this from Jezebel.com

“I found pineapple mentioned frequently as vaginal taste aid. Apparently, it’s high in sugars, and when you eat it, some internal mechanism sends tiny Magic School Buses to your stomach to cart away the sweet pineapple molecules straight to your vagina. Also recommended: apples, celery, yogurt, red grapes, cranberry juice, lots of water, mint, watermelon, strawberries. Basically, anything that grows that isn’t smelly.

According to the anecdata, any food that can make you have weird farts, bad breath, or strong smelling pee should be avoided — beer, coffee, alcohol, asparagus, most dairy, onions, shallots, meat, and fish. And while smoking will make you cool, like cooler than you could ever manage on your own, smoking will make the taste of your body’s juices turn sour. If you already smoke and are about to defensively insist that your juices taste like peach nectar, just imagine how scrumptious you’d taste if you kicked the habit.”

So, my new friend, I thank you. While I have yet to meet the man, or mouth, worthy of foregoing bacon, surely I will consider a diet fortified with strawberries, just in case.

Moistly yours,
J

P.S. I was really worried about the hamster in your story. We’ve all shat ourselves in a hungover stupor at least once. At least no hamsters were harmed in the process. I think we can agree that if that’s the closest your hamster gets to knowing what’s going on in the region of your ass, then he should be grateful.

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Size Matters and Other Pearls of Truth

 

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If you’ve been using a dating profile for any length of time it will come as no surprise to you when I tell you that everyone you see there is completely, utterly full of  shit. According to a recent study conducted by researchers at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and Cornell University, 80% of online daters are lying about their height, weight or age.  Chances are, despite your best intentions, you’re stretching reality online as well.  Men, you’re two inches shorter, women are  20 pounds heavier and your photos are all old and shot from a flattering angle in just the right light because, God forbid, someone might see us as we truly are. I got to really thinking about what might happen if someone were to really be totally honest on a dating site and, as is often the case, my curiosity got  the better of me. I went on a popular dating site and opened a new profile. The following are some excerpts from that site:

 

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My self-summary

For starters, my name is not Annie and I do not live in Beverly Hills but 90210 was the only other zip code I could think of.
I’m only here because I was rejected by E-harmony…twice.

My details are all accurate except that I’m not quite 5’9″ anymore. I’ve already started shrinking. That’s OK, though, because odds are you’re only 5’6″ and lied and said you’re 5’9″ as well. When we meet and I’m wearing 2 inch heels it’s going to be super awkward.

My BMI fluctuates between 26 and 27 which puts me squarely in the overweight category but I’m hoping if I use the word “curvy” you’ll be drawn to the fact that I have huge tits and ignore the muffin top and love handles. Oh, and if you message me and ask to see a photo of me in a bikini, I’m going to die a little inside because I could really use a tummy tuck and haven’t worn a bikini since I got knocked up the summer after high school.

I do not smoke cigarettes, nor do I drink but that’s because they made me give up both when I checked into rehab.

I would have liked to have had more children, but I promised myself that the next time I had a kid, I would get married first. I’ve been single since 1998. I’m pretty sure my eggs are pickled.

I have a dog and three cats. If I can just make it a few more weeks without sex, I think I win another cat. On any given day I probably leave the house wearing enough hair to knit a sweater.

I use my gym membership about twice a month but will list working out as a favorite activity on POF. I prefer yoga to real exercise because there’s a nap at the end.

I don’t eat carbs and I am perpetually on a diet because I have issues with body image. If you take me out on a date, I’m going to order a salad and a diet coke then, probably go home and eat a steak and a whole box of low carb ice cream bars.

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What I’m doing with my life

Well, I guess I’m at a crossroads where I need to decide if I’m going to pursue love and dating or find jesus and become a nun or something. It’s been a long time since I read the bible, but I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed. Besides, I once got a fortune cookie that said I would be forcibly removed from church so I’ve been pretty careful about avoiding them ever since.Usually I come home, put on sweats and pick up my lap top. Some days, I only get up from the internet to go to the fridge and pee. I recognized that I really needed a hobby so I started a new blog.
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My super airbrushed photos? Oh, you mean in real life? I’m too loud, I’m tall and built like a brick shithouse so there really isn’t anything stealth about me. When I walk into the room, you’ll notice.
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Building blanket forts with my cats, surfing the internet. It’s  the only night of the week that I surf the profiles on my dating sites because I am very much aware of the fact that if I don’t start dating and having sex again soon, my vagina will dry up like the Sahara and I’ll die  alone, probably suffocated and eaten by cats.
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If you are even moderately good at oral sex, I’m going to confuse that with love. I’ll probably get really super clingy, you’ll dump me and then I won’t stop texting you for two weeks. After that, I’m secretly going to keep stalking you online for 6 months before I finally give up. I’ll keep a picture of you on my phone for a year.
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You should message me if

If you have really low expectations and a really big…ego (size matters). You should also be OK with the reality that as soon as you say “I love you”, I’ll start eating carbs again, gain 20 pounds and probably start neglecting my eyebrows.
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On the first draft I posted a photo of myself “in situ” siting there on my sofa in yoga pants and an old t-shirt and sans makeup but, in spite of my committment to be completely honest,  could not muster the courage to lower myself to that depth of public humility. I settled instead on my favorite photos with captions that explained in no uncertain terms that they are 5 years old, the product of hours of trial and error with lighting and effects and airbrushed all to hell.
So what happened? Well the results were somewhat surprising.
After all of these years of obsessing over my dating profiles, of editing and re-editing and trying to write just the right words to reel in the perfect match, it turns out that about 70% of men aren’t going to read ONE. SINGLE. WORD.  Here is a sampling of the initial  replies I received:
“looking for casual?”

Me:  Always. I feel rediculous in an evening gown.

—–

“we should play”

Me: Ok, how about Yahtzee?

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Phone sex?

Me: No, I can’t figure out how to make it stay on vibrate.

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U DTF? I would love to creampie you!!

Me: No thanks, I prefer meringue.

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Are you a pee girl?

Me: R. Kelly, Is that you?

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But then something rather amazing happened. It turns out that when you get really, really real. The other 30%, the ones who can read, get real too.  I’ve had some of the most honest, interesting and intriguing conversations with a few quality men in the past couple of weeks on this profile than I have in years with the usual canned bullshit. These responders are pretty quickly offered a link to my “other” profile so they can see the not-so-airbrushed versions of me.

I was reminded, once again, that in order to let people in, you have to be willing to open the door or, in my case, at least be willing to throw a rock through the window.

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9lb Hammer of Desperation

It’s been said that you are more likely to be killed by terrorists than to find love after 40. I know that’s absurd from a statistical perspective but, call me cynical, from the perspective of my sofa on a Saturday night, it seems pretty legit. I’m actually OK with that most of the time. I picked up a couple of cats and  I’ve found bitterness and sarcasm surprisingly fulfilling. Still, once in a while, you just want to be reminded what it’s like to physically touch another human being. This was case last Saturday night. Keep in mind, please, that this was only my second date in 3 years. I think I was entitled to indulge in a bit of lunacy.  

His user name was something really clever like Beach69 and he had this wild dark curly hair and piercing blue eyes. He also lied about his height and might have been about 100lbs soaking wet but no one knows better than I do that the camera adds about 30lbs so I didn’t hold that against him and overall he was a cute little thing. It wasn’t his profile photos that lured me out of the shadows, after all, it was the filthy photos he sent me before we’d barely gotten past “how are you liking this weather and my name is Janet”. Oh holy Jesus, I am telling you, if a man offers to send you a photo like that right off the bat, always say yes, because I can promise you it’s going to be pretty bloody impressive. What was I talking about again? Oh yes, the date. 

He took me to a seedy bar in Georgetown called the 9lb Hammer, presumably named after him. This place is like a bunch of hipsters crashed a biker bar and a game of shuffleboard broke out. Very cool for people watching if a bizarre juxtaposition of facial tattoos and skinny jeans are your cup of tea. We sat in a cozy booth and he tried to order me a beer. Clue #1 that this new friend is not to be the one to save me from my certain death by terrorist; if he had read my dating profile at all, he should have noticed that I repeatedly mention I don’t drink.  

Now here is the part where I have to take some responsibility for this train wreck. At some point I realized that I had committed one of the cardinal sins of first dates. I started talking about social media. As soon as the words ‘Facebook’, ‘Twitter’ and ‘blog’  oh yes, all three came streaming out of my squak box,  I knew I would have been better off having ‘dork’ tattooed on my forehead. At least then I’d have something interesting to talk about. Not surprising, this is about the time when my new friend suggested we go for a walk. 

Now, I’m not stupid. I was well aware that wandering around this part of town at night with a strange man I know nothing about might suggest a death wish, but as I mentioned before I had about two inches and 20 pounds on the guy so I figured he should have more reason to be afraid than I did and I was right. Maybe I was just looking for some excitement. Maybe the years of celibacy have finally obliterated all logic and reason where men are concerned. All I know for sure is that standing in that alley, making out with some guy I’d barely met online, I made a gruesome discovery. 

Desperation smells like the urine of a thousand drunks and no amount of Purell can wash it away. 

We’re going out again next weekend. 

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