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.