Sunday, November 8, 2015

On Behalf of my Uterus...

Dearest Douche Bag of Seed,

Thank you so much for allowing my uterus to apply, unbeknownst to me, for the position of bearing your seed.  We are most appreciative that you would consider us for this most exciting opportunity, for which I am positive that all women of child-bearing age wish to be selected.  I completely understand that this is a time-sensitive matter as you are now in your mid-40s and have yet to fulfill the commandment of populating the earth with as many children as there are stars in heaven.  This seems like quite a daunting task and, while I generally try to be a team player and wish I could have assisted you in your efforts to “have it all”, I am a saddened that I dragged my uterus to West Harlem so unprepared.  I am most ashamed and disgusted with myself.  See, had I know previously what this date was actually for, I would have even brought my own stirrups and laid myself on the restaurant table so you could have a more intimate interview with the real object of the date.  I would have even brought my iPad and watched a film to quietly occupy myself while you two were getting better acquainted.  Shit, if I had known, I would have even waxed my va-jay-jay for the event to try and really sell the grand entrance to my holy grail and gain your seed’s favor.  Nonetheless, I failed miserably and your icy declaration of “Oh, we are in such different places” (code for “Next!”) only 5 minutes and 23 seconds into our meeting still pangs my cervix. 

Although I know that my interview opportunity has since passed in such a disgraceful manner, for the sake of other desperate uteruses out there, I implore you to, if I may and out of the utmost respect for your cause, take your seed spreading search off more traditional dating apps and proudly seek to spread your seed via more result-oriented mating apps, such as “PlentyofSeed”, “OKWomb” or, the ever-popular,  “LessTalkingMoreSpreading”.  May you find success in your efforts to go forth and multiply! 

Very truly yours,

Indigo Blue (and my pathetic uterus)

Saturday, September 12, 2015

May I Take Your Order?

Every so often, the douche gods smile down on me and throw me a nugget.  And today was one such day.  I barely had to do anything for it to unfold either…I didn’t need to sit in any traffic, pay any tolls, get a babysitter, shave my legs, brush my teeth or even change out of my period panties (don’t shake your heads ladies, you know exactly what I’m talking about).

So what exactly was this douche gift from the gods?  It was an OkCupid message from a 25-year-old lad whom I will affectionately refer to as “Fuck Nugget” to protect his online identity.  For the record, he was actually pretty cute for a 20-something; unfortunately for him, however, it’s just not my thing…the reason?  The following will make it quite evident…

Fuck Nugget:  I would love to be tickled by you.

[Internal dialogue:  Score!!!  I’m about to have a new blog post…]

Me:  Really?  Where?

Fuck Nugget:  All over.

Me:  What would I get out of it?

Fuck Nugget:  Hmm.  What would you like?  I can give you a nice massage and please you.

Me:  You are “such” a giver.

Fuck Nugget:  Can I come now?  You can strip me, tickle me on the bed and I will kiss you from head to toe, licking places….Whatever you like in return.

[Internal dialogue:  Wait…what??? He actually thinks he’s coming over?  Do people really do that shit?]

Fuck Nugget:  We both live in _________.  It would be fun.

Me (a bit puzzled):  So how exactly does this work?  You come over, I tickle your balls, you finger my asshole, and then you leave???

Fuck Nugget:  Yes.

Me:  I don’t even get to make you chicken nuggets and tater tots after?

Fuck Nugget:  Yes, you can do that too. 

Fuck Nugget:  Where am I coming to?

Me:  Sorry dude.  You sound like a whack job.  Thanks for the early afternoon entertainment.

Fuck Nugget:  Thought you were serious. 

[Internal dialogue]:  Really?  I thought for sure the chicken nuggets would give it away.]

Me:  Ummm. No.

Fuck Nugget:  Ok.  Sorry.

Me:  For future reference, I date men…not pre-pubescent boys.  Have a wonderful day!

Fuck Nugget:  I understand.  I apologize.

[Internal thought: he crying now?  If I see him around town maybe I should buy him a slurpee.]

And there you have it folks…want a side of fries with that???

Monday, September 7, 2015

Stop waiting for her to instigate a date...put on your big boy briefs and get a set of balls

from Twitter

September 07, 2015 at 07:38PM

A Case of Self-Sabotaging Blues

A dear friend of mine recently came right out and told me that the real reason I was single was actually because I wanted to be. I was a bit dumb-founded at her comment, but because she was literally first and oldest friend ever, I had to stop and really think about her observation.  I mean, for the last two and a half years of online dating, I truly did try and meet someone…not just someone, but approximately 80+ applicants for the role of being my boyfriend.  Of the whole lot, wasn’t there one that was right for me if I only gave it a chance?  I started thinking…

What if things had gone differently with Rodrigo, the brilliant, refined and established New York Times journalist who wrote a weekly column about economics?  He sounded dreamy with his by-line, Catalonian accent and steady job.  If only I missed the pot hole in the Manhattan street and didn’t have my brand new car’s tire shredded, perhaps I would have been able to sit and enjoy hearing Rodrigo complain about his bitchy, demanding editor rather than being on the phone with the towing company arguing about how much it would be to tow my car back to New Jersey even though my car company’s customer service told me it would be free.  Maybe I should not have left my keys inside the car when it got hoisted on the flat bed because then I would not have had to climb the truck in a dress and heels to retrieve the keys only to break out in a sweat, while Rodrigo was busy standing in the street playing on his phone and wondering whether he should take a yellow cab or walk the fifteen blocks to his house…that must have been the reason why he never called to make sure I got home okay after driving back to New Jersey at 12:30 am in the front cab of the tow truck with Jaba the Hutt, who, in addition to driving me home, so endearingly offered to tickle my asshole for a small tip.

Or, perhaps I shouldn’t have been such a shithead while on my date with the “mad shitter”, whose name I can’t remember for the life of me.  What if I told him I didn’t like Indian food and we instead went for Japanese?  Would that have kept him at the table so that we could get to know one another or would he also have gotten diarrhea and needed to excuse himself every two minutes to run to the shitter while I enjoyed my saag paneer and his lamb vindaloo alone?  Perhaps he saw my disappointment each time he returned to the table because I felt like he was interrupting the fine company and titillating conversation I was having with myself?  Maybe, just maybe, if I followed him to the bathroom and once he finished expunging whatever was left in his raw intestines I offered to wipe his ass with a package of baby wipes while he bent over and touched his toes?  Most surely this would have influenced his decision to ask me on a second date rather than tell me the next day when I inquired about his tummy that it wouldn’t work out between us because I had kids and he couldn’t imagine being in a serious relationship with someone with kids. 

Yes, my friend was right in that I purposely self-sabotage any prospects of finding myself a boyfriend.  I did it with Feel-Me-Up Felix, Close-Talker Claus, Limp-Dick Lou, Skid-Marx Mark, Broken Fingers Phil, Allergy Bob, Commitment-Phobe Farhad, Separated Stu, Newly-Divorced Don.  I did it with Fernando, the human rights emergency medical doctor that I had an online relationship with for over 1 year but never met because he was forever eluding our fateful meeting but then decided on the “one day” I had something planned for my birthday that I should jump on a plane at that moment to see him; what I selfish cunt I was for saying no.  And, yes, I did it with the pony-tail yielding tree hugger who invited me to Vermont and Panama following a three-day mini, but promising love affair, then uninvited me because he was too busy…how stupid of me to tell him to go “fuck a tree” when after two months of radio silence he sent me the sweetest message via smoke signals asking if he could see me because he took an impromptu trip to the area to visit his folks and had no plans…

When I look back on these events, perhaps there is truth in my friend’s words.  Perhaps all of these men would have been perfect for me if only, just only, I wasn’t such a douche and actually regularly got a Brazilian wax…oh, yeah, I did that too.

Sunday, March 23, 2014

For the Betterment of Mankind

We all know my pathetic dating life is entertaining to many, including myself.  Most recently, however, it has turned into fodder for my married friends who love to ask me, “So what’s going on with that guy?”  And, like Pavlov’s dog, my response has turned into an immediate, “Which one?”  By all means, I don’t answer this way in jest either.  Guys I “date” (I use that term very loosely) fly in and out of my life quicker than I change tampons on my most heaviest days – sorry for being crude, but it’s the best comparison for producing the dramatic effect most representative of my situation.  On any given day, I can’t remember which guy was the subject of which conversation with which friend…because generally what happens is that if I do meet someone I’m interested in seeing again (this doesn’t happen too often), before I’ve finished telling my friend about how great I think he is and how excited I am to go on another date with him again, he’s already hit “send” on “that text” (we all know which one that is). 

But I’d like to think of my dating debacles as my public service contribution for the betterment of mankind.  See, while guys think it’s funny when I write in my profile that I am on the site for “research purposes”, the fact is, that I am.  And, I’d like to think that through my last year of dating fieldwork, I am well on my way to earning a PhD in the Anthropology of Douche Bagging.  Being a researcher, however, one must research a particular subject and present the findings based on the research data collected.  Although I plan on writing a full dissertation on my findings after more intense research, I’d like to present to you with some of my findings thus far:

1.   Males species who have recently gone through a “separation” are to be avoided at all costs.  Despite what they tell you, they present acute symptoms of “newlysingleitis”…a condition that causes them to seek out unsuspecting women and woo them with false-intentioned dating rituals.  The subject’s goals in this is to make himself feel “desired” and that “he still has it” despite being in a loveless marriage for many years where he wasn’t getting any and he gained about 30 pounds.  He will repeatedly tell his dates that he "checked out" of his marriage years before and is completely over it.  This type of male will exhibit symptoms such as hiring a personal trainer, becoming a vegetarian, doing yoga, getting a stylist, waxing his back, eye brows and groin area and frequenting online dating sites hunting for younger, attractive women.  This male is not looking for a relationship in any way, shape or form.  Once these males sense that the female object of their desire is interested, the subjects will quickly retreat and whip out the pre-printed "I just got separated" card, which likely have the imprint of a condom as it is generally stored right next to it in his wallet.

2.     A most unique subject is the male species in the 19-22 year old category.  These boys suffer from an affliction I have labeled “cougaritis”.  “Cougaritis” presents itself with the following symptoms:  a propensity to use the term “hey” as a mating call; extreme eagerness to “score” including contacting proposed mates at all hours of the night to just “cuddle”; submissiveness (these subjects are agreeable to just about anything you will do to them; vomit and feces are no exception); and an inability to grasp that females of the opposite sex (in the 35-45 age range) do not find headwear tilted to the side, long plastic cups in fluorescent colors and their mother’s flowered shower curtain shown via typical shirtless, bathroom mirror photos as sexually stimulating.


Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Mediocrity Is, As Mediocrity Does

I know it has been quite some time since my last entry…and it is not at all that I have forgotten or tossed this aside…but my lack of writing has stemmed from my complete fear and distaste of mediocrity.  Some of you have grown pissed at me as a result, and I do half-heartedly apologize, but it has really been for your own good.  See, it would be incredibly easy for me to sit down and write something craptastic for you, but instead I chose to self-censor myself.  For instance, I could have effortlessly told you about my angst when two guys broke up with me on the same day even though I wasn’t dating either of them (which, as was incredibly appropriate for the occasion, also happened to be the same day as my dick-in-a-box party).  Or, I could have lashed out in written form about the indignity of the other two guys that failed to show up at an event I had invited them to even though both said they would…yes, I know, quite the intentional faux pas on my part but I decided to take my chances on at least one making an appearance or hoping they’d both show up because I would definitely have some good writing…ultimately, they both blew me off, which, although a disappointment, was not a total shocker.  The night was salvaged, however, because I ended up meeting someone else at the after-party.  So, despite not getting felt up that night by either of the guys I shaved my legs for, having to deal with the  pimples in the morning from wearing make-up was not completely for naught.  Even better, though, I could have bored you about the date with a strikingly handsome younger man I almost punched in the face before asking the waiter for the check and storming out all because of a Middle Eastern politics exchange gone totally wrong.  According to him, Assad’s positive contributions to the Syrian economy and democracy in the Middle East outweighed the lunatic's crimes against humanity.  Needless to say, this didn’t bode well for my date at that particular moment and he later dubbed me “CP” for “Check Please!” 

Still though, I somewhat take pride in anything I create, so the very thought of providing you with mediocrity is on par with me waking up next to a wealthy, short and bald CEO of fledgling technology company with a major Napoleon complex who is still wearing his country club embroidered golf shirt and is donning an attitude like he just did me a favor.  At one point in my life, though, I would have settled for mediocrity and, in fact, I did all too often for all too long – I married Mediocrity, slept with Mediocrity, ate at Mediocrity, shopped at Mediocrity, wore Mediocrity, wiped with Mediocrity, drank Mediocrity, swam in Mediocrity, waited for Mediocrity to call or just have fucking Mediocrity remember my name in the morning….all until I realized that Mediocrity was, well, mediocre.   And if I have learned anything from my past, which is debatable on most days, it is that I can also tell Mediocrity to fuck off at my leisure…

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Is This Thing On?

Yes, I know it has been far too long since my last blog entry and I sincerely apologize.  Unfortunately, I have been suffering from a severe case of doucheblock, which should not in any way be confused with writer's block.