Screw you, Bridget Jones, Volume 2

Scene: Restaurant in the Gateway section of Springfield.  Which, this idiot decided, was half way between our two houses.  Way to go the extra mile, asshat.

A client of my company actually fixed me up on this blind date.  Same old story.  This person thinks I'm great, this guy is great, we will have a great effin time together blah.  She gives him my number, there is some texting that isn't exactly inspiring but we decide to meet.  Sunday afternoon at 5:30pm.  Clearly, this guy is rolling with a different crowd then I am, because at 5:30 I like to be pregaming my night, but whatever.  So I drive out to the Roadhouse Grill to meet Asshat FisherMan (AFM) in the bar.  I get there, he's the only person sitting in the bar.  Walk over, introduce myself, he doesn't get up.  What the fuck is that?  ON YOUR FEET, BOY!  I sit.  He's a couple drinks ahead of me.   This retard pregamed the date.  He looks, and kinda smells, like he's been drinking all day.  AFM is an electrician, owns his own electrical company.  And by company, I mean one motherfucking van with his name vinyl sticker'ed to the side.  Let's not get ahead of ourselves here.  I sit, we talk about work, he tells me his business is terrible, he fired his secretary, so he's doing everything.  Continues to bash every other electrician in town, for "taking up my business".  It's hell.  My ears were bleeding.  I do some cheerleader pep talk about having a job he loves and he launches into a story about how being an electrician isn't his real job.  I bite.  "Oh, really, what is".  He says he's a professional fisherman.  Now it's making sense.  There is a big truck with a logo of some sort in the parking lot, this fine speciman of a man clearly rolls in that thing.  AFM goes on to tell me he spent all day fishing on Cottage Grove Lake.  I ask the obvious question - how many fish did you catch?  He says 22.  I say that's a lot of fish, what are you going to do with them all?  He replies "I threw them back"...............um.....huh?  What? You threw them back?   In the water?  AFM launches into a diatribe about catch and release fishing blah blah yada.  That's when the tourette's kicks in.  I ask the obvious question "How the fuck do you know that you didn't catch the same damn fish, 22 times?"  He actually has a story about how a fish will only bite once every 3 days or something.  Then he launches into the whole "fishing like this is a sport".  Now, I will let you catch fish all day and throw them back, you retard.  If you want to spend a whole day on a lake drinking beer, getting fatter and smelling like bait, rock out with your cock out, I could care less.  But I know a "sport" when I see one.  And that ain't it.  Now we are going to have an argument.  He keeps going on about his sport "And see, when I took up this sport.....blah blah sport...."  I finally interrupt.  I lay out the obvious "Fishing isn't a sport".  Crickets.  I've stumped AFM.  He replies "It's on tv, and I have a sponsor, it's a sport".  RG "No, it most certainly is NOT A SPORT!  If you there was cardio involved, possibly it could be a sport.  Say you, AFM, jumped in the fucking lake and outswam the fish, then it would be a sport.  Sitting on your ass pulling a dumb animal out of a lake all day while kicking back PBR's, not a sport.  How do you train for that?  Extra time at the tavern?" 

At this point, things are going downhill at a rapid pace.  I pull out the big guns and text my 14 year old son the following: You want a laptop for christmas, I want out of this date.  Mommy needs  a 911 call right now.  Feel free to improvise the emergency, but no kidding, CALL NOW.  Beloved son makes the call, I answer the phone and do my best impression of oh no, we have an emergency "What? The dog got out?  Oh no, where is Moose now?  Dammit, I'm on my way"

I bail.  AFM sends me a text saying I should come over after I deal with the dog and sit in his hot tub.  Probably with a beer.  I text back that I'm unavailable to help with his "training" in the hot tub with brews, but best of luck in the future....

Happy Fall, Y'all!

I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I’m about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it’s gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.

— “It’s Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers,” Colin Nissan (via notyourlife)

Pretty sure I would want to SuperSize...

A few weeks ago I received a late night call.  You know the one.  Where a completely platonic male friend has had way too much to drink and decides, while driving drunk to some other girl's house in an effort to get some ass, decides to give you a little call at 2:35am.  So the phone rings, and incidentally I was up.  I see it's my friend Teddy.  Now, Teddy is a strictly/completely/nowayinhellanythingisevergoingonbetweenus friend.  But he likes to talk a big game about how great he is in the sack, and I like to laugh.  So it works out.  Now to give you the visual, Teddy is a short guy.  And I'm a tall girl.  Like, you need to be at least 6' to ride this ride.  So he calls me, and I answer, and I'm kind of laughing.  He asks if I have anyone over - I secretly love that he thinks I'm getting ass like that - and I tell him I don't.  Then it starts!  He tells me "You know, I think you are the kind of girl who would appreciate what I'm bringing to the table.  I could give you so many orgasms a night.  Probably like 10 a night.  And the things I would do to you, I would do some kinky stuff to you.  Hang on a second.......can I get a number 6, two tacos and a medium root beer"?

Yeah.  Teddy interrupted the orgasm talk to get his late night drunk food fix at Jack in the Box.  That. Just. Happened.

Words of Wisdom

If you are old enough to vote, you are too old to wear Abercrombie.

Screw you, Bridget Jones - volume 1

My co-workers are amused by my new single status.  Since most of them are married, they find it highly entertaining to listen to me ramble on about my bad dates, and lately there has been a lot of "you should blog about that" going around.  So in an effort to recapture the horror that is now my dating life, I am starting the new installment - Screw you, Bridget Jones - in order to chronicle the hysteria.  Brace yourselves, people.  It's gonna get bumpy.

Scene:
Valentine's Day, restaurant in Eugene, Oregon, packed with people who actually appear to like each other, or at the very least know each other. 

I agree to meet my friend Ryan's blind date set up - who we will refer to as SPJ - for a drink, maybe some food and a friendly "hi, how are ya".  The fact that it's Valentine's Day is not lost on me, so I run home and dress for the event in head to toe black.  Because I'm an optimist like that.  I text SPJ on my way to the restaurant, he says he will put the menu upright on the table so I know it's him.  Someone has done this before.  I walk in and see him right away.  Cute enough, bald, blue eyes, wearing a dressed up hoodie and jeans.  Suddenly my all black slacks, turtleneck and flats (he said he was 6', he's not) seem overdressed.  We sit and chat, have a few drinks, it's fine, but there's NO SPARK!  I keep drinking, in search of the elusive SPARK, I don't find it in the bottom of yet another Jack and Coke.  I don't want to be rude, but this is going nowhere.  He pays, we walk to the parking lot, he hugs me goodbye and makes a comment about how he likes hugging me???? and we are out.  I'm not even out of the parking lot when I get a text from him saying "Well, what did you think?"  About what?  A resolution for peace in the middle east?  I'm not sure I know what we are referring to at this point.  We go back and forth a bit, he says that he thinks I'm fun, blah blah blah, but he can tell I am sexually aggressive (good to know I'm putting THAT out there) and he wants to be straight with me about something.  I was like, ok, let's hear it.  He then goes on to tell me that he has a small penis.  Um, ok.  I reply with something brilliant/tourettesy like "Just how small IS it?"  and he goes on to say it's pretty damn small, and it's been a problem in his relationships.  I say something about how I'm not concerned (because I'm not - I wasn't going down the penis path to begin with, buddy) blah blah yada yada.  He travels for work, doesn't come through Eugene often it's been pretty easy to avoid a second date, though he does keep inviting me to visit him in his hometown, which is like a 3 hour drive - not happening.  Not to be a bitch, but I drive a Jeep, and gas prices are up there!  Nice enough guy, just not for me.  Poor SPJ.  And just for the record - you guessed it - that stands for Small Penis Jake.  Because his penis came with a disclaimer....like cigarettes.

Ok, ok, ok, I can't commit....

It's the truth.  I can't.  To much of anything lately.  Coming out of the last 20 months of a nightmare relationship, I can honestly say that I'm going to attempt blogging again.  I think it's a good way to get my thoughts out.  Those of you who read this, hang in there, this may get bumpy.

I've started running, and came across SR of SkinnyRunner.  This girl is divine inspiration for me at this point.  I'm just pounding out miles until I feel better!