The Clinger

First thing's first, it's been awhile.  Let's just acknowledge that and let me apologize for not staying on top of this endeavor.  Here's the thing, I stopped having bad dates!  I know, I know, it was bittersweet for me too.  While I'm now two years into this relationship, I keep thinking about the stories I never did share.   So, here we go.

The Clinger. 

Hold onto your hair, Norma, because this one is going to drive you bonkers.  This guy was legit the reason I googled "beachfront convents" in hopes of finding a unicorn of a place where I could just finish out my years on Earth.  This was my very brief encounter with the app called "clover" and I cannot emphasize "brief" enough.  First of all, that app allows people outside of the parameters that you've set and outside of those you've "matched" with to message you! That is just madness!  Can we all agree that very.  little.  good.  could possibly come from that cocktail of contact criteria.  Especially if you're like me and it's very challenging to come out the gate a total asshole so you passive aggressively skate around the "I'm not interested" issue.  Alas, you're not here for the good stories though are you, so let's continue shall we?

Red Flag Number 1:  Dude has next to no photos, not of full body or clear images anyway.  Maybe he's just not into taking photos?  I don't know.  Homeboy lived in Napa which on paper would seem a viable option:  Decent location, far enough to not always be taking up my time, must be a certain level of SES one would think.  So I thought, let's not fret about the lack of photos, don't be so vain after all.  (Absolutely, one should be so vain #toptip)

Red Flag Number 2:  He told me he was set to go to Disneyland with his family, but had changed his flight so as to potentially drive the hour and a half to meet me for dinner.  This absolutely should have been my first clue.  One Hundred Percent.  I had clearly said there was no need but he wasn't having it, he insisted and I obliged.  

Red Flag Number 3:  He has me meet him outside of Bath and Body Works because he needed to stop and buy stuff for his "Airbnbs".  I thought, "Oh, he lives in Napa and he has a couple of Airbnbs, how bad can this be???" I arrive and he says he's checking out so I just wait in my car.  I see him come out the store and I just start praying for it to not be him.  Remember the "5'10 = 5'6" blog??? Roughly based on this dude (and others).  HE WAS SO SHORT!!!! I was now upset.  The photo gallery was Absolutely Necessary and now I'm feeling like he's pigeon-holed me into being an asshole because I can't claim it's "false advertising" because there wasn't any advertising, but this guy is just not attractive.  I don't even care how quickly I'm going to hell for this, if you've done any online dating then you have likely experienced this moment where you're just like "FUCK. How long do I need to stay before I can duck out of this?" or "why didn't I set up the decoy phone call with my friend?!"  

Red Flag Number 4:  I proceed as if I'm unscathed by this shock to the system and I ask, "so where are we going for dinner?"  I want to first note that we are in Roseville, California and we are near the mall where literally dozens of mid-seriously nice restaurants exist.  He replies, "Tahoe Joe's."  Now, I've never at this point been to Tahoe Joe's but mainly because, well... why?

Moral Quandary Number 1: So we're in separate cars and we have to now drive to Tahoe Joe's.  Please note I'm at this point not sure whether to laugh like a crazy person or cry that this is my life and I'm in my late 20's with this as my dating pool.  The quandary is now, do I actually drive to Tahoe Joe's and do this dinner or do I just drive the fuck home, block the number, potentially change my number, maybe even my name, and proceed as if I have a time machine and this never happened? 

I elected to drive as fast as I could (legally) so that I could get there and walk directly to the waitress and hand her my card, instructing her to "just run it when we are done, don't bring the bill, just make sure it's paid."  I was not about to stay longer or owe any continued contact with this person.

Red Flag Number 5:  We are now sitting across from each other in this fucking Tahoe Joe's and he asks to see my hand.  I hesitantly present my hand thinking there's something on it or wrong and he DOUBLE hand holds my hand.  One hand on top and one hand on bottom, cradling my hand.  I experienced a (very noticeable) visceral reaction in which I cringed and quickly withdrew my hand and tried not to vomit. 

Red Flag Number 6:  He did not stop talking... about himself.  All of his ventures from his Airbnbs in some rather desirable places, to his showing off of photos for the client he represented on some talent show (America's Got Talent, or Idol, or who knows maybe even the Gong Show... clearly I wasn't listening), to also showing me photos of him on the Raider's Field with John Madden (admittedly, I initially wrote Steve) while he talked about his potential designing the new Raider's Stadium (he's an architect too, btw).  It keeps going, and going, and going; as my interest keeps decreasing and decreasing. Why weren't these photos on his "profile"?? 

Moral Quandary Number 2: This guy is driving me up the wall (and not in the way you'd want), he's not attractive, he's much shorter than I could realistically disregard, but he may or may not have some seriously good connections and the potential to provide a really comfortable lifestyle.  Do I just own up to the fact that I just can't do this and I'm feeling physically sick the more he talks or do I bite the bullet and see if a second date might reveal how much smoke is being blown here? 

Red Flag Number 7:  He gets upset when the lady brings the settled bill to me.  Not over the top upset so I can't utilize this as a reason to call it, but he's clearly annoyed.  This does not however stop him from continuing to talk about his fancy cars and how I should come visit and we'd go to one of his Airbnbs.  It's important to note that I believe the only contribution I made to the conversation through the entirety of dinner was me saying that Costco's new packaging of milk was so absurd (being in rectangles with flat tops) that I was no longer buying their milk and now buying organic at three times the price just to be able to pour milk from a normal gallon container (This will be important later).  

He continues to talk about himself and we leave the restaurant, again he says something to where I think something is on me so I turn my back to him expecting, I don't know-- a giant spider to be swatted off of me because how can this evening get any worse???  No.  Suddenly his hands are on my shoulders and he's trying to give me a massage!!!  

My response was almost MMA level duck-and-turn-around and then I excused myself and went home for the night.  He drove all the way home and proceeded to text me that if I wanted, he'd turn around and come all the way back.  No thank you. A heavy pass for me.  

Moral Quandary Number 3: Do I ghost him, be direct, or just hope it fizzles? 

I executed all of these in reverse order.  It was certainly not fizzling.  I then told him directly that I just wasn't into him.  He continued to message me.  Now here's where the milk fact comes in.  Every time I thought it had fizzled out, I'd get a text that would read "I was just in costco and I didn't buy the weird milk. You should come visit."  WTF?!  This went on for MONTHS.  Our date was in August and well into the holidays I was still getting these rando messages!!!!  I then went from being direct to coming up with anything I could possibly conjure up:

1. I'm dating someone.

2. I'm moving... far away.

3. I'm considering becoming a nun.

4. (my favorite) I've joined a patriarchal occult and the leader would not be happy if I was talking to another male.  His response:  Cool, can I join???

I could not shake this guy.  So I just took to the "ghosting" but I didn't block, I just ignored.  Fast forward to Valentine's Day and at FIVE AM.... FIVE AM, PEOPLE.... at five am he texts "Happy Valentine's Day, we do not get to choose who we love..."  followed by other stuff I've blocked out of my memory.  It was at this point in time that the real life boyfriend blocked him for me.  

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the longest story to capture a well and truly frightening example of The Clinger. 

The Vegan

There are certain life choices and stances people take and one of those is veganism.  Now, I have no problem with vegans (apart from they make horrible brunch dates), but I certainly learned I can not date one.

The Vegan.  Our first date we met up at a cafe and he said he was going to be ordering the portobello burger, which sounded good but I was going to order the turkey burger.  He tells me he's a vegan and my response was, "well you may be, but I'm going to order the turkey burger."  We continued to have a great discussion though and talked about The Walking Dead for ages and it was an enjoyable evening.  Homeboy let me know his degree from biology had taken him from counting ants in a forest for science to growing weed for seemingly some pretty big deal. We didn't really get together again for a long time, think he had a little fling with his ex again and so on.  But randomly we started messaging one another, met up for a couple of lunch dates with his dog Pablo... Pablo Escobar... aka "Pabs".

Few keynotes for the story about The Vegan.  We met up for drinks on his birthday when I was out with my friend and he was with his roomie. During introductions, my friend casually says, "We've met." Vegan responds, "No we haven't."  She insists "You look very familiar."  He shoots me a glance as I'm wanting to die where I'm stood and says, "I guess I must look like alllllll the others, have a type?"  Later on through further conversation, we find out that he and my friend had actually matched on a dating app previously and that was why he "looked familiar".  His friend sober drove while the other three of us got rather drunk, dropped us off at her place in midtown, and I was sent away with a simple kiss by the outside stairwell.  Time went by and we'd randomly message between his farming deals (ha, "farming").  Then summer came around and we started seeing each other more frequently following what I will say shamelessly, a very very late night random hook up. We began having more brunch dates, a dog date--in which my dog attempted to kill Pabs... straight for the jugular, that's my girl.  The Vegan was not impressed, but it was most certainly his fault by asking her to retrieve his toy.  He came over for a brunch I'd hosted with friends and as I've previously mentioned, vegans make shit brunch dates.  I found vegan bacon, guys... vegan bacon, and I also made vegan pancakes specially for him.

He was a good conversationalist guys, but extremely opinionated I soon found out.  The last keynote of The Vegan is that he was this close (pretend you can see my thumb and forefinger nearly touching)... this close to convincing me to buy property to grow weed on so that one day I could have a beach house. POINT IS, I didn't.  I'll be honest, I'm not really 100% sure what happened, the more time spent with him the more interest I lost.  It's one thing to smoke weed, it's another to be constantly high, and another to be doing some rather shady shit.
I think once I had eaten some meat and cheese my brain may have come to while he was away on a farming crisis and I just decided the lucrative vegan life wasn't for me .... and continued on swiping left and right.

Moral to this story is, don't date a vegan... Pretty sure it's bad for your health

Ned Flanders

Let me first start by saying that I'm no longer on the dating app scene so the stories about dating-app related dates will be past dates that I just feel are worth a mention.

Now that that's out of the way, when I first entered the world of dating and began using these apps it may be fair to say that I assumed people were just more generous or well-intended than maybe they actually were.  Now that's not to say that anything horrible happened to me, it's just to say that I found some very nice people who helped this poor widow out who now had to learn "manly" tasks and how to use power tools to fix things.  For this, I may have caught what seems to be justified flack for utilizing dating apps as a handyman service.  One of these fellows will go by the name Ned Flanders.

Now, Ned was a nice guy.  We matched up but hadn't met up.  We had messaged back and forth and compared who was the better aunt or uncle and shared pleasant conversation time to time, but just didn't bother to actually have a date.  Well, the roommate at the time had ordered a wall mount for her TV and she was rather antsy to have it installed so that she could have TV in her room.  I of course being the stubborn and independent person I am, I thought this can't be that hard.  Well... 13 holes in the wall later and still no located stud.  Ned happened to text me and ask me what I was doing and I sent a photo of the now hole filled wall and just said, "failing to find a stud."

Now, give me a break.  I totally in hindsight realize how that sounded, but we can all acknowledge what I was intending was completely innocent.  It's now about 10:30PM and looking dismal in regards to our abilities in completing this task.  Ned of course responded with some comment about how he's a stud and told me that he used to do construction for Habitat for Humanity or some other various charitable construction based outfit.  Long story short, he drove about 20 miles to come in the middle of the night to a stranger's house to securely fasten a TV mount.  He was really good, showed up, with next to no effort he had this thing secured to the wall, even put all the items away, and it was a pleasant exchange.  On his way out the door he asked, "Need anything else?"  I said, "What else can you do?" and he replied, "I can set up electronics but not really fix them."  "Nope, don't need any of that, thanks!" I told him I owed him a coffee and that was that.

Fast forward, we ended up eventually going on a date when I bought tickets to go see Sac Republic FC and invited him.  A nice gentleman, he picked me up and drove us there and this is when it begins.  I of course have no problem dropping and F bomb here and an F bomb there.  We're driving and someone cuts him off and he says, "You booger-pants." or something really 7 year old like and definitely utilizing the word booger.  I laughed and apologized for my previous swearing and he told me he just really tries not to swear and instead uses words like "booger" and "poop head" as well as a list of maybe another four rather odd sounding items from a 27 year old.

Then, we are nearing the stadium and homeboy points to the right and says, "That's where my square-dancing club is."
Internal Dialogue: He did not say "square-dance".   "What was that?" I ask.
"I do square-dancing and we practice over there."
Internal Dialogue: He did just say that. I didn't think people still did that. "Oh, that's cool. I didn't quite catch what you'd said the first time."
Internal Dialogue: What the fuck, Laura.  You're going to send this guy home feeling like an 8 year old who just watched his first R rated film.  Get it together. 

So we watch the game and during the game he points out someone working the field as a member of his square-dance group.  How is it that thirty minutes prior I didn't even know that this even EXISTED outside of middle school gym class and maybe Oklahoma? And now, you're telling me that there is more than one person in conversational distance of me that does this?!

Anyway, the date or payment of hanging the wall mount was good, there were some G rated laughs and he dropped me off at home.  Over the next couple of months Ned invites me over for "no-pants parties" entailing cookies and Netflix or ice cream sandwiches and Netflix. I mean, at least he knew to appeal to my inner fat kid, but I was too lazy to drive to where he was and didn't bother.  Queue an evening dinner and drink with a coworker and feeling like I've not been validated enough by a guy I was pretty interested in... I text old Ned Flanders and I make the drive over there.  There were no ice cream sandwiches or cookies, but there was Netflix.  Now, the only non-Ned Flanders thing about him was that we definitely had the ole s-e-x and it was good until in The...Most.... Ned Flanders Way.... he says "Wow."  and not once, but several times.  It for sure made me uncomfortable.  "Wow" .... "Wow"  it was like worst than the clip of Lumbergh on Office Space:

In the morning he talked to me about Disneyland and how much it costs to go, letting me know what a Disney fan he was.  Of course you are, Ned.  Needless to say we really didn't ever hang out after that, talked a tiny bit, but I just couldn't hang with it.  My theory was that if he was in fact just that nice then he might be a serial killer or being around me would make him one.  I don't know, didn't want to find out.  60-40 guys... 60-40.  Also, always have ice cream sandwiches or cookies on hand. 

5'10" = 5'6"

So now that we have established a couple of things- those things being what the 60:40 rule is and that dating via apps fucking sucks... Let's discuss some basics in the dating app world... mostly, let's discuss "cat fishing" and how much you want to punch someone in the groin for doing it.

"Cat fishing" is evidently the term that is used when someone sells themselves as Package A and they are in fact not even a package of the alphabetical type, but some fucking shipped in from China knock off that you're not sure has anything to do with what you ordered.

When I first entered into the world of dating again and utilizing apps, I heard the following phrase quite frequently from my dates, "Oh thank GOD you look like your photo!"  The first couple of times I was genuinely surprised, "Why wouldn't I?" was my response.  To which I then became incredibly interested in the experiences these guys had previously encountered and I learned about this word, "catfish".  WHYYYYYY would anyone do this?! Like how fucking embarrassing for both parties.  If you have any intention of meeting up with this person, whyyyyy would you put either of you in the position of "Oh, sorry.  Yeah I'm not a 5'9", 140lb, blonde-haired, blue eyed blonde, who loves hiking, dogs, comic books, loads of pizza, and gaming.... mostly just the last three are true... maybe just the second to last."  Like, seriously... What. The. Fuck. Nonetheless, I asked each of these guys what they did in these scenarios and I just want to point out that even via an app I sometimes am a damn good judge of character as each of them said they still bought the ladies in question their dinner ... as they also proceeded to ask them what the fuck is wrong with them. ha.  

I digress, the point is-- knock it off, ladies! Jesus fucking Christ! If you're that uncomfortable with yourself do yourself the favor and fucking be honest because it for suuuuuuuure isn't going to be a better way to go about it by having that awkward moment.

But gentlemen... you're fucking awful too. So homegirl lied about her weight and her cat obsession (let's be honest, that's pretty much the gist of it), but fuck me when it comes to guys lying about their HEIGHT!!!! You want to talk about awkward?! Awkward is expecting you could put some wedges on and still get a decent hug while looking up and then finding out you have to bend down to pat the back of a dwarf awkwardly like you're still interested.  Here's the thing, I don't think I've ever once asked a guy what his height is.  Guys, on the other hand, ask chicks for loooooads of additional photos to prove their current state of whatever.  Guys... guys list their height!!!! They actually put it on there "6 foot because apparently that matters" or  "Don't worry, you can wear heels."  Jesus, nice creative line dude.

In any case... 6 foot = 6 foot.  I can confirm that people don't seem to lie about that one.  Anything 6 foot and up seems to be legit and honest, comfortable in being honest about their height if you will.
Now, it get's dicey below 6 foot.  Here's why:

5'11" is probably going to tell you he's 6' and you know what, give it to him.
5'10" I've yet to meet 5'10" but I'll tell you this- at least three times now I've seen "5'10"" listed on a profile and homeboy turns up and is either my height or shorter (aka he's fucking 5'6").  Every time I have to practice my poker face and pretend I don't notice the FUCKING FOUR INCH DISCREPANCY! Like seriously dude!!! How was I not going to notice this?  And this isn't a matter of "oh well maybe I can win her over with my amazing personality"  NO... NO... NO! Because now I'm legit just staring and wondering how you thought I wasn't going to notice this.

Why haven't I mentioned anything below 5'10"?  Because no one lists they're shorter than 5'10".  If there's no listing, you can guarantee they're short AF. Get your detective skills on and study their pictures for points of reference (like doors and other friends, but don't rely on the friend photos because they could be a whole gang of dwarves).

My other theory here is also that because they know you'll notice, they really do try to win you over by just non-stop talking about all of the great things they've done or are doing and how successful they are.  **Yawn** It's not okay.  It is not okay for me to think I'm going to meet some handsome dude and find out that a child-sized-man has shown up and I could probably beat him up. Just stop it, guys.  That's not a 60:40 master move.  It just isn't.  That's you being your own damn cock-block. Because now the chick across from you is wondering what else is likely not the size she thought-- just saying.

How to get in her Pants and Stay There

I have quickly come to find how complex the dating world can be and I am incredibly grateful that awkward-as-all-fuck young Laura did not have to do a whole lot of it before locking down the husband.  Awkward-as-all-fuck older Laura; however, is totally finding this to be a gruesome sport (yes, it often feels like a sport) in which the rules are always changing, the expectations of what it means to be a female seem to be ever evolving, it's a complete and utter magic 8 ball chance when it comes to the intent of others... let me just say, it's not my favorite thing.

As a female, a 28 year old female, we are expected to have our lives together job and housing wise, be young and fit, be both a classy-domestic-goddess and somehow like a secret sex-crazed animal in the bedroom.  That's fucking exhausting.  Not to say I haven't got this like down, but it really is kind of exhausting.  Like women are hard-wired... HARD... WIRED... to just be fucking hands down amazing at everything all for the sake of finding some man-child who will bring home the bacon, tell her she's pretty, and do a mediocre job at using his penis to make her orgasm.  That's legit how it is.
Now let me tell you how it is for a man.

Men think that women are superficial and that they want some hot guy who makes a ton of money, will whisk her away on dreamy vacations, make her culinary masterpieces and even clean up the kitchen afterward, they think we want someone who takes their shirt off and makes our jaws drop to the floor with their amazing abs just before they throw us over their shoulder to take us to the bedroom for the best sex ever, and then lay in bed for hours saying how lucky they are to have such an amazing woman and that they'll never stick their penis in any other vagina because ours is so amazing and all they'll ever need.     .... Okay, you got me.  Yes, that is absolutely what every woman wants.  But here's the thing, we aren't fucking stupid and we know that's beyond the possible just as the above expectation for women is ridiculous (even though we do obviously crush it daily).  That being said... here's all a man really has to do:

Exist.  

Just kidding. But seriously, apart from maybe having a decent full time job, paying your own bills, knowing how to do your own laundry, being like half way decent looking by taking a shower on the regular, and just being fucking nice and loyal... that's really it.  I've actually given some decent thought to this and even pilot tested my theory with some pointers to guy friends and it appears I've developed some sort of formula that will help any guy find a lady friend and keep her (should he so please).

Introducing, The 60:40 Rule.

The 60:40 Rule is the idea that every girl loves a little mystery to their man.  From being little and watching Disney to graduating to some PG-13 films where we go through our streak of loving us some bad-boys turned good-we really need a bit of mystery, a bit of does he like me, the feeling of having to work for it a little bit (but not too much).  We need to feel like we've earned something.  No one wants the free shit being handed out at the mall that isn't really free, it's a sample that now if you've stopped to accept it you have to listen to some God awful sales pitch and you have like a 70% chance of leaving with more shit you wanted nothing to do with in the first place all to get someone to shut up.  That's true in dating too.  You don't want the fucking freebie because it's only a lure to a place you don't want to go.

The 60 in the 60:40 is that mystery.  It's the sarcasm, the quiet moments where he's looking at you and you're wondering "Is there spaghetti on my face or is he admiring how beautiful my eyes are?" but you'll never know.  It's the feeling that you want to look your best every time you see this guy because you want him to want you just as much, but you both play it cool (which by the way, makes the sex better).  The sixty is the little jokes that as a guy you should make-- don't be mean, like just little jokes here and there, be sarcastic, be witty, leave her thinking you always know a tad bit more, master your clever look.

The important part is the 40.  Too much 60 makes you an asshole.  Too little makes you too easy and you become the free sample in the mall. The 40 is the part where you say nice things, where you make her dinner, where you compliment her and tell her you want her to be your forever-fuck-partner (that's similar to like a forever home for dogs, but for your penis). This is where you channel your inner Disney prince and you say and do things for her that she won't necessarily share with her girlfriends or your friends but she'll just say "I don't know guys, he's just so sweet" and that's good because you don't lose man-points, but you've earned get-in-her-pants points.

So how do you balance these? Let me tell you. You're welcome by the way, guys and girls alike... because this might just re-invent the wheel for you.  Here's how this gets balanced, I'll give a few examples.

Example 1 - Telling a girl she looks great before a date

Nice Guy: You're just so gorgeous.
This is nice, don't get me wrong. But many girls haven't learned how to take compliments and if it's how the dialogue is most the time, it will start to feel freebie-ish.

Asshole: I can't wait to bend you over and fuck you.
Just, ew.  Like there's the feeling of "I don't know how to respond to 'You're gorgeous'" and then there's the feeling of "well that's kind of nice, but if I say thanks am I saying that's what we're doing later? What did he say his name was again?" 

60:40 master: You look really good in that, those jeans make your ass look hot. 
This is where it's at.  Girl has just spent an hour and a half debating what damn articles of clothing to put together to make sure that ass looks hot and her hair is flawless... that little pat on the back goes a loooong way and following it with the subtle version of "by the way you're also really sexy" makes her blush and know to say "thank you" and she's not feeling like you're an absolute scum bag. 


Example 2- Telling a girl you really appreciate her cooking you dinner

Nice Guy: Thank you so much for making me dinner, I love mac 'n' cheese. (Maybe insert awkward across the table hand touch here).
Now, it may not seem like there's anything wrong with this, but you might friend-zone yourself here. She was going to make you dinner anyway and awkward hand touches are just that-awkward.  Don't reach across the damn table to hold hands.  At that point you may as well be the couple sitting on the same side of a restaurant booth and feeding each other while everyone else gags and calls you weirdos.  It's just too much. 

Asshole: How about we skip the dinner (that she just spent an hour preparing while also trying to still look flawless) and go go the bedroom.
The fuck.  No.  You will sit down and enjoy this dinner and you'll tell me how amazing it is and that I fucking look good cooking it and you can't wait to show off your culinary skills by making me a delicious dinner where all I have to do is enjoy it and admire your good looks.  Where's the wine?!

60:40 Master: Can I pour you a glass of wine? This looks delicious, almost as delicious as you making it.  Next time I'll have to spoil you by making you dinner. 
Excuse me while I blush and all I can say is "shutup, I got it at costco and just threw it in the oven, but what's that about you cooking?"  


Now, I know what you're thinking... this is just you Laura.  No. I can guaran-fucking-tee that this will work on at LEAST 90% of the female population.  We don't like overly touchy, compliment spewing, practically begging for our reciprocal affection.  While we like feeling sexy AF (that stands for "as fuck") we also don't like feeling like a piece of meat and we want our damn effort fucking recognized.  Like I said, it's hard fucking work being a sex machine of a domestic goddess who looks flawless 100% of the time, but we fucking do it so acknowledge that ok?!  Balancing the sexiness with the reciprocating spoiling notion is sexy AF.  Thank you for acknowledging all the hard work I did to gain your interest and for mildly expressing that you want to do the same for me because I'm a fucking catch. That's right.

I'm telling you.  This shit is how you get in a girl's pants and you stay there. Get this down and the world of women is your oyster... which is also an aphrodisiac so you're welcome. I'm just a plethora of helpful information.  Now if only I could find that 60:40 master.  I think I may have, but we shall see.  At the end of the day, as I've said, the female is hard wired to work for that life-long mate.  All we want is the security of feeling we are always more than enough, but that are efforts are warranted and appreciated.  I've not done enough field research yet to confirm what the female's ratio is for getting a man to commit but I'll get back to y'all on that one.

Guns Don't Kill Dates, I do.

Let's be clear, the title is about the fella you're about to read about.  I originally made a second page entitled "Date Hell" as a special place to put all of those awful, special dates... the way that awful and special souls have a special place to go in the afterlife. However, I realized that I could only add to it vs. have separated entries and that annoyed me... so I've now moved this and x-nayed the separate page.

As a means to semi be nice and not throw these poor souls who can take all they can get in the date-points field, I'll try my best to leave names out of it.  This was certainly what we would call a "bumble fumble".   Oh, for those that don't know, Bumble is like a slight step up from Tinder in that it's not entirely full of "hook-up" seekers.... "entirely".  See, I refuse to pay for dating, I feel like that should come after I get kicked out of a convent; However, dating utilizing free apps most certainly has it's cons.

Laura thought, maybe an older guy is where it's at.  I figured I have this list of "musts" and people just are. not. cutting. it.   So, what seemed easiest to perhaps bend the expectation on? Age.  I sure as fuck was not about to make my age range younger, but I thought I might be able to find an older guy, possibly divorced but sane, more likely to have a good job, more likely to be wanting something substantial.... more likely to be a fucking douche on a stick seemed to be the end result.

First off, the red flag should have been that he wanted to meet up after like two sentences of conversation.  I even made a comment about that to the extent of, "you haven't even heard my good jokes yet."  Anyway, my second red flag should have been that he was spending that particular evening down at a local place I became familiar with when dating a complete disgrace of a person (I know that sounds harsh, but you have no idea). But whatever, I agreed to meeting up for a beer on a Friday.  He suggests a place called "Players"..... RED FLAG, LAURA... RED FLAG.  Laura's hesitation of responding must have prompted his "or we could go somewhere else."  I realized later he was just wanting to go where he could watch the game, but come on. Anyway, we end up at BJ's as I said I'd want some food.

We're at the bar at BJ's... great place to sit and get to know someone, but he was for sure preoccupied by the game.  Then the conversation made me want to just go home.  This guy.... ugh. Where to even start.

Guns.
Guns-guns-guns-guns.  WE GET IT!!! You fucking LOVE GUNS! "I love guns, I love to go shooting.  I have lots of guns. You should have a gun.  Not having a gun is like saying you should just leave your front door unlocked because your home is secure.  Saying you wouldn't shoot someone is like saying you wouldn't fight someone off who's trying to rape you. My guns have names, they're named Bill, Hillary, Chelsea, and Monica... my gun friends think it's funny."
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
1. No, sir.... saying I wouldn't shoot another human being is NOT saying that I'd happily lay back and be raped.  You better fucking bet I would fight to the fucking death likely, but no if I had a gun I could not physically choose to shoot a person because fighting someone is different than highly likely killing them.  HUGE difference.
2. Locking my door and having a gun to shoot someone are two completely different things.  I also lock my door so that my animals won't run away if it were to blow open... having a gun won't fucking stop that.
3.  I'm glad you find your gun naming cute and funny.... I hope they also keep you warm and feeling loved at night while you probably jerk off to them.

California Hating
Home boy has come from out of state.  His residing locations within this beautiful state have been Fresno, Sacramento, and some work (not sure if he lived there) in Oroville.  I'm just gonna say, if Fresno and Oroville were ANYONE'S glimpse into California living... I would completely understand.  But no, he tells me how much he hates California, how everyone in California is fleeing California to go elsewhere.  He doesn't like the politics in California... and it's a crying fucking shame that he can't just be open carrying his pistol around.  "If I were in Arizona, I could just be walking around in the middle of the day just like what's up? **gestures to his hip to the pretend pistol**"  I responded, "Do you find that you need to have a pistol with you in the middle of the day frequently?"  "Well yah," he says, "If I need to shoot someone."  Mother. Fucker.  This is EXACTLY why we don't need every Tom, Dick, and Harry fucking carrying a goddamn pistol around as their American given right.

Laziness
This mother fucker starts telling me about how he doesn't cook anything anymore he orders it all so that he doesn't have to "dirty" any dishes or cooking utensils.  He also tells me that he finally went shopping for the first time ever and then begins to brag about how his entire outfit was new "new jeans, new shirt, new underwear.."  I said, "It sounds like you were out all night and needed clothes for tonight. That's what we call a go-pack."  He then tells me later that he has no clean clothes because he hasn't done laundry and that if he can pay for other people to do things he will... this asshole actually said, "like if i can pay some lady to clean my house, I will.. and do."  I responded, "you live alone right?"  "Yah" he says.  "You can't pick up after your damn self?"  This guy being single made so much sense.

The Rating.
The game is over, my beer is empty, he's ready to go.  Perfect.  Let's get the fuck out of this situation.
He walks me to my car and he says, "So what'd you think?"  I responded, "Excuse me?"  He repeats, "So what'd you think? I thought this was fun and we should do it again."  I look at him and I say, "Are you asking for a rating?" What the fuck am I supposed to say to this?  "Are we doing a 1-10? 1-5? a how likely are you?"  Fucking... you know what, just shoot me now... with Monica... she seemed like the best choice in your collection.

Space Truckin' and Time Traveling

Quick Side Note: I sort of wanted to title this one Prude Gone Wild.... HA damn. 

So here's the thing, having a husband with a very serious immune-compromised condition that entails some rather serious treatment (sometimes over a month living in the hospital), a lot of life gets put on hold.  There are a lot of things such as trips, concerts, being out and about, etc. that becomes a lot more difficult when you can't be more than a half hour away from your hospital, can't go in crowds, and don't have the energy anyway.  So with that said, there had been things (couple of concerts) we'd planned to go to but Tom had insisted I hold off on buying the tickets (yah)... so when it came around I decided "fuck it, I'm gonna go and I'm gonna have a fucking great time for Tom."  Begin, "SLO Story."

So, it was October or November (who fucking cares) and Judas Priest would be playing in Paso Robles and the brother in law lives in San Luis Obispo (the mentioned SLO).  There was a group of us, one of Tom's closest friends, his girlfriend (who I'll boastfully put the plug out there that I set them up), and the roomie.   We road trip the five hours down there and see an EPIC show by Judas Priest and then we decided to hit the town.  Well, worth mentioning that the brother-in-law works at one of the pubs downtown and lets just say that even though up until this point I would have been described as someone who never drinks, I was determined to keep up with the crew.   I should also mention that all I'd had was one bean burrito from taco bell and some celery all day.  It was on this occasion where I learned the important lesson of having food in the stomach when drinking.  There was a lot of tequila, a lot of other mixed shots, a lot of alcohol.  Point being, I kept up alright... and then it all hit me so quickly as we waited for our uber.  I tried to utilize a non-stabilized newspaper holder for a means of support-- I ended up finding myself glued to the outside wall while watching some crazy girl shout at our group and her male friend also shouting ... so much shouting (who fucking knows why). I interjected as the peace keeper and said, "hey-hey, it's all good" and the male friend whipped around and told me, "Don't you tell me I'm all good- oh I'm good."  Not sure, whether that meant he was agreeing... but I just stood there and wondered whether anyone else was able to make a plan to get us back to the hotel because I was not capable of doing so.

We get back to the hotel, where it might be fair to say that not a single one of us was anywhere near "clear mind."  I lay on the floor between the two beds because I'm convinced I'll end up there unplanned otherwise.... as I look up, standing above me is the lovely girlfriend (wearing shorts), and I get a straight up view which for whatever reason made me laugh so incredibly hard for feeling like a creeper.  I laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and it was about 2am so the hotel keep called the room and informed the lovely girlfriend that they needed to shut me up. Just to point out, I was then up at a spritely 7am down getting coffee and shitty Svenhard's pastries for the group to wake up and be ready for brunch.  #nohangovershere #winning  So annoyingly kind of me, I know.

----------------------------------------- Fast Forward (Time Machine)----------------------------------------

So life continued, I took advantage of seeing shows I knew Tom and i would have had a blast at, each time sharing it with different awesome company.  It was pretty cool.  The doing fun shit and hosting events was pretty fun.  So I decided to host a party just because... so I did.  It was time people got together, chilled out, had some laughs.. you know... not adult for a moment.  Well, Laura invited folks from various life periods: friends, coworkers, etc. and we had a super fantastic time.  Here's the thing (I say that a lot), I really find that I do well with tequila.  I can drink a decent amount of it and the worst that happens is I end up on the floor laughing hysterically.  I like those results.

Well, Tom also had some "special" brownies that he used for anxiety and sleep, and to just feel better about his day and watch Ace Ventura with extra laughter.  I may have thought it would be a good idea to see what that was all about.  Remember, I also really like tequila.   There I am, on the patio surrounded by some super awesome people, enjoying the moment... and all of a sudden I get this shit eating grin on my face and I realize womp womp, shit's about to be different.  Well it was all fine and dandy for awhile as I just found everyone super hilarious and all I could think of was that I felt like I was "Space Truckin" (yes the fucking Deep Purple song from before I was ever born).  I just felt like I was time traveling.

The evening went on, the giggles worsened, folks left.... eventually I did find myself on my living room floor laughing so hard (now this is a typical tequila situation), that I just remember my head hitting the floor and me dyyyyyying laughing at a friend's impression.  I collected myself and I tried to make a PB&J sandwich to join the couple of folks who remained on the couch.  Oh Jesus... was that ever a trip or what?!  I took the butter knife and scooped the peanut butter out of the jar and as I tried to spread it onto the bread, I just couldn't quite coordinate that.  I thought to myself "clearly the world of snapchat needs this" and I snapchatted myself trying to spread peanut butter with myself saying, "I don't know where it begins and where it ends... but it's just peanut butter--you know?"  Laura, what in the fuck does that mean?!  I head over to the couch to sit down and watch this comedian a friend has put on the television and suddenly I'm hearing everything like ten times and it feels like the world's worst case of dejàvú ... I have to get out of here-- RIGHT. NOW.

I bid the two people adieu and say I'm headed to bed... which meant I walked about ten feet and sat down.  One person decides to see if I need assistance, to which I respond by laying on the floor and describing that I'm in the movie Inception.  He laughed as I tried to explain that I was currently "falling through dimensions but in a circle repeatedly."  It's fair to say this was an incredibly uncomfortable feeling.  I insisted I needed no help to get to my bed which felt an ocean away (ha that will soon be relevant). I tried to stand up and sat back down.  I laid down again on the floor and with my face on the wood floor, cheek skewed as I pushed my body down the hall with my feet, I insisted to my concerned friend, "Nah, nah... I've got this... I'm gonna swim to my bed."
I get to my bed... who the fuck knows how long it took... and as I make my way up to my pillows with probably some really horribly uncoordinated log roll style... I then began to tell my friend how I was convinced I was going to die.  As he laughed and reassured me I'd be okay, I explained that I knew it might be anxiety and that Tom once went to the hospital for being too high and thinking he was having a heart attack, but I was freaking out and weirdly trying to be cognitive about calming down... It was around 4am (provided I remember correctly) when I finally decided to close my eyes and try to sleep this off.

I had a full mimosa brunch planned the next morning for the guests that would stay over; However, I did not wake up at a spritely 7am this time around ... I woke up at 1:30pm to a house of no guests.   My guests so politely let themselves out and didn't disturb me.  Which is good because I described the following day as a day where everything was moving in slow motion.

Worst. Idea. Ever.  That's my encounter of edibles and tequila.  One and Done.  Laura doesn't need a two for woo.  But hey- I was 27 and there's a whole "club" of people who made far worse decisions at that age (terrible 27-Club joke).  Twenty-seven was a very interesting year of finding myself... I'm not sure that I've really managed it, but it was quite the year.  Mother had serious concerns I was "getting too crazy" as she put it.  Each time I responded to her, "It's hardly like I'm out doing fucking meth, calm down."

There's something interesting about having your entire life-plan be so incredibly derailed and something to be said about growing up through adulthood with another person and now suddenly needing to learn what life on your own is like. Life on my own is an incredibly new chapter... I was sharing my lovely home with a young lady who moved in immediately when Tom passed, which eased the fear of sitting in an empty house, but now I sit in this space and I'm learning what being an independent woman looks like.  Once taking the plunge to just trust in yourself, it's almost empowering to realize that you're good enough as just you and that you can choose to spend time and share space with others, but that you don't need it. That's the life lesson I've been working on... making my space and my self just present and mine, not stuck in what was or what was hoped to be. No pressure and no expectations, what a concept for this virgo-eldest child.

Here's to 28 and more life adventures that make my mother shake her head and wonder when I'll just "get it together" and start producing grandchildren, baking pies, and living back in the good ole hometown.  Here's to more morning thoughts of "well that was crazy!" And here's to the existential scavenger hunt of finding yourself in your late twenties when you thought you'd had it all fucking figured out.  Fuck you Universe... I've got this.

Lois Holds Hope...

In August of 2015 I was widowed at the age of 26 (don't worry this isn't going to get super depressing).  Needless to say it's been just over a year and it has been quite the journey.  Amongst the changing of jobs, finishing grad school, navigating life for the first time as an adult without my significant other (we met when I was 18)... the discussion and act of dating has also occurred.

The thing is, as I've just mentioned, I was very young when I met the man who would become my husband (Tom) ... and so I hadn't done a whole lot of dating back then and here I am now, having just turned 28 and trying to navigate not only dating in general, but what dating in 2016 looks like. Both the age and the current year have made quite the difference to how I last left the dating world.

For starters... Dating in 2016 involves apps, fucking APPS! What the fuck is that about?! And there isn 't just one, there are loads! And depending on the one you're on it states more about your intentions, but do not be fooled-- they all have nasty folks who just want to send you photos you never in your life thought you'd receive.  APPS! I just can't quite get my mind over this rat race of a world that we've come down to apps, but I will admit they can be useful in stream lining and filtering through the bullshit that can be dating which brings me to the next item... dating in your late twenties.

Dating at the age of 28 means it's amongst people who've been dating this entire time and are either very jaded by the shit they've come across or they're simply the trash left at the dump that everyone else has recycled through and found unsalvageable.
Here I am having just lost the love of my life who I've essentially grown up with as an adult and seen through some rather large trials and tribulations and felt the real meaning of a partnership and unconditional love... I had envisioned a whole life with this person and he the same with me and it just didn't play along the way we'd hoped (don't worry I meant it when I said this wouldn't be depressing).  The point is, I was fortunate enough to see all the wonderful sides of a great relationship and I miss the absolute fuck out of that and look forward to hopefully sharing that with someone again.
The problem is, those who are out there fall into the following categories:

1. The Narcissist Asshole (10%).  
They're just assholes and there's a reason they're single.  They might be attractive, successful, smart, or funny, but with a side of thinking that they're clear gifts to women (she says heavily sarcastically)... or they might not be attractive, successful, smart, or funny at all, but for some reason they're just incredibly large assholes.

2. The Peter Pan Dude (60%)
This guy literally has not done any emotional or intellectual maturing since the age of 14.  These are your "dudes" (we cannot call them "men") who have zero life ambition to not necessarily consider university and careers, but even consider something significant and full time.  These guys "just want to have fun" which means they just wanna drink, get high, and fuck bitches.  You will never "change" one of these guys and they might be funny, but they're fucking emotionally inept and aren't ever going to wake up magically as a man wanting commitment.  These are the dudes who still hang out with those same middle-school friends and is totally okay living in Grandma or Mom's basement and they skateboard down to their job at Taco Bell and then skate to their buddy's to smoke weed and play Call of Duty all night while drinking 40s of Mickeys... which is totally cool, I'm not hating... but it's not the "man" I'm looking to re-settle down with.

3. The Vintage Piece Just Needing Buffering (20%)
This is sort of what you kind of have to cross your fingers and toes for.  This is the divorced guy or the guy who's been in a long-term relationship or two.  Obviously this guy has some good shit going for him.  This guy was good enough that they were in a serious relationship of some sort, they know what it means to share space, they know what it means to share dreams and push one another (you hope), and something just went south.  So this is where you have to filter....
     Filter with:
                            A. Was it infidelity and on who's part?
                            B. Who left who and how long ago? How mutual was it?
                            C. Perhaps they just grew apart or weren't getting what they needed...

The problem here is also, how many times has this happened... there are some broken people out there and for someone such as myself, we must proceed with caution because B. is a danger zone (Archer reference) and you don't want to just be a part of rebounding and you don't want to get caught up in a lot of negative feelings... ain't nobody got time for that shit.  But the plus side is... again, this person has shown some serious potential and clearly wants all that good stuff that a functional and loving relationship offers.... (unless they're in the A filter as the one who just couldn't keep it in the pants).

The other interesting point in this category is that they tend to be "figuring out life" and you know what, I dig that.  Because I'm fucking figuring out my life right now too so it's kind of a good low-pressure situation; so long as both parties have some kind of goal and are ambitious and hungry for their bettering.  You don't meet a guy in category three who just has it all fucking figured out and Susie and him just weren't clicking anymore... usually Johnny's world is a little shaken as he's getting it back together to re-enter the market. Also, I've found the jaded cynics to also be incredibly witty and sarcastic. Category three fella knows what it can be like when it's "right" and he will be appreciative when that occurs. This category is really the category you want most...

4. The Forged Da Vinci Masterpiece (9%)
The guy who has it together but just has never found "the one".... here's the thing.  This guy may be a unicorn... or may be some fucking sociopathic danger.  This is the guy who is not only eye-appealing but has the house, the degree, the career, good with money, likes to travel, has no kids, hasn't had any serious relationships... but why?  He's gonna tell you he's just been "career focused" or "hasn't found the one" and call me a cynic, but girls are very attracted to a driven and attractive man so it begs the question "what the fuck is wrong with him?"
        This guy is going to:
                        A. Be terrible at texting or calling back
                             The problem here is that A. makes you feel like you're only worth his time when                                  convenient and he's never going to listen to a single story you tell and he's
                             probably not very funny and possibly not even very intelligent.
                        B. Be a desperate texter or caller and smother the fuck out of you which also means
                             he is that straight away PDA, constantly-fucking-touching you guy like the fly that
                             just won't fucking die and buzzes around everyone's food at the family gathering.
                             4B's are just disgusting because they will exhaust the hell out of you with their                                      need of attention. This is the man with mommy issues and so then you have to                                      factor that there will be crazy family attached as well. Just really a no-go zone.

**The 1% remaining is the guy who perhaps genuinely was just university and career focused, perhaps moved a lot, or just had some serious life things going on and is really kind of cool.... it's more or less just a margin of error because I just don't think this can be**


So that is your full evaluation of what dating at 28 and in 2016 looks like.  It's a fucking hell hole of disappointment.  The option is to just sit and hope and pray that you can find a #3 that isn't so broken that they might actually be willing to give you a chance and you might have some good times together.  But as you can see, this can be fucking dismal as hell when you're just missing what you had and you're hoping for a glimmer of that to happen again. The percents represent the general guesstimate of each of these categories in making up of the current late 20's-mid 30's dating pool.



Now, with all of that in mind... it's very hard for me to explain this to my Grandma Lois who (bless her heart) wants nothing more than for me to feel as loved and giving of love as I was fortunate enough to have experienced.  Every time I speak to this woman she asks if there's a fella on the horizon and then reassures me that I'll find one.  Every time I also remind her that I'm an independent woman and I don't need a man and that there really isn't very many good options out there. That said, it was very recently my birthday and I received the following in a letter from my grandmother:

Hi Laura,

Hope this card isn't late (it was, ha). 

I heard you have a boyfriend.  We are so happy for you.

You are still so young don't live your life alone. Just hope he's good to you that's all we want.  

It's important to note that there certainly was no boyfriend.  In fact, I'd actually gone on a really horrible date of a category 4B.... a FOUR B!!!! It was horrendous!  But apparently through a game of literal telephone, my grandmother was under the impression that I'd found a man who was going to now take care of me.  When we spoke on the phone and she so excitedly said "I hear you have a boyfriend" and I said "Who in the hell is spreading these rumors?!" She tells me it was my dad and then sounded so disappointed, saying "well we were just so happy for you to hear you had someone...." (she then caught herself and quickly said) "but of course you don't need anyone."  "That's right Grandma, I don't. I'm a strong independent woman."  "You'll find someone," she says. 

No pressure.  Thanks Lois.  Thanks for holding hope for me as I'm researching convents and wondering just how much manual labor would be involved and whether celibacy and not swearing would be things I could realistically handle. 

               

Because Mom Said I Couldn't

First order of business-- Why

It has come to my uninterested attention that my cynical views of the world and the stories yielded by my daily encounters tend to amuse folks from time to time.  Therefore, as I now will be finished with school (as soon as I write the paper I'm currently procrastinating the fuck out of)... I need a hobby.

Oh yah, I swear a lot.  Hope you didn't have some form of Siri reading this shit aloud during your morning commute which entails dropping little Timmy off at his crunchy preschool that you should really be biking to... but if you had been doing so, oh well.

But I would sincerely like to say, I'm sorry Grandma... I blame my mom for my potty mouth.

Second order of business-- The Name

When I informed my mother that I would finally be doing what she's tried prodding me to do since I vacated the womb with the resting bitch face I still wear-- I told her I would entitle my writings simply, What the Fuck.
Mumsy then informed me that I could not do that because, "They would never sell such a thing." I said, "Who gives a shit, of course they'll fucking sell it... maybe not on a shelf, but that's what the internet is for--duh."  Clearly the mother and I speak so respectfully to one another.  In her supportive manner she suggested that perhaps I add fancy symbols and shit so that it would look "censored".  We went round and round; She more or less convinced me that "WTF" was probably the better option... Jury is still out.

Why What the Fuck in the first place?  I feel the title is necessary because I not only think it, but I mutter or even just openly say this phrase beyond counting each day. I also probably ensure that I will forever be single because Mother also says "no one will want to kiss a mouth like that."  She's also informed me that no convent will take a mouth like this either. Basically, she's informed me that I'm sort of shit out of life options on my current trajectory.

If there's one thing we can say about Laura's family of origin, it's that the genuine non-filter honesty is always with some mild form of back-handed caring intent.  I can't give you any planned purpose to the ramblings that will take place here, but I can absolutely promise that after my stupid amount of schooling and needing to worry about punctuation, citation, yada-yada... you have my guarantee that I no longer give a shit about that either.  That's to say, don't come here looking for your next literary work of wonder.


So without further adieu, the ramblings of life in general shall commence.