Amusing Idiocy and Useless Drivel

Bennie passed out after my Xmas gathering.  He flirted too much, and it wore him out.

Sooo, I've been remiss again with December's postings.  But not for long.

I read on Yahoo news that some young asshats decided to name their new baby girl, Hashtag.  Seriously??   Hello?  Cheech and Chong called.  They want their bong back.  Someone commented that baby Hashtag's parents mother's name is probably "OMG" and the father's must be "LOL."  New levels of idiocy, folks!

Speaking of idiocy.  Cactus Man attempted contact via text last week.  Since Cactus is an idiot, I figured he was too stupid to realize that a Verizon "block" only lasts 90 days and not try to contact me ever again, so I never re-blocked him after about the 3rd time.  However, Christmas day, I woke up to the sound of my phone beeping a text at 5:00 a.m. with an 813 area code.

Obviously, it was Cactus' number, and he wrote, "I wonder if I am still blocked.  Merry Christmas."

Seriously?  As if, Cactus.  As if I want triple therapy all over again, as if I want toxic in my life again.  Really?  So I laid in bed, wondering what to text back.  Something snipish?  Something to chew his ass out?  Ignore it?  Re-block?  I fell back asleep, and when I woke up, I knew.

I went over to my netbook and brought up my Verizon account and entered his number to re-block him, but before I hit "OK," I sent him this hysterical reply:

"Merry Christmas to you, too.  Though I think you have the wrong number.  This is Morris Bad Wound, Hermosa, South Dakota.  Take care."  Then I hit send, then I hit "OK" to block any immediate replies from him.

Then I fell over on the couch laughing.  "Morris"?  And "Bad Wound"?  He'll either think, "Oh, she changed her number."  OR, he'll figure out, once he tried to reply to "Morris" and got a blocked response, that I tricked him and will be furious.  Either way, it's hysterical.  What a great "last word."

Gotta love it.  What a douchebag.

Happy New Year's!

Feminism, Right to Work, and Pass Me a Beer, Please

Wouldn't it be cool if you could wolf down a Chicago deep dish like this twice a week along with copious beers and never gain weight?

Anyway, I'm hungry, at work, and ready to go to the gym here in a minute, but I read something today that was rather shocking and fits in to my last two posts.

C.E.D.A.W.

Know what that is?  If you're an American, ironically, you do not.  It's the Convention on the Elimination of all forms of Discrimination Against Women.  Every industrialized nation in the world, EXCEPT AMERICA, has signed on.

Nice, huh?

Then I heard Michigan just became a "Right to Work" state, which I call, a "Right to Live in Poverty" state.

Furthermore, what GIVES with employees who do NOT belong to a union the right to think that they can have the same benefits and pay as the guy right next to him, who works at the SAME place and BELONGS to the union and pays his/her dues?  Hello?

On NPR, I heard people who are for this are for it because they think it brings more good paying companies/jobs to a state when they adopt this ruling.

Hello?

South Dakota is a wonderful example of a state that is a "right to work," but one of the lowest paying states in the United States compared to all the other states.  Thanks, South Dakota!  Thanks, to our wonderfully, "always thinking of the little guy" far-right conservative, good-ol'-boy back slapping backwards asshats.

Especially west river.  There are hardly ANY good paying jobs in western South Dakota.  The few ones you see are usually government jobs.

People are idiots.

Have a good day.

Are Women Ever Truly Free? And Other Misc. Observations

The beautiful prairies.  And no, I'm not telling you where this secret place is that I might have to visit this weekend.

Sigh.

I heard on NPR last week something that correlates to my last post, a fact about women that's rather unsettling.  What is it?  Here goes.

Guess which career field most American women fall in?

You're probably thinking, hmmm.  Nurses?  Nope.  Teachers?  Nope.

Secretaries. 

I gasped when I heard this statistic.  1943 called.  They want their Bake-a-Light phone back.

How can this be?  Sociologically, how is this possible when we've had the right to vote for almost 9 decades?

Those who don't find this shocking, ask yourself this, if the leading one career field for African American males in 2012 was still sharecropping, you'd be mortified.

So why are most women still secretaries or glorified secretaries (aka, "administrative assistants:)?

I blame it all on the last post.  This strangely co-dependant need to be the "other half" of a man, to be swept up in a sea of newborns.  Women obsess about being with a man, being his "better half," swept up with this, desperate to have this.  Men do NOT obsess about women.  Men do NOT obsess about being one's "other half."  They obsess about sex, themselves and their career, but NOT about women.  What gives?

I used to think it was just women's need for security.  We all want security.  We all want to be loved.  We all want and need a permanent roof over our heads, some security, etc.

So if you CAN be a woman and have security without losing yourself into a man, how come I see so few examples of this? 

So what is it?  Why are most women either in denial or stuck in this sociological rut?

And secondly, when will this ever begin to change?

Disappearing into a Man: Why Do Women Do This?

I've noticed that many women, when they start dating and find a man, disappear into that man.  They lose themselves into that man.  Their friends start to see them less and less.  The woman's old habits and routines start to disappear as his routines and life are slowly absorbed into hers.  lnadvertantly, they lose themselves entirely.

I've noticed this for years.

Sadly, I've only known three women, out of dozens and dozens who do not disappear into a man.  They are the exception to the rule. 

Consequently, this was for many years,  the chief reason I never wanted to marry.  I never wanted to become one of these women.  I find it disgusting and entirely disappointing.

Why does this happen?  What does this say about the women's movement and the progress we've made?  It kind of shoots us back to 1930, doesn't it?

Yeah, we've gotten the right to vote, serve in the military, own property, but when I see women do this, I feel sickened.  Why do women feel so desperate to find a mate, then turn around and lose themselves?

I see it over and over and over and over again.  I wish I could be proven wrong, but I see it so much, I have no other recourse but to see that most women are no where as independant as they'd like to view themselves.  This leads to the fact that when they deny they do this, they are entirely delusional.

This character flaw that women have is one reason I do not have that many women friends and have several men friends.  Because men DO NOT DISAPPEAR INTO A WOMAN.  They maintain their "self" with or without a woman.

More later.  Happy T-day, and I'll speculate more about this later.  Keep your heads up!

Done with Dating

Me, back in the day, as a college student.  What I didn't know about men back then.  Lordy.

Sorry, I've been remiss.  Just busy with work.  Dating news?  Well, here's a big update!  I'm done.  No more dating.  I took my name off every dating site that I was on back in September and have been enjoying slowly getting my piece of mind back.  Screw all that dating crap.  I'm done with it.  After The Hole, there was a freak from Colorado writing me who started claiming that he was "falling for" me.  Hello?  We were only talking on the phone two or three weeks and hadn't even met yet.  That sealed it.  Done.

In, fact, I'm seriously thinking of going back to my ex.  No, no.  Not Cactus Man.  I've not lost my mind.  But the dude I dated for 8 years.

He was a commitment-phobe and never put a ring on my finger.  In fact, that was the only time we'd ever quarrel.  His big drawing card?  He is trustworthy.  And we are good friends.

And these days, after all the damned flakes I've dated since 2004, that one quality

T.R.U.S.T.W.ORT.H.I.N.E.S.S

is beginning to mean a lot to me.  Love, schmove.

What really matters in life when it comes to people is trustworthiness.  If you don't have that, you don't have shit.

And he's still cute, too.  Why not.  No hurries.  We're just exploring our friendship.  And if you go at it that way, friendship, you can't go wrong.

Being a Fugly Magnet is Lame

 

So I'm waiting for an appointment that's late, and I hop on POF to see if Good Looking Guy has e-mailed, but of course, he hasn't.

Neither has Neat Cool Nerd Guy who likes Bill Byson.  Bummer.

Instead, three fuglies wrote me. 

It's like I'm a magnet to them, and they are just drawn to me.  What is the deal? One of them had a frightening Frankenstein-shaped head.  The other had a head shaped like a light bulb.  It was rather alarming.

Why do I attract fuglies like a moth to a porch light? 

1. I am NOT fugly.  2. Don't fuglies know they're supposed to write other Fuglies like themselves?  Does a Cyclops try to mate with a swan?  Do frogs mate with eagles?  NO.

So what's the deal-io?

Besides the three fuglies, I have an Italian-Fuglie writing me, but I don't mind so much, because he at least had the balls to write, "If you're not attracted to me, I understand, but I'd still like to make friends." 

Bravo, Fuglie.  At least he knows he's one.  And not assuming that I think he's Brad Pitt.  For that, I just might agree to go out with him.

The other three Fuglies?  Buh-bye.

New Dudes on the Horizon

Ahhh, summer.  Where's it gone?  Sigh.

Apparently this blog went "viral" a few days ago, and I got TONS of visitors in one day.  This is because my dating life, athough tragic/poetic/disappointing is at least for R.E.A.L. and I think people would rather hear more about the American version of Bridget Jones instead of the shit Hollywood passes off as "Romantic-Comedy."  Why watch some unrealistic romantic-comedy that in no way mirrors real life when you can read my blog?

So anyway, there's new dudes on the horizon, already after The Salesman hit the shitter.

And get this.  Don't spill your coffee on your keyboard but there's two who are LOCAL.

As in Rapid City. 

And neither one are so ugly that I will have to put a bag over their head in public.  One is actually hot.  What, you gasp?

However, Doooder and T. think one looks boring.  Of course, it has to be the good looking one, which already is a red flag.  As in, good looking for a man usually means "P.R.I.C.K." or player, take your pick.

But the other seems like a real sweetheart.  Well educated, socially-liberal or at least grounded in the middle, has hair, can write quite well, reads books copiously.  And loves Bill Bryson.  Hmmmm.

I MIGHT meet the good looking one for coffee Saturday, though he 1. golfs (square, I know--sorry Nicky) and 2. sails (kinda pretentious) and 3. doesn't drink (snore).

Oh, wait a minute.  I forgot another one.  Then, there's "Hare," (Harry) the "square x 5" who I've been internet buddies with forever, and he lives in Rapid.  He just texted me this morning and wants to meet up for happy hour Friday.  But Hare's a squared-supreme-deluxe, so, shrug?  Meh, might be a few laughs.  I don't consider him a true contender and have been sending him fart sound effects and bad jokes for years.  Ex.  Me: "So two pretzels walk into a bar," Hare: AND?  Me: "One of them was a-salted."  LOL.  And he has a whiney, high pitched voice and an M.B.A.  But it's good to have male buddies, even if you know they'll go nowhere.

I've got a feeling I'll probably make fun of the good looking boring guy in a future post.

But it's this first square I mentioned, the nice guy who's into Bill Bryson books that I think I might like.

Stay tuned.

Happy Anniversary!

Happy Anniversary to Me!

What's the occasion?  As I was on POF politely answering some email from some homely trolls writing me, I came across a part of my profile that says when I subscribed to this site.

To my horror, it said 2005.  I've been continuously dating on the internet for seven, long years.

In that time period, I've learned a lot. 

Here goes.

Top Ten Things I've Learned Over Seven Years of Internet Dating

1. A bullet hole in a man's bed is a very, very bad thing.  Leave immediately.
2. Just because a man's been married once doesn't mean he'll comitt any more to you than Cactus Man did.
3. A guy who goes too fast, saying how much he likes you and paying you too many compliments is a giant red flag on legs (ex. Cactus Man and The Salesman).  Run!
4. A lot of guys can look good on paper (ex. good job, educated) but be real D-bags once you get to know them.
5. A guy can regularly attend church and be a practicing Catholic and a major Douchebag.  Hello, Hole!
6. Just because he's a good father to his kids doesn't necessarily mean he'll treat you well.
7. If a guy really trash-talks his ex, RUN!  It means he learned nothing from the relationship and doesn't own up to any responsibilities in his relationships.
8.  A guy who sends you a picture of his body parts or chest is a total DOUCHE.  See "Ego" a few posts back.
9.  Guys don't get less DOUCHIER as they age.  They stay about as douchey as they were when they were 25.  They just get more desperate.
10.  A guy that always says, "I'll tell you about that later," is full of shit and buying time before dropping the A-bomb on you.  "Later" will never happen.  He's hiding something.

I'm praying for us all, kiddies.

New rule for Dudes after The Salesman.  I'm going to change my site to "friends only."  I need a break after 7 years.

And Yet Another D-bag

That's right, Bennie.

Flush 'em right down the shitter where they belong.

I've met another douche this summer, and we'll call him The Salesman.  Can you believe it?  Online of course.  It started like every textbook online romance.  Staying up hours talking and laughing on the phone.  It started to look promising, though he was going a million miles an hour.

Stop right there.

"Million miles an hour."  Wait, back up.  That is EXACTLY what Cactus Man did.

"Going a million miles an hour" is a BIG, FAT, RED FLAG, folks.  It's also a "Man thing" that a bad man does.  Defined--saying he really likes you TOO SOON, paying you too many compliments TOO SOON and TOO HEAVILY.  This is always the sign of a d-bag.

After phone dating for only 7 days, he wanted to come up here for a long Labor Day weekend date=  RED FLAG.

I told him no but waved it off as a man thing.  Still, the compliments were raining down on me.  "Oh, you're so pretty/talented/funny" etc.  And they were actually making me feel panicky and really uncomfortable (my red flag system screaming at me,"Anyone complimenting you this heavily this soon is a D-bag!").

Then outta nowhere two nights ago, I get a "I'm falling for you" text.

Then just as suddenly as he appeared, he disappeared.  But of course, I see him all over POF, the dating site, apparently trolling someone new.  I send him several emails and texts, but pifffft.  Disappeared.  No answer.

Compliments, he was full of 'em.  But then he was in sales.  Yes, stop laughing.  Sales.  So I should have known, right?  I was nothing more than a big sales pitch.

New rule.  No more men in "sales."  You're just nothing but an aquisition, someone to win over, a challenge.

Douche.  What a douchebag.

Camp Tales 14: Ouch, What Was That?

Man, I've been on the road so much this summer, that I've been  remiss to my readers.  I've got Camp Tales coming, children.  Buckle in and hold tight.

So this year, Doooder and I did Montana up right, hanging in the Gallitan Mountains and the Crazies.  BUT, before that, we thought we'd hang in Bozeman for a bit.  Check out the cool stuff.  I spotted a '36 Knuckle outside of a joint called The Crystal Saloon with some seriously cool old neon outside, so in we went for our "Celebratory  Centennial Trip Sip" as we called this in memory of our birthdays.

Three beers later, we walk back to our dumpy motel that makes last year's Bates Motel look rather charming.

Three Red Flags:
1. don't ever stay at a motel that rents rooms by the month.  It's a free ticket for pedaphiles, alcoholics and drug dealers.  We saw all three.
2. Copious amounts of duct tape to fix things all over the room, including the floor of the shower.
3. Unidentifable insects in bathroom.

"Dang, Dude, the bathroom lights don't work," Dooooder notes.

"The lamp above my bed doesn't work either," I add.  Suddenly, I notice an arresting stain the shape of Texas on the carpeting near my bed.  "I'm leaving my 'socks on, precautionary measure, Doooder,'" I say envisioning scabies, ringworm. 

I pull off the covers to do a bed-bug check.  No plastic covers, I think, "Well, maybe it'll be OK."

"Well, I don't see anything," I say hopefully.  Dooooder pulls back hers and the sheets are dirty from the last visitor.  Moreover there's frightning amounts of pubic hairs all over.

"I'm throwing up in my mouth right now," Doooder says,  "And going to get new sheets.  Stay right here."  She told me stay right there because management didn't have a key for our room, so we would have to call the manager everytime we needed back in.  Five minutes later Doooder comes back with new sheets.  She unfolds them, but they're so badly stained, she throws them on the floor.  "I think we should go out and get our sleeping bags and each sleep on top of the bed in the sleeping bags."

"Dooooder, you're being paranoid," I object.  So I wash up and crawl into bed.  No biggie, right?

The next day.

"Dude, what got at you?  You have a million bites all over your arms," Doooder says in a alarmed voice.  I look down and count.  I have 27 bites on my arm and side.  What's worse is that they were swelling up. 

Up we jumped and ran to her car, headed for the Bozeman Public Library to look up bed bug bites which look rather identical to flea bites.

"Let's get the hell out of here," we both say in unison, grabbing our toiletries out of Motel Shithole, and headed for the mountains where we camped the next two nights.

Four days later, we went to the laundrymat where, just to be safe, we nuked our clothes on high, effectively shrinking all my favorite saloon t-shirts to sizes that would fit a sixth grader.

What have I learned?  You're better off camping in the forest, or short of that, a dumpster.

More later.

Dolts, Nudies, and other D-bags in the Dating World

This was sent to me by a new internet dude from the web who's been writing and texting me.  Is he a potential D-bag like Hole and Cactus? 

What's up with men when they do this?  Why do they think I want to see their chest?  To show me that they have one?  Well, thanks, dude.  I was wondering if your moobs might be a deal-breaker.

Perhaps they think it's hot? 
"She's gonna pass out when she sees dis." (knuckles dragging as they lurch over to download their picture)

New rule: I am now offically going back to blogging about guys on here WHILE I am dating them.  Forget this being nice and waiting til they're officially a shithead.  I'm going to nickname this one, Ego.

I wrote back, "Uh.  Nice, Ego.  You're in shape, apparently."  WTF did he expect me to say, "Hi, let's bang!"

I've decided they get ONE "get outta jail card" and after that, out they go; he almost used that card on this one.  But last night, he sent me a picture of a view outside a condo window from some foreign place and wrote, "Coming soon."  Coming soon?  Is that like, "Coming soon to a theatre near you" ? I thought for sure it was intended for someone else, so I wrote back, "What was that?  Is this text intended for someone else?"

Turns out it was for just lucky me, and it's a time share he has in Cabos (he has many time shares as he's wealthy) and wanted to know if I'd be interested in going this winter.  Oh, OK.  But still!

"NO!," I wrote.  "I hardly know you yet."  He wrote, "Never mind."

What's with these men.  I mean, the next one, is getting a fucking frying pan over the head, or maybe even worse.  Gawd, for all of Crackie and Hole's faults, they never pulled this shit.

ONE more chance, then out comes the frying pan.

Signed,
Fed up in South Dakota.

New D-bags, Dating and Disturbing Dreams

That's me and the big "B," on a road trip!  With my ex, who is seemingly the only man I can trust these days, sorta.  I mean he's sorta trustworthy, way better than most D-bags.  He doesn't throw a bag over my head and push me down the stairs like Hole did.

Man, I've been having some weird dreams lately, no doubt brought on by my shocking experience and the fast "bait and switch" Hole threw at me.  I dreamed I was in jail two nights ago.  Then last night, I dreamed my ex's, ex, had a baby and it came out alien, speaking a language no one understood and shaking all over.  Scary.

Whaz up, Universe?

So I'm meeting some new dudes on a different "paying site," and the universe is spinning fairly intelligent ones my way.  But I'm just about the taking it slow as friends gigs these days.

So far, there's nothing to make fun of in two of the ones writing me, other than the geographical distance separating us.

Which brings up two questions:

What is wrong with Rapid City that there are no decent available men here to date? 

and

What's up with all the men who get on dating sites but never want to actually meet or date?  It's a little better on the paying site, since they gotta fork over some cash, but not as good as you'd think.


What the hell?

Hole's Five Red Flags

 

Yours truly.

I had a horrible time sleeping last night when I got home from rally.  Get this, I ran into Gary/The Hole after I left the San Diego crowd and was going home.

There's over 30,000 people on Main St. during the Sturgis Rally, and he had to be standing right in front of me like a scene outta Casablanca. 

It's Thursday, and I've talked to Crackie, Bassy, Dooder, Nicky, Jen and Katie.  We even quizzed J.R.C.   Three dudes and four chicks,  to try and figure out why Hole did what he did.  I even sent him an email to try to really wrap my head around it.  No reply of course, because The Hole doesn't take responsibility for his actions.  Why should he?

Flag One

___________________________________________

So that begs the question, what the hell happened?

I think I listed all his good wonderful traits in another blog.  So here goes.

THE OTHER RED FLAGS POPPING UP THAT I IGNORED:

ME: Well, there was one thing that was weird, I saw a bullet hole in his bed.
NICKY/JJ: First of all, he promised you a bed downstairs SO WHY were you staring at his bed.  Are you FUCKING kidding me?  Why was there a bullet hole in his bed?
ME: I don't know.  He wouldn't tell me.  He said he'd tell me later.

Flag Two.  Which is worse, that he has a bullet hole through his bed that he admitted to or telling me, "I'll tell you later."  "Later" is to buy time. 
Always a bad flag.

_________________________________________

Hole: I have an obsession with the Hells Angels.  (An obsesion with TV shows, books, working out, history=healthy.  An obsession with the mafia or organized crime=sick)
Me: (WTF?)  Uh, OK.

This is the part where experience will piss you off.  I know all about the FOUR outlaw gangs.  Oh, wait, "MC's."  I dated a top 13'er in the "Infamous Four."  And that is all I'm going to say. 

TONS OF UNANSWERED QUESTIONS ABOUT THIS.  For my own safety, I played stupid.
Flag Three
________________________________________

Me: So whatever happened to your wife and you?
Hole: I will tell you about that later.

Only "later" turned into a hellhole tirade the day he dumped me where NOTHING was his fault and she was a **%& bitch.  Everything was "her fault."  I think as long as he lives he WILL NEVER  be over her.  Thanks, Hole, for trying to date me when you will never be emotionally available.
Flag Four
_________________________________________

Crackie: So does he drink?
Me: No.  He said he quit many years ago, had to.
Crackie: Does he still follow the 12 step program and meet with his sponsor and pay it forward and help others?
Me: NO.
Crackie: He's a fucking "dry drunk," D-bag.  Be glad he's gone.

Flag Five
_________________________________________

At this point, I am glad I saw the red flags, but I wish I would have ran faster.  Either way, seeing them, and noting them, made the hurt a little less.

He's got access to this page, but like Crackie and Bass said, two males I might add.  "He'll NEVER WORK ON HIS ISSUES."  He'll just keep looking for Miss Right and never look deeper at himself.  I thought that really insightful coming from two manly dudes.

Time to move on. Sorry this blog wasn't funny like I promised, but I had started to fall for him, and life is full of grey issues.  I don't hate him.  He wasn't like the others.  However, the Universe wanted me to learn some lessons.

Have I Lost My Humor or is it Just a Heartache?

I woke up today reminding myself my audience deserved some good laughs today about getting dumped last weekend.

Instead, I found myself missing things about him, despite his anger mismanagement issues and being a reprehensible douche and dumping me.

I miss his sweet texts.  He had a way of saying something kind to me every day, a kind of sweetness I've not seen in a man since college.  Imagine how good that feels.  .  .

I miss his generousity.  He made you feel special by getting up and getting you things, whether it'd be a pop or whatnot.  He wasn't a typical cheapskate.  He was gainfully employed and not milking the system on a fake "Oh, my back!" disability or unemployment like so many do.

I miss our muses together.  He liked to ask big philosophical questions and mull over them for a long time.  If I felt like it, he'd let me ramble on about something without interrupting and would listen with interest.

A man who listens, yes I actually said that!

Sigh.  But he threw that all away because I wouldn't sleep with him after a tiny handful of dates.  Like it was high school or something.  I thought we were on the same page.  I THOUGHT we were taking it slow.

Wouldn't you think that at 53, a guy would have things figured out a little bit better than that? 

Wouldn't you think that at 53, it would be OK to have an adult talk about sex, or about the big "M" without acting like a baby? 

Having sex too soon is not a mature way to start a relationship.  Don't we usually learn that before we're even out of our 20's?  How can a man who's so deep that he asks the million dollar questions about our mudane existence on the planet turn around and be such a goddamned emotional-midget moron?  Maybe his nickname shall be "Hole."  As in, there's a hole inside of him nothing can fill.

Bette Davis once said, "Sex is God's joke."  She was asked by Dick Cavett on his show what she meant by that.  Her reply was that it clouds a person's judgement, and once that glory of sex is over and you see the person for the HUGE DOUCHE that they are, then you are embarrassed and amazed and overwhelmed that you slept with them and thought they were cool.  Hence, God is upstairs laughing, because the universe doesn't want you to "hook up" with someone who's so hot you can't stand it.  When I asked Gary if his ex (who he is so clearly NOT OVER, hello anger-management issues) was "hot" hence a retarded reason to marry someone, he just glared at me, which means "Yes.  I am an idiot, stop rubbing it in." 

The universe wants you to dig deeper than that, and put sex on the back burner and try to act a little more intelligent than an knuckle-dragging ape, which I guess that is what he really was.

Sigh.

I was Shitcanned by a Religious D-Bag

After last summer, I decided to not blog about the guys I date, WHILE I am dating them.  Instead, I've decided to blog about them AFTER they've alarmingly misbehaved and disappeared.

I just got shitcanned by a "Catholic" who because I wouldn't sleep with him after a small handful of dates, dumped me after several weeks of exlusive phone and cyber dating.

Might I add he dumped me, AFTER, I met his children and family at his family picnic while he laid down to take a two hour nap, leaving me to entertain his family whom I didn't even know then threw me in his car, drove me over two hours home and dumped me.

Ain't that great?  More later.  I am too upset about this to make fun of it, but you guys know me, and as soon as I can, I will.

In fact, I've made a new rule.  Since I've met so many douchbags, from now on, when a new douchebag has cut out on me, I will send them the link to this site.  Why not?  Besides, a true douche doesn't really care much anyway, right?

What a douchebag.

Vacation with the P's Pt. II: Is it Time to Eat Yet?

Still with the P's and having a good vacation. 

Have you ever wondered if you when you were a baby, the nurse grabbed the wrong infant and sent you off with another family?

I honestly wonder if I was switched accidentally at birth, instead of going to the two vegetarian, skinny liberal arts, hippy college professors, I wound up where I am today.

When I was on vacation with Ivy, food consumption/activity went like this, which is my everyday routine: small handful of nuts/orange/flax seed for b-fast, fruit/veggies later in the day, light, healthy dinner (salad), if any dinner at all, daily-excerise, a few "light" Miller 64 beers, maybe a walk, then bed.  However, this vacation is alarmingly different.

The above picture is my contribution to supper night for my family last night.  It was met with polite reviews.  It was a heart-healthy, low-cal, taco chicken salad.  However, I'm sure everyone wished it was served with some mashed potatoes and meat and would have tasted better covered in gravy.

My family is food-oriented. 

If my family had a restaurant, it would be in the top ten percent of Fortune 500 companies.  People would bite and pull hair to buy stock into our restaurants.  The floor of the New York Stock Exhange would be chaos, screaming in the aisles, pushing, kicking, clammering over our stock.  Our economy would come out of recession and would thrive in prosperity, and one of my siblings, having "saved the economy" by opening restaurants in all 50 states would be elected president.

Customers would line up blocks outside of the front door, waiting to get in.  There'd be fights over who was first in line.  We'd have to hire security.  We'd be millionares and have several shows on PBS and the Food Network.  The Food Network would be changed to The Neumann Network.

My family is food-obsessed.

I suppose to a smaller degree, I am a foodie, who delights in watching the Food Network and America's Test Kitchens, growing my own herbs and canning and creating new dishes, only unlike my family, I eat to live, not live to eat. 

To my family, Food (with a capital "F"), and more importantly, EATING is an activity, a sport, like say competitive swimming or acrobatics.   Eating marathons are commonplace.  My family has a sort of private olympics when it comes to eating, my dad always taking the platinum metal.  Desserts are are required, though my mom's diabetic, and my dad's significantly overweight; second helpings are a must, and counting the minutes to the next meal is strongly encouraged.

The ultimate swearword is not a four-lettered word, but "vegetarian."  To say "I'm a vegetarian" is worse than saying, "I think Al Queda are a bunch of super dudes."

And then there is me, trying to maintain a healthy weight and actually come close to a doctor-approv ed BMI. 

Yet, my family conversations often go like this:

"When's dinner?"
Me: "We just ate an hour ago."
"But WHEN"s DINNER?  I'm starting to get hungry again."

or

"We have to get home in a few hours."
Me: "Why?  The show hasn't started yet."
"We have to start dinner.  We only have 6 hours and my marinade requires three hours chilling time."

"Starting dinner" is a phrase that means cooking, often for hours.  My mom's stroganoff is an "activity" that takes 24-72 hours preparation including: perusing various supermarkets to find sales, purchasing said items, prep-time cutting, dicing, etc., actual cooking time 2-3 hours.  Also, everyone is REQUIRED to participate or be labeled a social pariah.

Needless to say, that means "dinner time" in my family is usually between 8:00-9:00 p.m. followed by an alarming array of desserts and an immediate retiring to bed.

Of course, this leads to obesity but that's fodder for another blog.

Is it lunch yet?  (sigh)

Vacation with the P's or "Anyone seen my Belltone?"

Vacation with the P's or, "Does anyone know where I put my Belltone"?

Yes, I know I'm behind on a new blog or ten.  I have tons of blogs coming down the chute because I'm on vacation with my parents (gasp)!  How old am I?  Twelve?  We're visiting Washington state to see my sister and husband for (another gasp) 2 weeks.  And that was a plea-bargain, because they wanted me to go for three weeks.  It was difficult, but after perusing Jen's supply of prescription meds, it got it whittled down to . . .

Two weeks.

OK, so you can gather all the gaffes I can write about, the gist of it being, how much you love your parents but are horribly conflicted you are because they are so fucking annoying.

One of my favorites goes like this:

You are quickly trying to put on your mascara and brush your teeth at the same time because you know that sooner or later either parent is going to walk in the bathroom, announcing that they're going to have to take a "huge dumper" but "never mind, you don't have to finish what you're doing."  They'll be in just "a moment." 

Or this little scenario:

"Have you seen my coffee, Mom?"

"Copy?  Copy what?"

"My coffee!  Have you seen my coffee?!!!!"

"No, I don't have a cough dear."

(Repeat ad nauseum)

Pets, My Dog-son and Crackie

Ever notice how the saying, "Pets resemble their owners" is true?

Ben's driving me bat-shit crazy.  For the past TWO HOURS, he's been running from the bathroom window to the living room door over and over OVER AGAIN as if he's got O.C.D.

He's furious because Buddy, the dog next door, the "unbearably arrogant brute" Bennie's words, has escaped his yard again.  Bennie finds this personally offensive on many levels because he feels Buddy did this on purpose to personally affront him, throwing it up in his face.  Bennie finds this so unbearably rude, that he cannot, simply . . .

. . . let it go, until he goes back and forth across the living room, 75 times, ruminating over it and making this little huffing-under-his-breath noise, the way he does when he's personally insulted.

Of course this is HIGHLY aggravating for me to have to witness.

Then of course I cringe, seeing the direct comparison between Ben and Buddy, to me and Crackie. And how obsessed both Ben and I are when we have become convinced that someone is nefariously out to get us.

Well, I can't read Buddy's mind, but I know Crackie pretty well.

Here's the whole story summarized.  I needed my counter fixed. I needed someone unemployed with time on their hands, who's talented with a saw. Crackie, of course fit the bill, so I emailed him after basically not talking to him for almost a year. He thought he could fix my counter, too. Long story short, I felt "attracted" (again, sigh) to him while watching him work (over two weekends) .  Of course, he couldn't have gained weight or gotten ugly, no.  I could see the outline of a nicely rounded ass cammoflaged under the soft folds of his shorts, his long tanned legs, thickly muscled and I drooled after having held my Nun-like status for going on 5 years now. . .  Anyway, he saw me wearing my "drool bucket" and put the smack down, rather sharply across my hands before I could even cop as much as a generous assfeel. Like anyone getting a sharp crack of the ruler and the consequent rejection of an ass-booting, it hurt like hell, so I roared back, rather loudly. Then we had a stupid passive-aggressive email pissing contest, then I blocked him.

Isn't that dumb? Isn't my dog-son, Bennie, just a chip off the ol' block?

Sigh.  But there's more.  Like I said, a new man on the horizon.  But that's fodder for another post.

More Asskickings for Stupid People

OK, I've been remiss again.

But here's why.  Montana.  Yes, you'll be getting installments of "Camp Tales" very soon, just as soon as I look over my journal and assess the calamities.

This was 30 miles from where Frontier House was filmed.

But I digress.  Here's a summary of the past month's events: Crackie came back.  Yes, I even beckoned and opened the door for him.  Stupid.  More later.  Cactus wrote me and got hung out to dry.  In fact, after I tore him a new asshole, I even patched it up for him and put a band-aide on it, just to show him I had no hard feelings.  Then I tore Crackie a new one and blocked him.

Well, it's all part of this journey I'm on.  I NO LONGER DENY my feelings, good or bad.  And no longer spare them for some stupid man.  He's going to know how I feel, and that's how it goes.

But there's yet another man on the horizon.  He's old school.  I'm going slow and keeping an open mind.  I watched and grasped The Secret, and things are looking different.

I think for so long I was internally screaming, NO MORE ASSHOLES, that I was drawing them like moths to a porch light.

So I changed up my way of thinking.  And it worked.

More later.

How About an Ass Kicking from a Writer?

OK, I've been remiss about posting, instead, reading like there's no tomorrow.

And revising the novel.

But it's time for a new gripe. 

As a writer, there's one thing I must bitch about.  I HATE it when I tell someone that I'm a writer and have to endure the following stupid remarks.

How to piss off a writer:

1. "I'm a writer, too."  (when they are not)
Firstly, writing in a way is like breathing.  Yes, everyone breathes, unless you are dead, and unless you are illiterate, everyone writes, but the association stops there.  Everyone is NOT a writer.  To become a electrician, you must apprentice, take classes--it's a long process, and not everyone can do what you do.  A writer is much the same way.  A writer spends 10-20 hours a week, minimum, (outside his/her "day job") writing/researching on his/her said project/s.  If you do not do that, you are not a writer.

2. "Are you published?  Can I get your book on Amazon?"
ARGHHHHHHHHHHHH.  If I have to explain the very long, and sordid process of big east coast publishing houses one more time, they'll have to carry me off to the funny farm.  It takes years to get published, even at the first major step: literary journals and hell no, they are not available online at Amazon. Or worse still, the grocery store.

3. "Once you get published, you'll make lotsa money like Steven King or whoever it was who wrote those Harry Potter books."  Sigh.  Firstly, they are the exception, not the rule.  No one gets big advances anymore, not that they EVER did.  And you do not go into fiction-writing for money in the first place.  It's like pestering a fisherman about how big a fish he caught; he doesn't do it for that, and if you have to ask, you don't understand.

4. "Talk about stories.  I got a story you can write.  Let me tell ya."  And on and on and on they go blathering about some alarmingly dull anecdote.  DILLIGF?  Why would I or any other writer want to write YOUR story, something that inspires YOU?  This is ALWAYS SPOKEN BY A MAN.  In fact, this leads to my next pet peeve.

5.  "I'm gonna write a book some day about blah, blah, blah."  I might add that they will go on and on about this alleged idea that will never happen while a real writer is anxious to get home and check his/her mail to see what the dailies have brought in from agents and editors.

Please do NOT annoy a writer with the above senseless prattle.  Warning: a writer after a few cocktails has been known to behave like a cornered raccoon after hearing any of the above. 

Just sayin'.

WTF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"New" stupid ass Blogger will not allow you to make paragraphs.  Right on, asshole web designers.  Rock on!

Delusional People

Uh oh. It's been over a month and I've not posted. No excuse other than I ordered about a dozen books from Amazon and have been reading profusely and neglecting to post or play my guitar every day. So here goes. Delusionality.

One of my neighbors I've written about before is married and is about as romantically-delusional as I've ever seen. When she looks at her husband, she sees the most hillarious, brilliant, talented man in the world. But when I look at him, I see an arrogant, rude asshole. So it gets me to thinking, how does one get to be so delusional, especially in romantic engagements?

Can you be calculating and intelligent in other walks of life, but only romantically-challenged? Or if you're delusional in romance, maybe you're just an all-around idiot but don't know it yet P.S. THIS post is supposed to be paragraphed, but Blogger, in its stupidity has "updated" their fucking site, and I can't figure out how to make paragraphs hold, thanks Blogger. Don't fix what's not broken or anything.

?

Pretentions and Other Rants

What's in my bookshelf here? Well, this is my Western-Pioneer American history collection and Native American. I have the same-sized bookshelf in my hallway with women's fiction, then one more smaller one with more women's fiction and plays. Before I moved here, I gave away three giant boxes of books, and last spring, two more giant boxes of books to W.A.V.I. I still have two more boxes of books in my basement. Books are like socks. You gotta suck up and throw out the old ones sometimes to make room for the new.

Alright, I guess we all can be a little pretentious sometime, but I gotta vent.

There's some pretentious things I cannot stand. Let me give you an example from the way-back-file, many years ago, T. and I used to work for a huge textbook company. Per capita, it had one of the highest amounts of under-employed and over-educated staffs of any place I've ever worked.

I don't remember how the story went, but one night, one of the pretentious "book-buyers" invited us over for an after-hours party. In his living room, he pointed to a puny bookcase and raved about his book collection. It had the stock-gag commerical favorites: Steven King, Mitchner, Tom Clancy. And the token few "I KNOW this is a classic because I had to read it in college" books. You know, Steinbeck, Hemingway, yawn, Melville. Gawd, I HATE seeing people stuff their bookshelves with those, especially when I know they never read them or HAD to read them for college.

I didn't dare look at T, nor did T. look at me, for fear of bombing out laughing over his pretentious alleged hold over the literary market.

LOOK FOLKS, IF YOU DON'T REALLY READ BOOKS, DON'T TRY TO POSTURE THAT YOU DO. A real bibliophile can tell.

So just this spring, I was invited to a get-together of youngsters (20 and early 30-somethings), and it happened again.

People who really don't read much other than a token book or two a year, throwing up a bookcase, with most of the books, ones they've never read annoys me.

I don't know why this annoys me, but it does.

It annoys me the same way that all the Resolutionists (people who swear up and down after New Year's, that they're going to start working out), fill up my gym, get in my way, then disappear after one ore two token months, never to be seen again.

OR, say people who swear up and down that they "Cannot DRINK ordinary tapwater," then, heh, heh, you play a little joke on them and find out they can't even tell the difference, but that's fodder for another post.

'Til then? Hey, if you don't read, just admit it. Put your comic books on display or magazines or collection of troll-dolls from the 70's and call it good. Just be who you are, and quit postering.

Real writers and bibliophiles always know the difference. ARK!

Happiness is an Inside Job

Man, I've been really happy lately. Why? An increase in pay, a new man in my life, better job, an agent for my book or big publishing contract? No, no, no, no.

I've been expanding my horizons, and that's what's making me happy. Joining new clubs, meeting new people.

Like Lennon said folks, "Life happens when you're busy making plans." I'm sure Chris Stevens would agree.

You're not going to find happiness later on in that "future life" when you find a relationship/better career/better job/house/etc.

It really is in the NOW, man, in an Eckert Tolle-esque karmic burrito called life, so suck it up, folks.

Speaking of karmic things, I'll end on a quote from my friend Chris in Northern Exposure: "Some things are better left alone. Certain things were not meant to tamper with or possess. And that's OK. Because happiness doesn't come from Having things--right? It comes from being Part of things.

Get out there and walk your dog, plant a tree, hold the door open for someone and just laugh at the little things. Don't think about "work." Don't think about finding the love of your life.

Just enjoy the moment.

Spring's Giddiness

Man, Bennie and I went for a long walk for exercise and saw so many cool things today, the last day of Spring Break.

There's something about 70-something degrees and the snow all melted, the chirpies being back and the blue sky that just lends hope.

And I had a coffee date with an interesting dude who wasn't throw-up bad looking. Yay! In fact, he could almost be called cute, yay! Best of all, he did something that was SO CUTE. When he was getting ready to leave as we were sitting at the coffeehouse table, he cupped my hands together and put his hands around them warmly and said how much fun he had. It was such a warm gesture, that I was grinning from ear to ear.

Pretty good news after slowly recovering from Invisible Man and his hijinks, who is . . . tada, still invisible, shocker! In fact, when I was feeling really accountable and rock solid two weeks ago, I sent him two emails. One, just sort of telling him where I was at these days and asking about him, and one that was VERY as in "tell it to the therapist, baby" direct, as in "talking with the judge while you're being sworn in court" sincere asking simply "what happened with us and what were your intentions last year?" Get this, he ONLY responded to the one email and ONLY talked about himself and his father. Zippo. All "adult" and mature questions I had asked, zero response. ZERO.

Well, sometimes GOD yells in your ear, and sometimes he whispers. When IM sent me those sweet Christmas gifts and nice Valentine, I thought he was legit, and I thought there'd be a sincere conversation about what had happened to us. I thought GOD was whispering, "Give him another chance."

No dice. GOD was yelling in my ear: "THIS DUDE WILL NEVER, EVER COMMITT TO ANY WOMAN, EVER, EVER, EVER." So, thanks, GOD.

And, if all this isn't cool enough, another intersting dude who's not "throw up ugly" is writing me from Lead. And 1. he's from Oregon (Oregon people are usually very interesting) and 2. Has a cool natural science background like IM used to. I dig environmentally-conscious dudes. And, he DIGS history, especially Old West history.

Such good karma. I dig spring.

Is it a Her or Him?

SHIM--a person whom you cannot tell what gender they are by just looking at them. According to old Saturday Night Live skits, this is also known as a "Pat."

OK, so Bennie and I were out walking in the glorious park we are so fortunate to have when we spotted a "Shim." Setting all PC aside, and not trying to be an ass, but what gives when you can't tell someone's gender? I know our looks cannot be avoided, but still, what gives?

Now, I know I look pretty rotten without makeup. In fact, if I wear a cap, no makeup, let my hair get really scraggly and dirty, and don a pair of big coveralls, I myself, might be mistaken for a shim.

Again, I apologize for being non-pc, but do shims want to look genderless? Or is this a sort of Ausberger's Disease of Fashion?

I think sometimes the smallest tip off helps, a barette, a pink accessory, a girlish neckline.

I'm perplexed.

Talkeetna, Alaska: The New El Dorado

As a writer and traveler, this is my newest obsession. Some people get obsessed with a hobby or a new love, but I get obsessed with places. How'd I find this completely out of the way new place?

I read somewhere that one of the writers/creator of Northern Exposure was charmed, (or as writers often get) obsessed with this place and it was the inspiration for the show. They weren't able to film there though due to location and the fact that half the year it would have been probably pretty cost prohibitive, so they chose the next best thing: Rosyln, Washington. ONLY, Rosyln is slowly turning into a bedroom community to Seattle. Of course, to artists like me, that kills its initial charm.

But Talkeetna is only close to one thing: Denali. And that's about it. It's about a two and a half hour drive from Anchorage, a little far to be a bedroom community.

BUT, look at this view: http://www.talkeetnachamber.org/

As with all cool places, I have no idea what a person might do to earn a living out there as there'd not be the good paying jobs a metropolis offers.

But an obsession with something is what every good writer needs. Every obsession I've had, I've turned it into art. I'm rolling it around in the back of my mind for a novel since I've finished my last one and am only doing the last revisions before submitting it to agents this summer.

Say you have a village of eccentrics, and maybe you base the novel around a group of writers who've formed their own writing circle who also feature as characters in the novel. It's churning in my mind.

I think I'm on to something. But then my feet get to itching as Rapid City is developing so fast. I get to thinking I might have one more, big last move. But I wouldn't want to do it alone. Maybe some day. Maybe indeed. If not, I've got my next novel in the "thinking stage" which only lasts a few months, then I start hammering something out.

Alaska, the final last frontier. Ahhhhhhhh.

Spring has Sprung

Or has it, asks Bennie balefully from his warm perch.

It keeps tempting us to think that spring has moved in. Yet, anyone who lives in the Rocky Mountain chain (of which the Black Hills is technically part of), knows that a mild winter can always pull a few switch-a-roo's culminating in sudden dumps of heavy wet snow and bone-numbing drops of temp. We've had nary a blizzard this year. I've not even busted out my cross-country skiis yet.

But here I sit reading in my living room with a million spring chirpers outside of my window and an owl and mourning dove.

Sooooo, is it spring, or isn't it?

Falsifiers: Guys Who Say They Miss You When They Don't

OK, whatever "heart" I had in me is going back to its protective Agnes Moorhead stance.

This guy, I'd dated back last summer and had started to get serious with, I just saw, happy as a lark on POF, with new pictures.

I THOUGHT, he'd missed me, missed what we had, since I'd gotten these heart felt voicemails, Valentine, etc.

As Jen said, "In HIS mind, you were taking too long to forgive him. Men don't wait around."

Aren't there any men with integrity who want a lasting committment out there anymore? He put on his site, "Just dating, not wanting anything serious."

I guess I don't get it. I tried calling but, you guessed it, it went to voicemail as usual. Because as usual, he was talking on the other line.

I guess I was a sucker to think he wanted my friendship. I tried writing him and asking some real questions like, "What did you want from me back then?" I can understand that more and possibly come to be friends, if I can get an answer to that.

These days a cup of real honesty is all that I want.

Sigh.eca

Post Valentine's Day Blues

Well, Valentine's Day was the usual: spent alone with just little Bennie. BUT, I had lobster, wine, and caramels. Yay me! Yay, "Singles Awareness Day!" the acronym S.A.D. Rather befitting.

But I did hear from I. Man. Apparently he's willing to be NON-invisible. However, it's weird when I remember that I used to "like him" like him, if you know what I mean. Potential-mates can be rolled over into the "friends only bin," but it's still strange because the dynamic changes. Yet the other person can be oblivious to this.

Know what I mean?

If you roll someone over into the "friends only bin" the following things change:

1. You do not have to always answer your phone if he/she calls. Only answer the phone if you have nothing better to do. When it's a potential-mate, you leave your life fairly open for them, but if it's a friend-only, its always up to YOU if you want to talk to them.

2. When you DO talk to them, don't chat too long. Potential-mates need to take up room in your head and heart, but not "friends only." Why? It sabotages room for Mr./Ms. Right to come along. Don't let a "friend-only" take up too much room.
When you "like someone" like someone, you're always there when they call (without seeming "too available"). Your door is usually open to them. You almost always want to see them. But once they're in the "fiends bin only," things change.

The lame part is that ex's or would be mates whom you've regulated to the "friends only" bin, don't always know this.

I had this happen to me recently, and the ex was surprised that I hadn't made room for him in an activity, but I was surprised that he was surprised.

Go, sigh, figure

Growing Up and Growing Older

Me and the B, watching some TV. PBS, that is!

Well, what's new? Denver got boatloads of gorgeous, fluffy snow, Denver being just a few hours away, and we got nil. Zippo. In fact, I'm typing this to the sound of either Mourning Doves or an owl outside. Very springlike and strange, so much for cross country skiing this weekend.

Guess who called yesterday?

Ivisible Man. I didn't take the call. He left a voice mail, saying he hoped I was well and hinted at it would be nice to go to the Firehouse Theatre with me to see Jen's show which opened last night. I was too busy to answer, even though I wasn't really doing anything, and well, I guess I turned a corner in my evolution as a woman. And I'm so proud of myself how I got over him so fast, meaning, 3 months. That's pretty good. It took me 3 years to get over Cactus Man. It's not that I don't want to talk to IM, but when you regulate someone to the "Friends Only" bin, (especially after they've been intolerable) something changes when it's YOU who have made the changes in your life. I don't know what it is but when I do this, I feel more independant, confident, happy, trusting with my heart. It makes me wonder if I'm meant to ride the journey of life alone, with only a few buds along the way. Hmmmm.

Oh, and The Bigot is out of my life for good. I see I can't even find The Bigot on my Facebook, which meant, she not only deleted me as a friend but blocked me.

Ooooooh, the BIG, scary "Liberal" people like I am (in western SD, "liberal" means communist). It's best to block them. Liberals like me are dangerous. They believe in unfathomly crazy things like equal rights for all people, good affordable health care for all, good education for children and social security for old people, and keeping jobs in the U.S. rather than tax breaks for corporations to outsource them to third world sweatshops.

Dr. McReynold's has a cool sign on his door that says, "Taxes are the price we pay for living in a civilized society--Oliver Wendell Holmes." Pretty cool, I think.

Bigots, Buffoons and other Toiletries

I was taught tolerance. I grew up on the Illinois/Iowa border. And to my knowledge, everyone around me was taught this in the farming community that I grew up in.

I was taught that everyone has an opionion, and you must be accepting of this.
I am also an educator. So arguing one's opinion in a diplomatic way, unemotionally, with intelligence and reasoning and MLA cited sources is what I teach.

But, I just found out one of my EX friends is a BIGOT. Sure, I've heard of bigots before, but I never had one who was a closeted one who was a close friend. Note, I say WAS.

It all started with a simple post on Facebook about a SD ruling to put a class about Christianity in the public schools. I, for one, happen to agree with the concept of "separation of church and state," certainly not a NEW concept as coined by Thomas Jefferson, and goes back to ancient Greece. Of course, I forget that only 30% of the general public is educated, so I should have known. And in western SD, it feels like that percentage is more like 5%.

So I posted this, and a few like-minded people chimed in.

Then I get this text from this ex "friend" who never is on Facebook, never comments on anyone's site. She shoots me a series of ghastly accusative texts calling me a "christian hater," and it's "liberals" like me that one day have to "stand before the face of god" for all the sins that us "liberals" condone like "abortion, which we have to pay for on the tax dollar because of you."

WHAT??!! you're probably thinking, right?

Wow. I didn't know abortions were free. This unwarrented diatribe came from the mouth of someone who says "Cain't" and "Supposably." Poorly educated.

Once I deleted her out of my phone/Facebook/life, I realized she'd dropped hints that she was a bigot for a long time. I, being a nice midwesterner, just chose to ignore them.

I now recall her having said some unsavory things about gays. And one time, she said I really couldn't understand LOVE because I'd never been married and only married people can understand love. Which was odd since I lived with someone for 10 years. I think I know a little.

So because of all this, I've re-thought how I was taught. Originally, I was taught to not talk money, religion or politics. But now I will. Not a lot, but just a little to find out if the person is tolerant.

Because I've had it with intolerance. This person was just running over with it.

Intolerance is the root to many societal problems and has been for a very long time. Racism, you name it.

If you have a bigot in your life, no matter how nice they are, get rid of them. They're just bad news all around.

I am Lame

I AM LAME. I just realized I've failed to post--so my offering is this adorable picture of Bennie. This is not like me. I have no excuses, but I do have several post updates.

Firstly, Invisible Man contacted me, not once but three times via phone. I've decided to be "slightly friends" with him, because that's all I can do.

Refresher: Let us NOT forget that he didn't write/contact me for three months because of his "depression," but being me, I couldn't hate him for his shortcomings. Having said that, I'm not going backwards. He can be a friend.

Besides there's more. There's the "recent flirtation" situation let alone a dude from Jackson Hole, but I digress.

I just had to catch everyone up and prepare for the next post: "Is Archie Bunker Dead or does Nate have a Secret Biggot in her Life?" Stay posted.