Spunky

When I started my job, I did so without promise of a real salary because I knew that I'd learn a lot. I'd learn about my field, business practices, learning to deal in the world of professionals, all the usual stuff - the stuff that they can't teach you in school.

But here's what I've learned a lot about lately: show dogs.

That's right. My boss shows dogs. They're the canine equivalent of beauty queens. She's at a show at least once a month. Most dogs you train to sit and lie down and behave, but not these monsters. You don't want them to sit down in the ring, so you basically just let them run rampant, apparently. And these are giant dogs, not little puff balls. Dogs that are as tall as me when they stand up. Fucking monsters.

So, here's my point and why I'm talking about dogs on DIW. My boss's main goal this week is getting her bitch knocked up. Therefore, tomorrow I have to cover an engagement for her because the frozen doggie jizz is stuck somewhere, on a truck, in the middle of the country. Apparently it's only viable for so long, and the bitch just went through heat, during which time every dog in the county tried to bone her.... Whatever.

Moral of the story - the bitch gets more play than I do. Literally.

Dear Joe Rogan...

I have a confession to make. Okay, I guess it's two confessions.

One - I follow Joe Rogan on Twitter (@joerogan). I don't think this is a bad thing at all, but some people may judge. I don't know. I'm proud.

Two - I missed it when Joe Rogan linked to us here at DIW. This is a fact I am NOT proud of. We missed him linking to our Mormon Soaking article.

I've learned many great things about Joe through his Twitter account.

For example:

1 - He is hilarious.

2 - He likes to get high.

3 - His UStreams are incredible.

4 - His tattoos are gorgeous. I mean.... beautiful. Incredible.

4 - He is passionate about UFC. This is perhaps the most important thing I've learned about Joe. Listening to him comment on fights is golden. He's made me enjoy cagefighting. I know, right?

So, Joe - Here's to you. Our first - and for now only - celebrity appreciator.

We hope you and your friends and followers keep coming to visit us as we try hard to keep the good stuff coming. We know you're married and a dad and stuff, but because it's our mantra...

HAPPY DATING!

Ponzi Dating

***GUEST POST***
Please enjoy this oh so funny post from Gayle about one guy who couldn't take a hint to save his life!


About 15 years ago I made my maiden voyage to Martha's Vineyard. There weren't many people on the ferry from Wood’s Hole, just a handful of us, so the handsome, pock-marked man with a calm look caught my attention. I don't remember how we ended up talking (my ex-husband would say that I probably pushed my breasts out and tossed my hair, something he always says I do when I flirt)but I found out that he was the roadie/manager for a band that was playing at a bar in Oak Bluffs very close to where the ferry docks. Somehow I wormed my way into his lunch with the band members at the bar who asked me to come see them play that night. I didn't think that there would be any way in hell that my two gay, West Coast friends who I was visiting would come with me to continue my flirtation with a roadie for some hippie-ish bar band. But, well, they did and it actually became their MISSION to get me laid.

We had a great time at the bar and the band was surprisingly excellent. When they had played their last set and Clive started breaking down, my friends URGED me to suggest that he come back to my hotel room. The bar lights were flashing last call, and my friend was insisting that I slip him my room number. Somehow, it ended up on a napkin along with my lipsticked mouth imprint and my friend ran to the stage to give it to him. I was mortified. I was thrilled.

Like a ship captain's wife holding vigil, but without the widow's walk and flowy white nightgown I stared out my window almost all night, waiting for Clive to walk up the path to the hotel and come rap at my door. The bed was right under the window and I remember just finally sinking, rather sadly, into sleep. When I left the next morning to go meet my friends, I noticed that they had left a little note taped to a post that said "Gayle's Room" with an arrow pointing in my direction.

Back in Boston, with e-mail in its infancy, I found yet another way to contact Clive and I received an e-mail back, with some semi-apology about not coming back to the hotel, how he had taken a late-night walk and watched the sunrise. At the end of the e-mail, though, he said that there was something he really wanted to talk to me about in person and wondered if I would meet him in Providence when the band was playing, sometime during that next week. Something he needed to talk to me about in PERSON? Was he going to profess his love for me and needed me in front of him to kiss passionately and carry me away into the Providence sunset? In my mind, that was the only option and I told him that, yes of course, I'd be there.

I drove the hour-plus thinking of nothing else but how exciting a first kiss would be.

I walked into the rather large place and saw Clive, in shorts, Timberlands and a tee-shirt. We hugged each other and sat down at a high-top table, ordered drinks, some pub-ish food and made quick small talk. Within maybe 8 minutes, Clive pulled a napkin out of the dispenser and took out a pen.

"This is what I wanted to talk to you about." He started drawing boxes and arrows and began to describe something that I couldn't even follow. Why was this man DRAWING DIAGRAMS ON A NAPKIN WHEN HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE KISSING ME????? It didn't take long before the boxes became a pyramid and I realized what was happening. I became an arrow on the bottom of a pyramid. He thought that I would bring him money and a bump up to the next level. To this day, I'm still confused how "boxes" could make someone rich.

I let him finish his spiel and he went back to setting-up for the band. I was stunned. I was temporarily immobilized. I had an hour and a half drive home and it was already way past my bedtime. All I could think about was how it wouldn't matter anymore if I smoked a million cigarettes because my breath wasn't an issue. I'm pretty certain that I had it in me to laugh, shake my head and not blame it on myself for being deficient in any way.

There have been some other doozies of dates and situations since then, but, I'm sure that this will stand out as one for the "Dates From Hell" record books.


If you liked this, do be a dear and visit her blog at http://mylifeinthemiddleages.blogspot.com/

HAPPY DATING!

An Open Letter to the Love/Hate Boyfriend

Dude -

Though I'm not given to quoting our 43rd president, what was that quote that W mangled once? "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." Didn't he add an "aw, fuck it" on the end? That's the part I can't get right. "Fuck it, and fuck you." I say it, and I think it, and I never believe it.

You got me. Damn you, you got me. I haven't felt like this about someone in... 10 years? Since my first love. And what kills me is that I'm afraid I love you. It should turn my stomach to write that, but I kinda tear up instead. You, who I only spent one night with, though I remember every second of it. You, who's so charming and handsome. You, who can take my shit and give it right back. You, who has run off how many times now?

Some days I hate you. I'll scan across your number in my phone's contacts, and my blood boils. I raise my finger to delete your information... but I never do. An old conversation or picture will pop up and I want to write you letters about my hatred and loathing for you... but I don't. Because I don't hate you. And I want you around. But goddammit do I hate you and want you out of my life.

You make me act irrationally. Do you know how much that sucks? Me, who chooses brains over guts 100% of the time, who maps out her life in Excel spreadsheets, who can't hold a grudge because they just don't make good sense, and who gets panicky if she thinks she screwed something up. Did I screw you up? Not you, really, but what we could have had? I know I didn't, but I still can't figure out what happened, and it makes me crazy.

That leaves it up to you. For whatever reason, you can't handle this situation, or you can't handle me. I know I haven't screwed up because dammit, you keep coming back. You feel this, too - you've told me that much. But you just can't deal. Maybe you need to figure out how to be vulnerable enough to be a real man, or maybe you need to find spine enough to deal with your own shit before you can be with someone. I certainly don't know what it is, and I can't pretend to.

So, from now on, I will let my tiny little torch burn for you, and I will leave it at that. I won't try to stifle it, but I won't let you share it. I'll figure out how to embrace this twisted, sick, amazing feeling that I have for you, but I won't embrace you. I won't stroke your ego. I won't validate your feelings. I won't beg you to talk to me. I won't expect anything from you. But I know that you'll be back. I know that one day, you'll try again. You probably won't have gotten your act together, but if you fail that time, I'm willing to bet you'll try yet again. And one day, you'll have put yourself together and screwed your head on straight and learned how to be a man. Then, and only then, can we really do this.

Until then, though, fuck you.

-Me

The Ex Card

Here's another guest post from one of our beloved readers, Anne.

I was going through a difficult time with an ex and was trying to move on. So, when this new boy came along and asked me if I wanted to hang out, I thought, "why not?" He was cute, seemed quite funny, and he knew some of the same people as me so I felt safe meeting him. After a couple of dates, I realized that this wasn't going to go anywhere. He talked a LOT, and most of what he said was nonsensical. Basically, we didn't connect. After a few dates, I wondered why I had let myself spend so much time with him....

One given day, I was looking forward to seeing my ex, but he let me down, as usual. I ended up sad and in bed by 10:30. So, when the new boy sent a text asking if he could come round, I said why not. After all, I was shaved, moisturized within an inch of my life, and ready to go. Here's what happened next.

He started talking. I shouldn't have been surprised, I suppose. But he soon went into a spiel about how he had been told that he he looked happy, and it was from hanging out with me. I didn't care, and I told him so. After all, I didn't like him. What's worse, is that he thought me telling him that I wasn't interested was me being shy or demure - that I didn't believe him and needed some reassurance. Ha. He should have shut his mouth and just gotten down to the reason for his visit.

As if that weren't enough, he started talking about his mother and her three boyfriends. They were all the opposite of keepers, to put it simply. When I suggested that perhaps she was going through a breakdown, he SCREAMED at me, saying how she's been like this for 8 YEARS! And I still don't care. Neither did I care about his rough upbringing in Philly, or his several trips to prison, including a two week stint in maximum security. Excuse me?!!!

At this point, I realize that it's definite, I never want to see him again. But it's obvious that this one needs to be handled with care. Though he sends me text after text - what am I up to, can we get brunch? - I play the "ex" card, say I still feel weird, and he understands. It wasn't a lie, but it did the trick, and I'll certainly be playing that card again.

If you liked that little tale, check out Anne's blog at http://annesaneries.wordpress.com/.