Tag Archives: epic fail

Don’t You LOVE When Things are Black & White?

There are so few things in this world that are so completely cut-and-dried as domestic violence = WRONG.  But over at the Brazen Careerist, queen of TMI (she once live-tweeted a miscarriage and talked about checking her cervical mucus during a job interview) Penelope Trunk has added domestic-violence apologist and victim-blamer to her resume.  In her latest post about the immaturity and selfishness of those that choose divorce, she jaw-droppingly equates divorce with mental illness and for those that choose this path due to domestic violence she posits that they just suck at drawing boundaries because it “takes two people to fight.”  Scoop your jaw off the floor because the worst thing about this is the fact that she has admitted, and has blogged extensively about being the victim of physical and emotional domestic violence in her own marriage, even going so far as posting images of her bruising at the hands of her husband.

“I am at a hotel. I think I’m dying. I have a bruise from where the Farmer slammed me into our bed post…The Farmer told me that he will not beat me up any more if I do not make him stay up late talking to me.”

I think that her premise, that divorce is too often entered into for reasons that are perhaps capricious and that people don’t work hard enough at making their marriages work, has a lot of merit.  My parents’ divorce is a shining example of this.  There was no “good” reason that it couldn’t have worked out except the two of them were miserable and refused to really work at it.  I admit, there are times, even though they are both much happier than they were while married, that I secretly judge them for divorcing.  There were no special needs children.  No homelessness or joblessness.  No illnesses to overcome.  No overt abuse.  Staying together for the kids only works if you do it happily and willingly.  Hanging on in silent but obvious misery until most of your kids are out of the house however, is not.  For situations like this, I fully understand why one might not be willing to give the parties a “free pass.”

However, it is inconceivable to me that someone like Penelope, who is in such a dire situation, who almost nobody would fault for ending the relationship, instead digs in ever harder and doubles down by calling the rest of us that bailed on abusive marriages selfish, immature, mentally ill, child-destroying shit-disturbers that are at least 50/50 to blame for our own abuse.  What her husband did to her was wrong.  I don’t care if she spit on him, called his mother a whore and set fire all his worldly possessions.  I don’t care if she is an impossible nag, or won’t put out, or calls him names.  There is absolutely NO GOOD REASON TO HIT YOUR SPOUSE.  Full stop. That’s it.  Period.  End of discussion.  Lest you think I am only talking about man on lady violence, this declaration is gender-less.  There are plenty of men out there that are hit, struck and abused by their wives.  That is so NOT ok either!  (This is a whole other blog post, but I almost feel WORSE for men that are victims of domestic violence because of the shame surrounding them from a cultural perspective).

I understand the need the people have to justify whatever fucked-up situation they are in.  I know because I myself was a domestic-violence apologist and a victim-blamer.  Now I can’t get into the psychology of why Penelope Trunk not only allows herself to be abused but also defends her abuser, assigns the blame for the abuse on herself and subsequently slams anyone that chooses to leave their abuser.  I’m sure it has something to do with her childhood of heartbreaking, breathtaking sexual abuse.  However, the fact remains that it is 100% OK to divorce an abusive spouse.  Black and White.  No apologies necessary.


The Bad Date Chronicles – Cat Shit Edition

Actually, this may have been more fun than my date

About 6 months ago I met “Kent” on OKCupid.  He was new in town and had just moved here from the South to follow his soon-to-be ex and children.  I agreed to meet him at a bar for some pizza, beer and football.

Maybe it was the 3 Blue Moons I drank, or his Southern accent, or his utter devotion to Morrissey, but I was hooked.  Before I knew it we were furiously making out right there at the bar, much to the amusement of the bartender and other patrons that we gleefully informed of the fact that this was our very first date.  When I found out he lived just 3 blocks away from me, I was SURE that this guy was perfect for me.

A few nights later, we made plans to meet at his house to “watch movies” which, as you all know, is code for pretending that we are not just going to hook up and that this is a “real” date.  I got to his house and he greeted me at the door wearing a pair of old sweat pants and a t-shirt with holes in it.  I wasn’t impressed, especially since I had made it a point to dress casually nice and a bit sexy.  Also greeting me at the door was a menagerie of animals – a couple of dogs and cats that belonged to his roommate.

I’m a total animal lover.  In fact, I was just a cat or two shy of officially becoming a crazy cat lady  in my 20′s so I had no problem whatsoever with the fact that he shared his space with a small petting zoo.  But these animals were….special.  His roommate was a collector of down-on-their luck types, the ones that got left behind in shelters or weren’t adoptable.  Admirable.  But not conducive to sexy time.

While we sat there on the couch and started the movie, one of the dogs came and practically sat on my foot.  It was an adorable chow mix type, all fluffy, and I swear to god, smiling.  I reached out to pet it and he warned me not to because IT DOESN’T LIKE BEING TOUCHED.  All right then.  I withdrew my hand, but the dog didn’t move.  It sat there, smiling, on my foot just staring at me.  Awkward.

It was about this time that one of the cats (who did let me pet it when I walked in) started meowing.  Not just conversational meowing, but this long, drawn out, PAINFUL sound.  Cat lovers around the world know this type of meow very well.  It’s the one you get when you haven’t cleaned out kitty’s box and they are getting ready to drop a deuce.  Figuring that the roommate, who just got home would take care of it, I gave the poor little guy another scratch behind the ear and focused my attention back to my date and the horrible movie he had put on for us to “watch”.  Kitty threw me a “What the FUCK lady” look and proceeded to walk over to the entertainment center.  There, right in front of me and my oblivious date, who was trying like hell to round second, the cat took a giant, steaming shit, all while LOCKING EYES with me.

Disengaging myself from my date, who had miraculously formed several extra sets of hands sit we sat down, I pointed out what had happened.  I then saw him go through all the stages of grief :

  • Denial – “No.  There’s no way he just did that.  Are you sure?”
  • Guilt – “Maybe I should have offered to clean out the cat box while I was home today doing nothing.”
  • Anger – “That piece of shit.  He did that on purpose.”
  • Depression – ” I’m so, so sorry that just happened.”
  • Acceptance – “I guess I better go get my roommate to clean this up.”

The roommate was appropriately apologetic and cleaned up the mess and got the hell out of dodge in as speedy a manner as one can.  The moment she was out of sight (or maybe even a slight second before) he had his tongue shoved down my throat, sweat pant clad leg draped over my lap with the expectation that we would just pick up where we had left off.  You know –  before the fucking cat had shit on the floor right in front of me.  For the life of me, I just couldn’t let go of what happened.  That, combined with his sloppy, artless kissing, the fact that he was literally dry-humping me, and the creepy don’t-pet-me dog STILL sitting there staring at me, caused the untimely loss of my lady boner (moment of silence, please).

As much as I wanted to stay and be mauled and finish the end of the riveting movie “Trick or Treat” I just had to go.  It was super late.  (10:30 on a Friday night is late, isn’t it?)  Anyway, I pulled the old yawn-stretch-boy-I’m-tired move and made my way to the front door.  He walked me there and went in for one last fantastically awful kiss and I practically ran to my car and drove the 3 blocks home.

For the next couple of weeks, I avoided his calls and texts.  Yes, I know.  I employed the fade but how in the world do you tell someone you don’t want to go out with them again because you now associate them with cat shit?  So fellas – please for the love of god clean out the litter box before you invite your lady over.  A cat shitting on your living room floor may be a casual, everyday occurrence to you, but it just might keep you from getting laid.


Sexting – You’re Doing it Wrong!

I received what I am fairly confident is the WORST attempt at sexting in the history of the modern universe (or at least as far back as texting was invented):

NotGettingAnyXXX:  Bj

Sent:  1:46 am

Yup.  That’s all folks.  Just Bj.  At nearly 2 in the morning on a Wednesday.   Not even BJ, as I assume that in what I can only hope was this man’s drunken state, it was too onerous to capitalize that 2nd letter.  What a delightful thing to wake up to in the morning!

Man, I love dating.


The Bad Date Chronicles – 15 Second Man Edition

Gentleman...start your...oh..

Yes, the title means exactly what you think it does.  15 Second Man was the catalyst for this post.  Here is the rest of the sad, sad story.

15 Second Man was my 2nd (but sadly, not last) foray into the wilds of Craigslist.  There  was no picture attached but the ad was so charming I was willing to take a chance.  It was a send-up of the old Dr. Seuss One Fish, Two Fish book and consisted of about 20 really funny, thought-provoking questions.  Of course, possessed of a strong wit and a love of answering questions about myself (I have answered absolutely every question on OKCupid) I had to respond.  He seemed to really dig my answers and we exchanged numbers after some really entertaining emails.

Don't tell me you wouldn't hit that

Due to scheduling conflicts, we weren’t able to get that first date on the calendar for almost two weeks.  In the meantime, we had frequent communication, texting every day and talking on the phone almost every other day.  We sent photos of each other back and forth and to my surprise, he was attractive!  Definitely on the larger side but in a very cute, Man vs. Food kind of way.  Things got hot and heavy pretty fast.  The back-and-forth quickly devolved into full-on sexting and even phone sex, all before we had even met!  One day, we clocked in at almost 600 text messages sent back and forth.  Needless to say my productivity level at work plummeted. We were both almost drunk on anticipation of meeting each other, finally, in person.  Would the chemistry be there?

The night of the date finally arrived, and to this day, I can’t recall every being this nervous about a first date.  It felt like so much was riding on it, that I would be beyond embarrassed if this person, whom I’d already been pretty intimate with, would turn out to have no interest in me or vice versa once we actually shared the same space.  I was beyond relieved when I first caught a glimpse of him at the door of the restaurant.  He was adorable. And he seemed to think exactly the same of  me.  The butterflies and nerves quickly departed as we settled in at the table for some drinks and dinner, to be followed by a trip to the bowling alley.  The date couldn’t have been more perfect.  We were clearly digging each other, and having a great time.  When, a few hours later, he pulled me in for a kiss in the elevator of his building, I though I had died and gone to wherever it is that all good sluts go to when they die.

Despite the undeniable sexual chemistry, we actually “negotiated” what was allowed and not allowed once we got down to business.  We both agreed that we didn’t want to rush into sex, that we wanted to give it time for something to really develop before we took that step.  It was perfect!  All too perfect!  And then…I understood why he took the nuclear option off the table.

Cut to his bedroom.  We’re kissing.  Passionately.  Like in the movies.  And I don’t mean the kind you can get from Netflix.  Being the surgeon that he was, he was very, very, VERY good with his hands.  Being the feminist I am, I decided that he deserved some reciprocity.  The equipment was impressive.  Far from the smallest but not too far off from the biggest I’ve encountered and of a perfect girth.  I was literally chomping at the bit to get to work on this thing.

I’m no surgeon, but I’m pretty good with my hands as well.  I didn’t realize I was THAT good.  A mere 30 seconds after first contact, Old Faithful erupted unexpectedly and way ahead of schedule.  I was stunned – this had actually NEVER happened to me before, although I told him otherwise.  My years of high school theater served me exceedingly well that night.  I was kind and reassuring and all of those things you need to be in order to preserve the fragile male ego after is has suffered such a…blow.  Took my time saying goodbye and departed for the night with a very nice goodbye kiss. Continue reading


First Impressions – You’re Doing it Wrong!

I received this gem via SingleParentMeet.com:

From:  CluelessGentleman69

To:  Me

Subject:  I WOULD LOVE TO ROCK YOUR CRAIDDLE

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE YOU IN MY LIFE.. AS I STARTED TO WRITE DEEP IN THOUGHT, THINKING ABOUT WHAT I’M GOING TO WRITE OR SAY TO YOU.. I START TO FEEL THE SCENT OF YOUR BODY CLOSE TO ME, AND A TINGLE OF AROUSAL ALL OVER MY BODY BECAUSE OF YOUR PRESENCE.. OH HOW I WOULD LOVE TO SPEND SOME TIME WITH YOU


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