Author: swipingmylifeaway

These are stories of my very few months of life experiences and "dating" since leaving my husband. Later, we can get to the situations that put me on this path of accidental self-destruction. For now, just buckle up and enjoy the laughs.

Listen, Judge Judy…

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After dating for fiftyleven years, I find myself now reaching breaking points. I’ll put myself out there so much and open up and be completely honest. I don’t know how to be any other way really. I’ve gone on so many dates and dated people that were mediocre or straight up brutally awful but I still keep trying because I’m…hopeful? Curious? Stupid? A masochist? Who knows? Lately I’m feeling exhausted and skeptical and cautious and fucking over it.

“Love”. That’s the end goal right? Or is it? Is that what I want? Or do I need attention and entertainment? I’m content with the humor that comes from dating. I enjoy discovering the weird in everyone. It’s intriguing to me. Until it’s not. This year I had dates with 4 men in June and became exhausted. Until October. I went on dates with 5 more men in the fall. They broke me. I’m done. As I’ve discussed with many of my fellow single friends, we’ve reached our breaking point. This shit is NOT. WORTH. IT. Seriously…it’s so not worth it.

I’m perfectly capable of fucking up my own life. I’ve also met plenty of people who can assist me in that. I know that from years of experience. I’ve got my life together though. If I ever get in a relationship again, I want a companion who also has their shit in order. Someone on the same page. I need someone who has also lived and died a few times. Someone who has experienced all sorts of weird and fucked up stuff and survived to tell their tales. But also someone who can be completely transparent in communication. No secrets. No lies. No judgement and no bullshit. Someone who doesn’t have their mattress on the floor and someone who has hobbies and interests and education. Someone well-traveled and compassionate. Someone who makes me laugh but knows that I’m funnier than he is. Maybe also someone ridiculously good-looking. Tall, rich, ripped like Jesus and hung like a horse. I am NOT asking for too much!

I could also be completely happy staying single forever and occasionally taking loverrrs. (MeYOW!) I’ve never felt the need or strong desire to get married or have kids. I love my life as it is. I love doing whatever I want, with whomever I want. I don’t have to answer to anyone. I love kids but I love dogs and drinking wine so much more. I was MADE to be an auntie. The wild, eccentric one who is a little tipsy or maybe hungover. I always thought I’d be like Elizabeth Taylor or Zsa Zsa Gabor. A glamazon-type woman who marries and divorces as quickly as the wind changes course. Fuck that though. Sometimes I don’t feel like brushing my hair and marriage and divorce were not fun. 0 stars. 0 out of 10. Would not recommend. I did it once and I’m scarred for life.

Is “love” with a “soulmate” the real end goal here? Do we all believe in that? Or is procreating really everyone’s goal? This all sounds a bit outdated to me. I learned that during the pandemic and the insanity of Trump’s presidency and this insane election and the crazy divide in our country, along with the income inequality and racial injustice, climate change and THOUSANDS of other fucked up issues, I have less and less of a desire to “achieve” these things.

I also feel like many of my friends who are married or married with kids are unhappy more than they are happy. They resent their spouses. They resent their children. They resent their in-laws. They resent their single friends. They miss their freedom. They’re bored with the monotony of their life. I don’t want to feel that way.

I think they actually resent themselves for the decisions they have made. The grass is always greener… Some of their single friends are jealous of their lives though. A ton of them are. They crave the stable life and consistency. They desire the ring and 2.5 children. They want the financial security that often comes with having a partner.

These “taken” friends though. These “happily married with children” friends. These “friends” are also the first to spew their advice and judgment on their single friends. Listen here, Tiffany, the last person I want relationship advice from is the person who just chugged a full bottle of tequila while calling her husband a prick repeatedly, whining about not ever having sex, and feeling unheard and unappreciated, crying about being in love with her ex, being sick of digging Cheerios out of the couch cushions, wishing she had more time to herself and hating her post-baby body. I didn’t make your life decisions for you, so stop trying to make mine for me.

Bottom line: Stop taking advice you don’t want and stop giving advice that is not wanted. We all have our history which has led us on our path or journey to our future. You didn’t grow up like me and I didn’t grow up like you. Just because you wouldn’t make the same decisions someone else made, doesn’t mean they’re wrong. Just because we don’t all have the same goals in life, doesn’t mean any of them are wrong. I’ve said no to many marriage proposals, stood up in countless weddings, left a marriage and said goodbye after an engagement. I’ve also stayed too long in relationships and situationships. I’m more critical of myself and my decisions than you ever could be. It’s not your place to judge, just as it’s not my place to judge you. I’ll walk my path and you walk yours and I hope both are happy in the end.

Hoppin’ off my soapbox now to get back on my bullshit!!

Guess who’s back…back again…

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You GUYS!!!!! Things have changed. The world is on fucking fire. This dumpster fire shit show is a trip. Try dating apps during Covid and you’ll definitely get to the point of utter despair if you weren’t there already. Shit is brutal out here.

Yes, I left my fiance. He’s scum. You know that’s what I’m attracted to. Give me all the liars, the cheaters, the pedophiles, the rapists, the stalkers and the woman beaters. I can take it, apparently. I can handle them. (My new therapist might disagree…)

Let’s not discuss the bullshit that went down with my ex though. Let’s not give him the time of day (for now…I’ll give you all the dirt and tea and info another time.) Let’s instead discuss dating in the times of Covid…

You’re not going out meeting people because, well, COVID. It’s also not likely that you meet anyone by going out prior to this shitstain of a virus anyway because people are glued to their crew and their phones when they’re in public. No one approaches anyone else anymore. It’s just not how the dating world works these days. Now though, things are vastly different than ever before. Muhfuckers been cooped up in their apartments for months. Now that the patios in Chicago have reopened, everyone is ready for social distance meet-ups. (Or not socially distanced for some people.)

I, honest to whatever God there might be, thought I was ready to meet someone from a dating app. Biiiiiiitch!!! You just left an engagement…during a pandemic…in the midst of protests and riots over racial injustice…while the economy is in the toilet…while we’re in the middle of one of the biggest presidential elections probably EVER. The world is literally ON FIRE. Now is not the time! Let me say that louder to my dumb self…NOW IS NOT THE TIME!!!!

Me: This seems like a great time to start meeting prospective future romantic partners.

Trust me, I hate my guts too…

So there was this one day…

A guy I matched with on Hinge texted me after pulling a Houdini in our text convo a couple weeks prior. 

“Want to go to the lake?”

It was a gorgeous Monday. I was off work. I finished all my housework and did yoga. Fuck it. I was in. We met at the gas station that was on the way to the lakefront and walked the rest of the way together. He was cute! I thought… You never know these days with everyone wearing masks. Plus my horny ass thinks every guy looks hot as hell lately. He was tall-ish, tan, pretty eyes, not morbidly obese. I don’t have the highest standards these days. 

We got to the the golf course and decided to sit down and have a drink. He ordered a Corona and I had a hard seltzer because I’m basic AF sometimes. He repeatedly made comments about his penis turning itself into a vagina if he ever drank one of those himself. I know…I should have left then because it’s all downhill from here.

After our drink, he paid and we walked to the steps at the lake. He was walking behind me since the water was splashing up onto the pavement and we didn’t want to get our shoes wet or slip into Lake Michigan. He made a comment thanking me for wearing yoga pants for this so he could “check out that cute ass”. We all know my ass is flatter than the day is long, sir. Get real.

As I’m talking, I heard a splash and turned to see my date in the water fully clothed. My first thought was that I bored him so much that he couldn’t take listening to me talk anymore. He’d rather drown himself than listen to my voice for one more second. Apparently that was not the case. Like in some shitty romantic comedy-type shit, he wanted me to jump in with him! I pointed at the sign next to where he jumped and reminded him that it said “No swimming” and the waves were insane that day. Plus I had no swimsuit. “You got a bra and panties on right?? Take those clothes off and get in here with me!” Again, I should have left. What is WRONG with me!? Leave his dumbass in that lake, Erin! Do you know how many dead bodies they pull out of there every year? What’s one more? 

He eventually realized I was never going to give in to his request, so he got out and we sat on the steps while he was sopping wet. After talking for a bit, he pulled a Marlboro red out of his shoe and lit it up. “I thought your profile said you don’t smoke cigarettes,” I said. He responds with, “Only when I’m high, girl.” “Wait, you’re high now,” I said. He’s like, “Yeah, I took an edible before I took the Lime down here. It’s just now kicking in.” Fucking nice… Wouldn’t you at least ask your date if they wanted one too??

While he’s smoking and talking, I couldn’t help but stare at his mouth. It was difficult to fully see what was going on in the tooth region because the sun was shining behind him, into my eyes but I was fairly certain homeboy had one fucked up front tooth. He noticed me staring I guess because I was squinting and staring HARD. “Oh, you noticed this?”, he asked. 

Me: Huh? Noticed whaaat?

Him: Yeah my tooth got knocked out when I was installing some cabinetry. 

Me: Oh damn…brutal.

At least there was an explanation for it but why would you go on a first date with no front tooth? It wasn’t until later that I realized this accident must have happened a while ago because he had no bruises or cuts anywhere near his face. How long have you not had a fucking tooth?? And do you have any plans to replace it or is this a permanent thing?? How much COVID can he spew out of this black hole? Sooooo many questions.

After this, he asked if he could sit closer to me. I felt like saying no but my mouth took over my brain and I said, “Yes, just put your mask back on.” He scooted down to sit on the same step as me and he put his mask over his face and tooth hole. Conversation continued but I noticed him inching closer and closer until he went to lie down and PUT HIS HEAD ON MY LEG!!!! 

“Ohhh, you’re so comfortable. I could get used to this,” he said. No, asshole. Please don’t! He then rolled onto his back, still resting his toothless head on my thigh and he points to his crotch and said, “Oh, don’t pay any attention to this.” Of course then, I looked. I fucking looked. Dude had an ERECTION! WHY?! He casually then lets me know that it had nothing to do with me. (Like is that better or worse? I still don’t know.) He mentioned that it was his birthday last week and his friend gave him a red pill. He had no idea what it was so he just took it. He just took it! 

It turned out to be a gas station boner pill. I don’t drive a car or go to gas stations so I politely requested that he elaborate. Did everyone else know that they sell some cheap, Chinese version of Viagra at the gas station?! I thought I was worldly and educated but I guess NOT! This was all brand new to me. Unfortunately, his fun pill was lasting 4 days and he didn’t seem too concerned at all, or embarrassed. Now, I don’t have a dick, but if I did, I might be fearful that this was a sign of something bad happening. I’ve done some drugs and none of them have ever stayed in my system with and been effective for that long. It would have been nice if certain ones did but this is not how drugs normally work. 

At this point I finally knew I needed to run. How do you politely tell someone they’re creepy and gross and they give you yucky feelings in your tummy? Suggestions welcomed. I just lied and said I forgot to feed my dogs so I had to get going. He tried walking me home and I blurted out some crazy stuff about having stalkers and not letting men walk me home on the first date because of ax murderers in my home town and clowns. Don’t ask me where any of this came from. I stuttered the entire time and started sweating and just turned around and walked away. By “walked”, I mean tripped and almost fell on my face before regaining my balance and trying to walk away and look cool. 

I wish the story ended here. Alas, it does not. Stay. Motherfucking. Tuned.

#baddates #baddate #uncomfortable #coviddate #lakemichigan #chicagodates #toothless #boner #bonerpill #viagra #chineseviagra #birthdaydrugs #firstdate #hinge # hingestories #hingedate #hingedates #hingeencounters #datingapps

My murderversary

swipingmylifeaway2 Comments

Today is International Women’s Day?! I didn’t know that was a thing! Thanks to Facebook, yet again, for informing me about things that I would otherwise be entirely unaware of. Apparently, in other countries, like Russia, it’s an official national holiday. (Thanks for telling us, Anastasia!) I feel like it should be far more widely recognized here too. Learning this now has had a profound affect on me. Just a few days ago was the one year anniversary of the day my husband tried to take my life. The past year I’ve learned and grown a lot and become stronger than I ever was before in more ways than I knew were possible. There has also been a tremendous amount of attention and some controversy with women speaking out about harassment and assault, whether it’s sexual assault, physical violence or emotional abuse and also, the general inequalities we still face daily in our lives and in the workplace. It’s been a hell of a year for women and we’ve all spoken up for ourselves, shouted out for each other and are only getting stronger. So, fuck YOU, to the scumbags! We’re comin’ for ya!

This week has consisted of several days of reflection and thinking about how different things might be today if just a few decisions last year had been different. What if I let someone else’s “happiness” and desires dictate the rest of my life? Had I not asked for a divorce I would still be depressed and married to a man I had no love for, who only had love for himself. I’d still feel lonely even in his presence and my vagina would still have cobwebs. (The HORROR!!)

On the other hand, if I hadn’t asked for a divorce, I would maybe not have been beaten, thrown around my living room and strangled until I lost consciousness. (At least, not that day…It would have probably eventually happened though. I’m convinced of this after countless nightmares of being strangled to death or beaten with a hammer by my ex and being found in a shallow grave. No joke.)

Everyone who knows anything about my situation over the last year has asked, “What the fuck happened that day!?” (I may or may not have added the word “fuck” for dramatic effect.) It’s not something I’ve ever typed out and shared for all you sick bastards before but after my Murderversary and on International Women’s Day, seems like a perfect time, so here goes…

As I think I’ve made clear in earlier stories, I had been wanting to tell my husband I was leaving him for quite some time. I started thinking about it during the wedding planning process and I pushed the idea from my mind, trying to convince myself that marriage was a good idea. I kept pushing that idea as far out of my brain as possible for the whole year we were married but I couldn’t totally get rid of it, like I finally got rid of my husband. This idea kept pushing back at me, harder than I could push back, much like my husband, only stronger. (He ain’t that tough!)

Finally, on March 5th, 2017, we woke up in the morning and entirely ignored each other, per usual. I showered and listened to music and then got ready for brunch with friends and played with my dogs. He did dishes, made his coffee and sat down to check his bank accounts and the weather, as old men tend to do. I thought nothing of it since most of our time “together” was silent and separate. When I went to join him in the living room is when I realized his demeanor was off. He was angry. His clenched jaw and flared nostrils told me this. I tried to ask a question about the basketball game that was on the TV but he was staring through it, not watching it. He didn’t answer me. He took a low, deep breath and exhaled quickly, open-mouthed. Without looking at me, he tightened his fist and asked what I did the night before.

Should I tell him I went out with the one guy he loathed and was threatened by? We were with other friends but my husband would be enraged knowing I was with him without any of the other friends he knows. It was me, my “best friend” and all of his friends, celebrating two guys’ divorces. A lovely evening of debauchery and some casual flirting.

So, I left out the details and just said, “I went out with my friends…like I do every Saturday night while you’re working. Nothing special.” Another deep inhale and sharp exhale from him before he asked, “Where…did you go?” I listed the 47 places we popped into the night before but felt the way I did when I was little and was about to get yelled at or punished for something I didn’t feel was right. When I was younger I’d be too scared to speak up for myself and say how I felt so I’d just take the scolding or spanking and be angry and sad but never express it.

This day was different though. This day I was done. I’d had it with the emotional distance between us. I’d had it with the lack of sex and any physical affection. I was done with the lack of communication. “Did you eat dinner” and “have the dogs eaten” were our only topics of “conversation” besides, “Do you want to watch Criminal Minds?” The last time we had sex we had a black president and the Cubs were lovable losers. That was at least four months prior and our sex life the past two years had been a joke. I once caught him attempting to masturbate when I was in the shower but even that seemed to make him agitated so he quickly gave up. I know why the guy is so angry and violent now. I get it. I would be too if I was a loser with a Limp Bizkit.

I had planned to dump his sorry ass in our marriage counseling session the next morning but this felt like my moment. I was fed up and disgusted by him right then while he was acting like my father and I was a teenager who got caught riding in a car with boys or sneaking in after being out past curfew. I’m a grown ass woman and I’ll be damned if any mother fucker is going to tell me what I can or cannot do. Being a wife, or being in a relationship, does not mean I’m someone’s property. I’ll do what I want, with whomever I want, whenever and wherethefuckever I want.

I seized the moment. “Look, you know I want a divorce,” I said. It was the word we mentioned quietly and quickly every so often over the last few months. In my head, when I thought of this moment, every single day since November, I thought that all of the anger management counseling he had been in since 2012 would come into play and we’d have a civilized, mature, adult conversation. He would probably sob like a baby while I stayed firm and stoic in deciding divorce was the logical option for us. He would eventually agree and I would get a hotel with my dogs for a few nights while looking for a new apartment. We would agree on how to split our belongings and finances and we’d meet once every few months for lunch and remain friendly. That would all make sense and seem like the way it would go if you’re dealing with a normal human being. The one thing I forgot to factor into this whole scenario I envisioned, was he’s a violent, narcissistic psychopath. Well, shit…

His immediate response to me saying I wanted the divorce was, “Are you cheating on me?” (Because a person like this can’t fathom that anyone would just not want to be with them. There had to be another factor at play here.) To which, I replied, “No, but I feel a stronger emotional connection to pretty much any other man I meet.” “Like who then,” he asked. I went on to list my clients, my friends’ significant others, my “best friend”. Holy hell, there it is. I said the trigger word. He hated my best guy friend with the power of 1000 suns and an army of 12 billion soldiers. (That’s a lot.) “I can’t believe you’re fucking cheating on ME!!! You FUCKING whore. You FUCKING bitch!!!!” He got up and destroyed everything in our kitchen. I still don’t know what he was throwing and hitting and stomping on but I’m fairly certain he was crushing everything and picturing himself crushing my skull while he was doing it. In the meantime, I was still lounging on the couch and started texting my friends to let them know I finally did it. I finally told him I wanted that ‘D’. I also mentioned he was a little angry. I was pretty desensitized by his violent fits of rage at this point so I didn’t think this one would be bigger than all the others. Telling them that he was “a little angry” was surely an understatement.

He came back to the living room to demand that I get out. He wanted me gone “IMMEDIATELY” and again he called me a “fucking WHORE!!!” I smirked and laughed a little because at that moment I was thinking that my hymen had likely regrown itself with this sex drought and also, it was MY apartment that he moved into before we were married so if anyone would be leaving now, it would be him since this “conversation” was not going the way I’d imagined. My response did not please him. In just a quick blink, he had gone from the doorway, spitting on himself and screaming like a goddamn lunatic to right in front of me, hands around my throat, still screaming at me and bashing my head into the wall. The next thing I knew, I was flying – actually fucking flying through the air. I saw myself hitting my head on the corner of the mantel and I knew it was all over. Instead I landed between the mantel and the radiator somehow, likely by the grace of God and sweet, baby Jesus. (Although, if they existed and had any grace, I think they would have teleported Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson in at that moment to flick my ex gently and send him soaring to Lichtenstein or Kazakhstan so none of the rest of this story would have happened.) I tried to get up to run or fight back but he grabbed me before I could move and he threw me again…and again. After the last time, he grabbed my by my neck again and repeatedly slammed the side of my head against the wooden arm of a loveseat until he wrestled me to the floor.

Once he got me on my back, all six feet and two inches of him got on top of me and with both knees in my chest and both hands around my throat, he screamed over and over, “I’m going to fucking kill you, you whore! I want you dead, you whore!” The whole time he’s red and shaking, spitting on me and my dogs are shrieking to the point that they too are losing their breath and voices. The few short minutes this was happening, I only remember repeating, “Rob, I never cheated on you” and “Babies, it’s ok. No barking.” I wasn’t even shouting any of it. I just said it all in a normal, conversational tone because I think it still had not dawned on me the severity of what was happening. It wasn’t until I was on my back like this with my hands grasping and pulling and scratching at his arms to get him away, that I realized this really might be the end of my life. He was not budging. He was still yelling but I couldn’t hear his words anymore. He was squeezing my neck tighter and tighter and I remember seeing so many veins popping from his arms and neck. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t dead yet. Quickly though, I started seeing black spots in front of me and I noticed my arms were heavy and weak. I couldn’t fight back anymore. I couldn’t talk or scream or cry out. My eyes were heavy and then…darkness and silence. I still wanted to fight him. I wanted to run away. I wanted to live my life away from him and create things and feel energized and more like myself again instead of a shell of a person. I wanted to be more than the happy couple in the picture on Facebook that was secretly the dysfunctional couple that was good at playing pretend for the public. I was done though. I was dead. I was turning into dust faster than I could imagine possible. I could feel it. All of my energy was gone and I barely had any fight in me. My body was still there but I couldn’t move it. I was so tired. There was a teeny flicker of light that I could see but I could not move toward it. It was fading so quickly and getting away from me.

After who knows how long, my limp, almost-dead body twitched and my eyes opened. I was lying there, blinking for a few seconds before I realized I was alive. I could see again. I stared between blinks at the blank, white ceiling. Slowly, my hearing came back and I heard my husband cleaning up the mess he made in the kitchen. All of the life and energy and electricity came back into my body and I jumped up when my brain processed what was now happening. I grabbed my phone and dialed 911. My dogs had pooped all over the living room rug, as my husband had literally scared the shit out of them. I sneakily opened the front door so if he came back in the room, the dogs could run out of the apartment and not get hurt, but I knew they probably wouldn’t leave me. My call was answered and I started to explain to the dispatcher the scenario and give him my information and address. As I was doing this, my husband came back in the room and calmly , peered down at the spot on the floor where I’m sure he thought my dead body would be and when he saw an empty carpet, he looked up at me, crouching in the corner by the window, talking on the phone. “I can’t BELIEVE you’re calling the police on ME!!! On ME?!?!?” He was hysterical again now. I stood up straight and pulled my shoulders back, staring at him in his eyes. He looked like a rabid animal and I never thought I could feel more disgust toward a person in my life. I still don’t think I can. This time, I clenched MY jaw and My nostrils were flaring. I was ready fight again.

He stormed off to get dressed and flee the scene, as he has done time and time again in his over 20 years of abusing women. He’s been here before. This is a rerun for him. He’s been in worse situations before. He’s comfortable in this chaos and violence. He has control. He also thinks he has done no wrong. In his head, I’m the cheating whore and I got what I deserved. No, I deserved to die, actually, in his mind, and he’s furious that I didn’t. He shouted more foul things at me before storming out, moments before the police showed up.

I stood there in what had been a war zone and a crime scene moments before. I stood there in silence, holding my phone. I stood there knowing he wasn’t coming back to hurt me. I stood there waiting for the police. I stood there. Shaken. Shaking. Confused. Heart racing. Heart. Beating. I was alive.

Sex and the City the movie, part 12

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Every now and then, I need to re-watch Sex and the City from beginning to end. I get sick to my stomach with anxiety during all of season 3 when Carrie is secretly having an affair with Big while he’s married to Natasha and she is in a committed relationship with, the perfect, Aidan. I’m currently nearing the end of season 4 after Aidan proposes to Carrie and she needs “more time”. I instantly felt nausea watching these episodes, listening to her reasons for not being excited about her marriage and watching Charlotte tell her that she just had cold feet while Carrie was wearing the engagement ring on a necklace instead of her finger. I related when Carrie threw up after seeing the initial engagement ring Aidan was going to give her. I remember wishing I could hide my beautiful engagement ring every time a cute (or even not-so-cute) guy seemed even slightly  interested in me.

I’d say more than half of the people in my life were not surprised when they heard I left my husband last year. Several of my friends and clients commented that I never liked to talk about my wedding, or my ex, and I would always change the subject when they asked me about any of it. I never got excited over my wedding and got bored or angry when people brought up “him”. It was an event that I was planning. That’s it. I had to get things booked and paid for but there was no emotional attachment to any of it. I also thought maybe I just didn’t have the “bride gene”. I never pictured my dress. Never dreamt of a wedding. Hell, I never imagined myself being married at all. I remember more often than not, when someone asked me my plans for the future or my wants and desires, my response was, “I want to take over the world.” There is no ring or man or dress or ceremony involved with that and thinking back on my response now, I honestly have no idea what is involved in taking over the world. Who did I think I was? Hitler?!

Do I hate Carrie for cheating on Aidan with Big and then accepting his marriage proposal, just to tell him she’s not ready?? Yeah…kinda… At least she gave back the ring though. Aidan is THE. FREAKING. BEST. I mean, could he BE any more manly, generous and sweet!? Big, on the other hand, had never given Carrie what she needed. He fucked with her heart and dragged her along. He pushed her and pulled her in different directions and screwed up her relationship with Aidan too many times. He was a selfish asshole. Who can stand him besides Carrie?! His only appeal? Money. Yeah, he was cultured and well-traveled but what else did he really have to offer her? He was “emotionally unavailable”; the term I’ve learned this past year from dating very similar men. He was a selfish, narcissistic prick. We can’t just make him seem like a great guy because after a year or so of being a dickhole, he throws some money or gifts at her and calls her “kid” with his stupid, fugly smirk.

Looking back now though, as much as I can relate to Carrie’s feelings about not being the “marrying type” or having cold feet, my situation had its similarities and its differences. I too felt sick to my stomach when I thought about the wedding and the future of FOREVER with a person…THAT person. I, unfortunately, did not call it off when I should have, like she did, when I realized I didn’t want that life. When I realized he made me want to vomit. When I hated the sound of his chewing or watched him licking a plate when he was finished eating. When he had me by my throat against a wall and my dogs were shrieking in fear. I should have called it all off when I knew but we had planned and paid for so much. Maybe some of my friends were right and it was just a feeling every bride-to-be gets. I couldn’t take back everything and cancel now, right? Looking back, I know better. Looking back now, I know to trust my gut.

What appeal did my “was-band” have? He might have been a loser who had a mattress on the floor and only owned furniture that were garbage from his family members. He might have only worked three nights a week at a jazz club and was content making enough to pay the bills and not think about the future at the age of 42. He might have been a violent drunk but he went to counseling and made me a promise he had changed forever! Plus, he had a super hot body. Lookin’ like a Chinese/Irish god with that bod… He was a tricky son-of-a-bitch though, as most narcissists are. They are so confident in their greatness, they can trick you into thinking they are great too! He would buy me beautiful dresses and shoes and jewelry and knew exactly my size in every brand. He would take me to operas and ballets and concerts in the park. We’d go to the nicest, old-school Chicago places. He faked all of the money and culture that Big had and flaunted with Carrie. It was easy to get caught up in the show and let those things be a distraction to reality. For a while at least…

I clearly remember one afternoon after I ordered a dry-erase wall calendar, he insisted he’d hang it on the wall, despite the fact that I was in the middle of doing it myself, since I’m I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, do you know what that means?! For over an hour, I sat in another room while this giant man-child screamed profanities and pounded and drilled holes in my rented wall. I kept listening as my security deposit dwindled. I could have had this handled myself with 3M Command Strips in MINUTES!

As days and months and years went by and he became less and less appealing and attractive to me, I also started to slow down and think about my own happiness for once instead of doing what I thought I was supposed to do and trying to make everyone else around me happy. (That’s a Libra trait…or curse.) At least Big had a sense of humor and they had a sex life. My old man was dry, negative and boring and couldn’t even get a boner. So, like…Ok, Carrie. I can’t hate on you. I’ve made my mistakes too but I am fixing them! I think we need ANOTHER Sex and the City movie where Carrie realizes her fuck ups and Aidan never REALLY had a baby with someone else and Carrie dumps Big and he dies sad and alone, thinking about what a twat he always was. Then, Carrie and Aidan pick RIGHT up where they left off after he proposed with that gorgeous ring. Why don’t you marry the sexy, manly, self-made, nice guy instead of the Big?? Or, stay alone and “fabulous” forever?

That’s what I’m working on now. I met the Greek version of Aidan after dumping the angry, knock-off, Chinese version of Big. Just like most knock-offs from China, this one didn’t fit properly and I kind of want my money back but it’s a total pain in the ass. Like Carrie says though, it’s time to let go of my marriage past, to get on with my dating future. I’ll give the sexy, manly, nice guy a shot for once and actually be myself instead of people-pleasing and getting caught up and tricked by smoke and mirrors. Unfortunately for this guy, I’m learning that I can be kind of an asshole. I’m working on that though. I’m learning from Carrie’s mistakes.

Let me tell ya ’bout my best friend…

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Somewhere in the middle of me discovering that I hated the living shit out of my husband, I started to realize my attraction to my best guy friend was getting stronger. Whenever the weekend came around, I would hang out with my best friend and her husband and his best friend. My husband and I had opposite schedules so he was never involved in any of our activities. Also, no one really liked hanging out with him, including myself, because he was so awkward and negative and could bore the hell right out of you. If my husband was to come around for whatever reason, I dreaded it but, when I thought about hanging out with my best guy friend, I would look forward to it. Once I realized this, the “D-word” was on my mind like crazy. Okay, two D-words: divorce and dick. My husband and I stopped having any kind of sex when the Cubs were still lovable losers and our president was black instead of orange. A girl needed the “D” in a bad way.

Once I finally did the deed and told my husband we should separate, my friends and coworkers were cheering me on for the weekend because with divorce shit started, dick was the next step for my well-being and I made it clear to all of them that I knew which one I wanted. My “best” guy friend and I texted all day, every day for months prior, whether it was private texts between the two of us or group texts with us and my best friend and her husband. Most everything was platonic before I told my husband I was ready to leave. He and I had drunkenly kissed twice and drunkenly made our attraction known a couple times as well but most of our conversations were on the friendship level.

The day I left my husband and he put me in the hospital though, I should have taken the cues from this guy and stayed away from him immediately. I texted him before, during and after the violent madness and after I left the hospital, I didn’t hear from him. I texted him hours later, after moving some of my belongings and my dogs out of the apartment I shared with my husband. I said something along the lines of, “Well, I fucking survived, in case you were wondering.” He made some flimsy excuse for why he didn’t call or text or show any concern at all, and I accepted it and still wanted to bone him that weekend.

With my girl friends as cheerleaders, I easily forgot about the violent rage the Sunday before with my soon-to-be ex-husband, and I quickly moved in to a new apartment and ordered furniture, excited for the upcoming weekend ridiculousness. I literally had friends congratulating me for potentially getting laid that Saturday. I felt like I was the entire 2016 Cubs team, about to win the World Series. It had been over a hundred years for them and myself! This was huge. I was so geeked out I could explode. I was hoping I did exactly that on the weekend. At this point, five whole fucking months had gone by that I slept next to a man who avoided touching me in any way so I was feeling very much like my 17 year old virgin self all over again.

Saturday came and I obviously hung out with my best guy friend. At this point I cannot remember the details. I can’t tell you where we went or who we were with. That honestly doesn’t matter anyway, does it? At the end of the night, we did what we aimed to do. I was at his place. He touched me. He kissed me. He paid attention to me. It had been so long since anyone had done any of those things that nothing was going to stop the things that happened next.

Needless to say, if you know me at all, the weekend consisted of intense drinking. The details on the night are obviously weak, with that fact, and the fact that it’s been months since this all happened. All I do know is that I woke up at his place, not wearing clothes, remembering that we definitely had sex but my body felt like it might not have happened.  After 5 months of no sex with your husband, you’d think you might feel SOMETHING after a night like this, but, nope. I still felt like a virgin. Tight as a Chinese finger trap over here. All of my friends were quite disappointed upon hearing the news, and I was too. All the build-up. All these months of no affection. All this flirtation with my friend. The next day felt like nothing happened.

I told myself that it was because I was drunk, and it couldn’t possibly have to do with the fact that he was hiding a dick the size of a baby carrot in his jeans. My friend was widely known as a player in our friend group. He had a new girl every week but all of our friends swore he wouldn’t dispose of me the same way he disposed of these other girls. We had a real connection and strong friendship and we all believed he couldn’t possibly jeopardize or ruin that. I was wrong. We were all wrong.

The next weekend I tried again. The cheers and encouragement from friends for my potential Saturday sexing were loud and proud. I prepped myself as any girl would and made sure to pace myself with drinks and eat at least 400 calories of food that day so I could fully remember the main event but also look skinny enough that I would still look good naked. Here we go. Again. When we were sufficiently buzzed, we headed back to his place. His friend was staying over too. He lived in what was basically a large studio apartment. No walls. No doors. His friend, Dusty, was sleeping 5 feet away from us but that was NOT going to stop me from reaching my goal for the night.

The night went exactly how it went the week before. I finally realized I felt nothing because there was…nothing. He was packing as much as a male chihuahua puppy down there. HUGE disappointment. Still, if I could endure a sexless marriage for a long period of time, I could work with baby wiener and show him how to work it. I was confident. I was sure. I was motivated. He was over it.

Despite everyone we knew thinking that we had such a strong connection and friendship that nothing could shake it, he immediately became weird and distant. Daily messages ceased and things became awkward between us. I felt that I was irritating him by talking to him the same way I had for the past couple years. Normally he would joke with me back and forth but now I’d barely get replies. Not being afraid of confrontation or initiating communication, I called him out on his strange behavior.

I was basically told that he wanted to be friends and he did want to sleep with me but that was it. He did not see himself dating me in any way, so that was that. It was done. Here I am, willing to work with a baby carrot penis but he’s not willing to date me. Was he really pinkie-sized in the penile department or did I have a gigantic, cavernous vagina? Hmmm….

Now, I must admit, I was more emotionally fucked in the head over this than I was over the physical abuse and separation from my husband. I was emotionally detached from that situation before it even started I think. This relationship though, was one I was emotionally very invested in. I immediately knew this would change the dynamic of our friendship with his best friend and my best friend. We would never hang out the way we had before. He would go from being a big part of my life to nothing. It’s usually surprisingly easy for me to eliminate people from my life. Although, in the two weeks prior, my life had already turned upside down, this was a whole new level.

Looking back on all this now, I clearly see that I was absolutely not “dateable” as a good friend put it. I laughed at her and said she was insane because I swore I was in my right mind. I know now that at that time I probably needed constant psychological therapy, as I was most positively out of my mother fucking mind with the stress of everything I was going through. Throughout my life though, it’s been a roller coaster with the most insane situations so trauma and drama and chaos are things I feel comfortable in, whether they are healthy or not. Something is wrong though, with a grown man who knowingly takes advantage of a woman who just experienced the most traumatic incident of her life. He knew I was in a bad marriage and was nearly murdered by my husband. He knew acting on his physical desires would destroy friendships. He knew how he felt and what he was doing to me were wrong and he did it all anyway.

Throughout the few weeks and months afterward, I had gotten over my baby carrot penis “best” friend. We stopped talking and spending time together immediately. I started going on dates with every loser on Tinder and Bumble. When you want to get over someone, just get under someone else, right? I have seen him on occasion with our mutual friends and things are fine. It’s likely they won’t be so fine after I post this but these days, I have zero fucks to give. The truth and only the truth forever. Welcome to 2018.

The Spaniard

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It started off much like every other Tinder/Bumble/Hinge/CoffeeMeetsBagel/OKCupid/Match/EHarmony/TheLeague romance story… We matched, we chatted for a day and we met in person. AAAAAHHH, modern romance!!! Again, I was less than hopeful and also, no longer excited to meet men from any dating apps or sites. I meet enough dicks day to day who think they’re hot shit. Why do I willingly enter into these “dating” situations anymore? For the love of dogs, someone help me.

His dating app name was Matt. I only learned later that he calls himself that on these apps instead of using his actual name, Marco, because American women are racist and think that people from foreign countries are “stupid” because they have accents since English is their second language. This was interesting to me since I find people who learn English, but are fluent in other languages, are more intelligent and educated than the vast majority of people born and raised in the United States who can barely properly formulate a sentence in their native tongue. If I see one more Trump-loving, trout-catching, Budweiser-loving, Nascar-watching, American flag-humping white dude on Tinder, I’m going to scream. They’re nearly as bad as the trust fund-having, pastel-wearing, finance major, frat boys who live in River North and hang out in the West Loop and have only traveled to Cancun or back to the burbs/Wisconsin/Nebraska/Iowa/Indiana to visit mom and dad. Basically, if you learned this crock of shit English language and have immersed yourself in a different country/culture, I find you more interesting than the American guys I usually meet when I go out.

Marco had only lived in Chicago a few months so our deal was, I pick the place and he pays since he doesn’t know a lot of places in the city. Many girls might be total assholes in this situation and pick Alinea for dinner and then The Aviary for a couple cocktails. I’m not that asshole. We just met at Aire for some drinks. It was the end of summer and still gorgeous, so we might as well take advantage of the weather and spend some time outside. I actually went home, showered and changed my clothes before this meeting, rather than coming straight from work, covered in hair, with smeared makeup. I slammed a glass of wine and took a Lyft down to meet him after I got ready. He was there before I arrived and he also made an attempt to look like a decent human being. He was tall and tan with a shaved head, wearing a blazer and a button-down with the top two buttons undone.

I broke my rule again and had three drinks with him instead of my “two drinks and bail” routine. He was fun. He was nice. He was a gentleman. He was smart. He was attractive. He also told me he’s only interested in meeting friends and is not wanting a relationship. I didn’t think I was wanting to meet anyone for anything serious either because what would happen to my blog if I met a boyfriend anyway!? Still, after hearing this, I felt less attracted to him. There wasn’t necessarily a wall between us after this; it was more like a screen. I put my guard up and definitely was not going to let this go further than a friendship but I was interested in hanging out with him again.

It was early and we wore out every view of Aire so we moved on to meet his friend at Untitled. His friend was from Minnesota but he was fluent in Spanish and had an accent like a native Argentinian apparently. My Spaniard paid at Aire so I bought a round for him, his friend and myself at Untitled. There was a blues band this night and they were killing it. We would have stayed longer than for one drink but this Minnesota youngster friend of his was poor and insisted we go somewhere closer to where he lived that was cheaper. Where, might you ask?? None other than Nisei Lounge. This was NOT my idea (I fucking swear!!) but he lived across the street and who am I to argue with going to the finest establishment in all of Wrigley?? Also, I want to know when I’m going to start getting paid by Nisei and Malort for all the promoting I do for them.

The three of us on a “date” now, took a car to the bar and decided playing a game of pool was in the cards for the night. My regular billiards pal happened to be there, highly intoxicated, as usual. He and I may or may not have drunkenly flirted and made out once or twice this summer so he felt especially inclined to cock block me from the Spaniard all night. He insisted that we be partners while playing, as we always were. This time I denied him and opted to pair up with Marco instead.

I couldn’t tell you which team won the game that night but it was entertaining to see two men fighting for my affection in a game of pool. Guys, if you think that’s the way to my heart or vagina, you’re sadly mistaken… I might be cheap and easy like McDonald’s but not THAT cheap and easy. Impress me with more than your pool stick, k?

I’m not sure if that’s what they were after or if it was just a battle of egos really. Sadly, I think they both lost in the end because I forced all three of the guys to do shots of Malort and none of them got laid. Lose, lose situation there unless you’re a Malort fan! Based on their Malort faces after the shots, I’d say I was the only one who won that night.

As the night was coming to an end, my regular make-out buddy and pool partner blacked out and disappeared and the young, poor, Minnesota boy peaced out too. It was just me and my Spaniard, who I would totally make out with but could never seriously date. He’s a gentleman so he walked me home and by “home” I mean the corner between my place and the bar, where we made out for an uncomfortably long time and he slipped his finger in my underwear. Drunk people were puking, pointing and yelling as they passed us and a police officer rolled up to shine his lights on us at one point, so I removed his finger and tongue from my body and said goodnight.

He left for Spain and Morocco for three weeks shortly after we met. We tried to hang out one more time before then but were unsuccessful. He sent me a text saying:

marco

(Recovering my throat was not in reference to what he did to it with his tongue. I lose my voice a lot by being loud and obnoxious and screaming a lot when I go out…Promise!)

Buena suerte y feliz viaje, amigo.

 

Know when to fold ’em

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I keep reading about “breadcrumbing”, which is apparently the latest “trend” in dating. Actually, I’m not seeking out information about breadcrumbing, people just won’t stop sending me links about it. It’s like they’re all trying to tell me something I don’t already know. Breadcrumbing is basically just a dick move of leading someone on for a period of time until they finally realize it and promptly fuck off like they should have a long time before. The breadcrumber might seem super into you for a bit and you feel a connection but then they disappear or seem uninterested. As soon as you are done and are ready to let them go, they do something to reel you back in.

My breadcrumber and I met after I left work and he and his friends left a Cub’s game early in the season. I walked in to a crowded Wrigley bar looking for a guy in a green shirt. That should be easy in a sea of red and Cubby blue. I spotted one heavier, older, aesthetically unpleasing gentleman in green on one side of the bar and a hottie in green at the other side. I quietly prayed to the dating gods (if they really are out there somewhere, looking down and punishing me) that the fat, old dude was not the guy I had planned to meet. The hottie shouted my name and waved me over. (Thank you this time, dating gods!) As I walked closer to him, his taller, very drunk friend grabbed my right buttcheek as I leaned in toward my green shirt-clad Tinder match for a hug. We hit it off and I got along well with all of his friends, including the buttcheek grabber. We ended up seeing each other 4 times out of 5 nights that week. It seemed like a lot to me but fuck it, we were having fun.

We both were divorced and from Detroit. He liked dive bars, cheap beer and Malort too. He was good looking with muscles and money and he liked to drink a lot. Clearly, he was just my type. He told me about his two little girls who were 4 and 6, selling his first company for 80 bajillion dollars when he was 34, and taking all of his friends out on his boat every weekend. He wanted me to immediately change my work schedule so it didn’t interfere with the boating routine, as he wanted me to accompany him every Wednesday and Saturday. He was the kind of guy who would bring his own liquor into a bar and leave his credit cards places for days at a time or lose his shoes after a night of partying. He would go out and binge drink 7 nights in a row but then was all business and sober Sally the next week for work and his daughters.

Bringing your own booze to dive bars and music venues is definitely frowned upon.

When a fuckboi is in his natural habitat, he may opt to remove his boat shoes and pastel, plaid ensemble for more comfortable attire.
 

 

Throughout the next month or so, we texted daily and updated each other on what we had going on. We didn’t see one another as often as that first week but we both had a lot going on. He had his daughters and some custody issues going on and I had work, a busy social life and the pending divorce and charges against my husband. Seeing him regularly was not vital to me so I didn’t see this as him being distant.

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The times we did see each other, our friends were usually around too. I liked this, as I rely heavily on my friends’ opinions of the men I date now. This is because after over 15 years of dating, I finally realize I’m pure shit at picking guys. I need someone to tell me, “Good, girl!” or “NO! Bad, Erin!” Train me in dating the way you train a two month old puppy. I received both words of praise and encouragement with this guy, along with some warning and reprimanding. It seems my friends were about 50/50 on my selection this time which confused the shit out of me. If I was actually a puppy I think I’d be pissing in my food bowl and eating the furniture. So confused.

I decided to just ride this out and see what was going to happen. Over the next 4 months we saw each other less and less. When we did see each other I didn’t even have fun and there was little affection. We talked about the most mundane, boring things. If there was any spark before, I was slowly realizing it was gone now. I still don’t know if that’s naturally what just happens in every relationship after a while or if that spark stays forever with certain people. Maybe there’s a spark that keeps coming and going. It fades slowly and then reignites after some time. Who fucking knows. I still continued talking to him, despite realizing we would never have the relationship I thought we might when I first met him.

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I think after about the fifth time you hang out with someone is when their true personality comes out. They get comfortable and forget to pretend to be someone they’re not. I started to realize he was, as one of my closest friends told me, “emotionally unavailable” and, as another friend eloquently stated, “he’s a selfish, narcissistic asshole.” Despite seeing this now, he kept reeling me back in by telling me, “I care about you so much. I hope you know that.” and “I always got your back, ya know?” I wondered why he’d bother talking to me still and saying things like that when we hadn’t seen each other in a month and hadn’t made any plans to change that any time soon. Still though, my dumb ass was willing to give it one last shot because I. Am. Not. A. Quitter.

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My birthday was coming up and he asked what I had planned. I told him that the weekend after my birthday I was inviting about 6,000 of my closest friends to a bar to celebrate my birthday, my divorce and the expensive new lumps I added to my chest. When he heard the party was the weekend after my birthday, he told me he had plans to be visiting his daughters in Hawaii that weekend and requested that I consider changing the date to the weekend before my birthday. It didn’t matter to me when it was and I hadn’t invited anyone yet so I switched the date.

The night before, I went to a wedding. If you know me at all, that means I showed up lookin’ like my best version of sexpot, queen of the universe, Sophia Loren, when she was in her prime. After the amount of wine and vodka I consumed at the wedding, I know I left feeling like a million bucks but I’m assuming I more closely resembled Gollum from Harry Potter if you were to put him in a wig and a dress, than Sophia on the red carpet. That didn’t stop me from inviting myself over to my breadcrumber’s house. Not shockingly, he let a drunk girl come over to his place at 1am after attending a wedding.

The next morning I tried to leave to get myself ready for my party but he kept asking me to stay while pulling me in toward him for hugs and forehead kisses. Before I left he ran down the back stairs to remind me to text him when I was getting a Lyft or Uber downtown so he could leave at the same time and get to the party when I did. In my head I just thought, “HA! He’s proving you wrong, 50% of my friends who think he sucks! HA!” I cleaned up and tried not to look like a hideous, dress and wig-clad Gollum, texted him, “heading to Hubbard Inn now” and headed to my party with my friend.

Three hours. We spent three hours there and he never showed up. He never texted. He didn’t call. He didn’t do a thing. Before we left I texted, “I take it you’re not coming?” No response. I had the best time with my friends and went to two more places after leaving that venue. I couldn’t be more thankful that I had so many people around me that night that I love so much but I couldn’t get him out of my head. After the Malort shots kicked in and kicked my ass, my friends walked me home and I passed out gracefully and beautifully like the sweet princess I am. When I woke up in the morning, still moderately intoxicated, I sent him, what he likes to call a “nastygram”. Any time I called him out on his bullshit he claimed I “nastygrammed” him. “You really just enjoy fucking with me, don’t you,” was my nastygram to him this time. Within a minute he responded and explained that he got “a little drunk” that afternoon because the Lions won. He also said that he decided he didn’t really want to show up anyway because I mentioned that some of my friends were not fans of the way he treated me all summer. He “didn’t want to be in a room with a bunch of haters.”

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That was it. He proved the other 50% right. They could smell the bullshittery on him from the second they met him in his pink, plaid shorts and Sperrys. He was an overgrown, 39 year old, frat boy and they called it immediately. I got played for months by a guy who wears. Pink. Fucking. Plaid. I couldn’t roll my eyes hard enough after reading his last message. I was done. I knew I didn’t even like him that much. It was all about the cat and mouse game and I just don’t like losing. I also don’t like being wrong and I wanted those “haters” of his to have read him wrong; not me. I lost though. I should have folded after the first time he did something that disappointed me but I kept betting with a losing hand. This time, I promptly fucked off like I should have done months ago. 

 

Fuckboi, bye!
“Delete contact”
 

 

Introduction to “breadcrumbing”

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How do you know when you’re in an exclusive relationship and should stop going on shit dates with other guys? Do you really have to have the conversation or pass the note like in 8th grade? ” Do you like me? Circle one: Yes or No.” Or, do you just know? What if you’ve been seeing someone for over four months and are still clueless about what’s going on? One week you talk daily and see each other once or twice. The next week you barely hear from the guy and all of a sudden you haven’t seen each other in weeks. At what point do you just say, “Fuck it,” and forget about him? It’s hard when the times you’re actually together are so awesome. Not a wild, intense, passionate time, but fun and comfortable and exciting. If you have to ask, “what are we” or “where is this going”, the answers are, “nothing” and “nowhere.”

It took me almost five months to realize things were going nowhere with the guy I was “dating”. If you’re that into him or he’s that into you, there should be no question. You shouldn’t have to practically beg for this person to come see you on a Saturday night. If it is a good thing, you’d have plans already and it would not be an impromptu meeting with his friends and yours. If you have to contact him first or invite him anywhere, he’s not feeling it. He’s more into himself and his friends than he is to you. Sorry to say it. Sorry you have to read it here first. Sorry I experienced it and let it go on so long when I knew all along that all my friends were right and I was holding on to an illusion. It’s awkward and embarrassing when you realize it. It fucking sucks actually.

Sometimes though, you just create a scenario in your own head. You think things are going well.  You think you might be great partners. You talk yourself into liking him because of a lot of factors but you don’t stop and think about all the things wrong with the “relationship”. You ignore your friends who don’t like him because “they don’t understand your relationship” with him. You found something fun and good at first but over the next few months they deteriorate because he got what he wanted and he’s over it. He temporarily put on a front to get you and then he got bored. You sit and dwell on the beginning and make excuses for what’s happening now. You don’t want to see it because you’ve painted a masterpiece in your head and it won’t change. I can’t even be mad. I’ve done it a ton of times to people. You try them on and realize they don’t fit and rather than admit that to them, you let it drag on and grow distant. That’s what he did to me.

Unfortunately, no one else saw this masterpiece you painted. Not even the person you created it for. It was never real. You never put the paint to the canvas. It was all just an idea. No truth. Never actually happened and it never actually will. You got fucking breadcrumbed for months. Don’t know what that is? Google that shit. We’ll talk about it later in further detail another time.

Is it necessarily your fault for falling into this head first? I don’t think so. People, as grown adults at this point, should have no problem talking one on one to say how they feel, I think. Unfortunately, That’s not how it is. It’s rare to find someone open and honest and upfront. You have to play games and beg and pry for information on their thoughts and feelings oftentimes. Even then, you don’t always get answers. Grown ups are like little clams or turtles who close up when you try and get them to open up. Children behave more the way you’d expect adults to be with their feelings. They hide nothing. They hold nothing back. I’m no longer looking for guys in their late 30’s or early 40’s. My next boyfriend will be an 8 year old.*

*Disclaimer: I’m kidding. That’s disgusting but, fucking damn it, if it’s not refreshing to talk to someone brutally honest.

You can make a living in midget wrestling

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I started talking with a guy who seemed ambitious and fun. His job description on his profile said “entrepreneur” which could mean he’s successful in his business endeavors, he’s a jobless loser, or he’s just a drug dealer. This guy, among having other sources of income, runs a midget wrestling company. I’m not lying. I don’t know why my curiosity and love for the strange possess me to meet people like this. I can’t explain the attraction. I wanted to meet this freak show of a guy.

We met on a Sunday afternoon at George Street Pub. He had been to brunch with friends hours before and got a little buzzed from drinking morning beers. I figured the buzz would have worn off by the time we met up. I was wrong. He was wasted. I didn’t realize this right away though. I’m not the quickest or best judge of people and their behaviors. I usually give people the benefit of the doubt, unfortunately. He bragged nonstop about how successful he was. He bragged about people thinking he’s from Europe because he dresses so well. He did not dress so well and his half British accent was so forced and fake, I was distracted by that and barely heard him bragging about his awesomeness and all the people he knows who are “REAL big deals”. I was also distracted by his big, brown, dead tooth.

Throughout our encounter he was getting more and more uncomfortable and drunk and angry. Apparently I have a “don’t give a fuck” attitude and my casual confidence was mistaken as aggressive cockiness. I’ve found, yet another, insecure little man who is intimidated by an independent and assertive woman. At one point he became so upset with something I said that he put his hands inches from my face and said, “Shut the fuck up when I’m talking to you.” Since he joked so much when we chatted on the phone and online, I wasn’t sure if he was kidding or being serious. I sat there shocked and confused when a man sitting next to us stepped in and told him, “If you talk like that to her one more time, I’m going to have some things to say to you that you really won’t like.” My date had a look of shock and disgust on his face over this comment. “Was that weird, or what,” he asked me. At this point I think everything is “weird, or what” so I just nod and sip my beer.

The man next to us left and the entrepreneur’s alcohol was really kicking in. He decided now was a good time to make a crude joke and aggressively grab me and squeeze me until he left bruises on my arms when I didn’t laugh. It hurt and I yelled at him to chill out which made him laugh and say, “Cunt bitches like you need to be taught lessons. I want to bend you over my knee to teach you.” At this point I’m planning my escape. Many of my friends have asked why I didn’t get up and storm out immediately. I’ve had far too many experiences with aggressive and violent men. I’ve gotten to the point, sadly, where I know how to play the game so I can safely get away instead of letting an already heated situation get worse.

I let him ramble on and on about how great he is for a bit longer. I asked questions about his dating past and he went on to tell me about two past restraining orders he had against him from “dumb whores.” I tell him I had to go take my dogs for a walk before it got dark so he went to pay our tab while I went to the restroom. When I came back he was signing the check. He told me more about how I should worship him and I said it was time for me to leave. He leaned over the bar and screamed at the bartender that he wanted to pay the tab. I tried to interject and let him know he had already done that when he shoved me away and informed me that HE was the man and was going to pay for us. The bartender then reminded him that we were all paid up. I said goodbye and walked out.

When I was about 15 feet from the door I noticed he was right behind me, insisting that he was going to get me a car and pay for me to go home. I saw a cab turn the corner near us and insisted it was for me and I was going to just take that home. The last thing I wanted was for this guy to know where I lived. I already have one restraining order on someone and didn’t want the hassle of going to get another one. The domestic violence courthouse is not a fun place and lately it’s begun to feel like it’s my second home. He leaned in to drunkenly suck my face off I’m assuming and I firmly pushed him away. It was then that I learned that “it’s unattractive when a little bitch doesn’t want to kiss back.” He also let me know that he wasn’t “feeling this” all night and we would likely never meet again. Through my obvious sadness, I said goodbye and went home. I saw him duck back into the bar, presumably to pay our tab again.

Within two minutes he started texting me and calling me. I ignored the calls and most of the texts but this went on for hours. The first message said, “You left??” He followed up with, “Where are you?? I’ll meet you.” After that I got, “Fuck thanks. We need to jhang our. lol, I can’t your. Those. Type. Hahaha. Yes or no?” These messages were all after repeated phone calls that I ignored. I finally replied and said that I was home and not leaving again. Rather than give up, he said, “Come over. To my house. I’m going there now. No worries. You should come over. Lol Call me. Call me. It’s only 8. You’re a fucking dick. What the fuck. So lame. Good hanging out.” The next string of texts and phone calls came later when he said, “It’s only 9. Legs go out. Let’s. Lol. Ugh you’re such a dick. I won’t call you again.” I responded this time with, “Good!”

He lied though. He called several more times and sent texts until 11pm. Finally I thought he was done for good. Twelve hours later I got a message from him saying that he was having a rough day and not getting much work done but thankfully he could force his peasants (employees) to do the work for him. I can’t say I was at all surprised by any of that. I know you’re all shocked, but I did not respond to that last text either. Finally the entrepreneur got the subtle hints I dropped and the messages and calls stopped.

Why do some guys get so angry and intimidated by girls? Why can’t they handle rejection? Why do they lash out if you don’t act the way they want you to or you voice your opinion? Why is there a need to control a girl or try to be dominant? Where does this anger or violence or possessiveness come from? Why are we “bitches” or “cunts” for not falling in line with what men want us to do?

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month and since so many “men” have abused me personally one way or another, whether it was sexually, physically, or verbally, I think this is a good time to share some places to get help if you’re ever put in abusive situations. With the “me too” hashtag popping up all over social media lately, I know I’m not the only one who has experienced abuse in dating and relationships. It seems it’s more likely that women have dealt with abuse than not.

After my soon-to-be ex-husband beat me and tried to kill me, I speak up more now and have never felt such a strong need to be transparent and open about everything from my experiences to my feelings on any topic. Call it a “don’t give a fuck attitude” if you want but we’re not here for long and you never know how quickly situations could escalate or who could hear your messages and stories and make changes to remove themselves from violence.

If you need help in Illinois:

Information, Options, Counseling, Legal and Shelter Services

Toll-Free. 24-hour. Confidential. Multilingual.

Phone: 1.877.863.6338

National Domestic Violence Hotline:

1(800) 779-7233

The Meatball

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Now most people ask if I have “must own a boat and invest in cryptocurrencies” as requirements on my Bumble and Tinder profiles. Not the case. I’ve just accidentally met a lot of guys who do one or both of those things. This time though, I swiped right because of the boat pictures. This guy was cute but not my normal style. My normal kind of guy is ridiculously gorgeous with a super hot bod. I could go for cute-ish and chubby though if he has a boat. We agreed to meet at RPM Italian for dinner and drinks, despite the fact that I told him I’d skip the carbs from pasta and just drink a couple Manhattans or tequila cocktails with him.

I was running early and he was running late. I popped into Ema to have a drink before he arrived. Two cocktails later, he still wasn’t there but said he was a few minutes away. I decided to walk over and grab our table at the restaurant so I asked what name the reservation was under. He didn’t make one. How the hell did he think we could casually walk into RPM Italian and get a table like it’s a fucking Applebee’s?! I did a walk-through of the bar area to see if any seats were available. Booked as hell. I told him I’d be standing outside on the corner like a prostitute waiting for him since we would have to go somewhere else. Moments later I heard some man screaming my name. I spotted him in his brand new Mercedes waving at me to come over. I hopped in the car and my nostrils were assaulted by an overwhelming dose of cologne. My date was about 30-40 pounds heavier than in his pictures and missed the top three buttons on his shirt, exposing his bushy chest hair and gold chain and giant cross. His hair was shaved on the sides and the top was long but cemented down with heavy duty, super strong hold hair gel. On his profile he said he was 31 but in person he looked like he was closer to 50. He started driving, never apologized for being almost an hour late and just repeatedly asked me where I wanted to go. Everything he said, he repeated 3 times in the strongest Jersey Shore accent I’ve ever heard. It was good that he did repeat everything multiple times because his accent was so strong I definitely couldn’t understand him the first time so it saved me the trouble of asking him “what” over and over.

We ended up heading to the rooftop at the Godfrey. He rudely chucked his keys at the valet guy’s chest and we continued to the elevator to the rooftop bar. While I was looking at the cocktail list, I heard him order a pitcher of strawberry mojitos from the bartender, despite telling me earlier he was avoiding sugary drinks so he could drop 10 pounds (or 30). I couldn’t believe he ordered for us without consulting me first. The bartender started to walk away and I put my menu down and this guy called the bartender back over saying, “Get mah lady’s ordah!” I asked for a Maker’s Manhattan up and was thoroughly confused as to why this guy needed 5 full strawberry mojitos to himself on a Tuesday night but I am not one to judge, especially on alcohol consumption.

He explains to me that he’s an only child, a momma’s boy and VERY Italian. I didn’t know you could be more than just plain old Italian so I was obviously intrigued. The reason he was late to our date (and not sorry about it in the least) was because his momma made him some meatballs and spaghetti. He tried to leave after one plate but she made him have another. His mother, the love of his VERY Italian life, is controlling everything in his life, but mostly his waistline it seems. Within about 20 minutes of this date, he tells me he wants me to meet his mother and she would love me. She loves a good, pretty Italian girl. I’m 6% Italian according Ancestry DNA but I didn’t tell him that. Let him create his own weird fantasies. Who am I to tell the truth? A bad move on a first date is to talk about the girl you just met meeting your mother. My boner was gone in a heartbeat.

Besides talking about being VERY Italian and a momma’s boy, he had a ton of other interesting topics of conversation. He loved talking about his money and his family’s money. Also fun, was talking about his friends’ money. We talked about his boat and expensive, fast cars. We talked about clubs and bottle service. My mind was so stimulated I could have exploded. This guy was dreamy. Listening to all of this coming from a guy with the accent of Pauly D or The Situation and the body of a slightly elongated Danny DeVito, was beyond my wildest fantasies. This was my guy. This was my next future ex husband.

I finished my second Manhattan and was pretty buzzed after the two drinks I had at Ema and because we never actually ate dinner. He offered to drive me home and I accepted because I’ve become stuck up as hell and would rather choke on my own vomit than take public transportation when I’ve been drinking. It wasn’t until the check came that I noticed he consumed two pitchers of strawberry mojitos. It wasn’t until I thought about the date the next day that I realized he drove me home after 10 cocktails and that was probably bad.

He insisted on walking me to my door, which was nice but, of course, after 10 cocktails, he had the balls to try and stick his tongue down my throat. That was gross. Momma’s spaghetti and meatballs were probably still in his teeth. We said goodnight and I went inside to my couch and my dogs. He sent me a few texts when he got home saying that he wished I was with him in his bed. I responded as I think most nice Italian girls would, by saying, “ha, thanks. nite.”

I’ll never understand how people can’t read body language, facial expressions or tone of voice. I don’t get how you can’t tell when you’re not connecting with someone. Maybe 10 mojitos had something to do with it. I don’t know. The Meatball and I will likely never see one another again. That’s what I get for swiping right for boats. No good can ever come of it.