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.