Can't a Girl Shit in Peace?

I live alone. Ergo, I lounge around my apartment in varying states of undress, and my bathroom door is pretty much a moot point.

I was home today (since I am marginally employed as opposed to actually employed) watching the Price is Right in pajama pants that have been washed so many times they are as diaphanous as a spiderweb. While maneuvering my ample booty off the couch to get some snacks, of course, my pj pants split . . . and, oddly enough, up the front seam rather than the back. Since, as I mentioned before, I live alone, crotchless threadbare pajama pants are a perfectly acceptable outfit.

After washing my snacks down with coffee, it was only a matter of time before Mother Nature called . . . and she wanted me to drop the kids off at the pool. I'm in the middle of a particularly stinky bm (yes, I realize all shit stinks, but this was an extra-pungent-post-holiday-roughage-diet-dump) when I hear knocking and hollering at my door. I quickly finish up, flush and, clutching my pajama crotch in my hand, lest I want my beaver on full display, rush to the front door to see what extreme emergency has disrupted my shit.

With the stench of fresh turd still wafting around me, I am clearly perturbed to see that my front door is actually open and my male landlord is standing in the doorway.

LL: "Oh sorry, I didn't think you'd be home."

What I Thought: What the fuck, asshole? My television is on . . . loudly. Of course I'm home. What kind of environment-hating, Al-Gore-defying, butt plug leaves their television on when they go to work?

What I Said: "Get out!!"

LL: "I just need to check your kitchen and bathroom for a leak real quick."

What I Thought: You can't go into my bathroom. It smells like pure shit!

What I Said: "Get out!!"

What kind of world do we live in where a gal can't just let her vagina breathe and take a dump in the sanctity of her own apartment?

My Big Fat Douchebag Date

At the suggestion of the lovely Mrs. P., I threw caution, self-respect and my better judgment to the wind and joined e-harmony. When left to my own devices, I've managed to date both the mentally challenged as well as the mentally disturbed. So I figured, how much worse can it get? Insert obvious foreshadowing here.

After completing an 800-page questionnaire that is as invasive as a rectal exam and forking over an obscene amount of money, e-harmony will send you your "matches." Apparently "matches" roughly translates to "anyone of the opposite sex within a 50 mile radius," as I have nothing in common with, nor any desire to date, the social rejects who get delivered to my inbox every day.

Nevertheless, I agreed to meet Cliff (yes, I watched "Singles" the other day; no, he does not even vaguely resemble Matt Dillon) at a trendy-for-Pittsburgh, which does not mean actually-trendy, bar/restaurant downtown, or "dahn-tahn" if you will.

Cliff's e-harmony profile pics looked pretty cute; however, all the pictures were rather faraway shots. This should have given me adequate warning that Cliff would be quite fugly in real life . . . but, always the optimist, I still clung to a hope he'd be cute. He wasn't. As soon as I saw him, I knew that my hookup dry-spell was in no danger of being broken.

Cliff: "So, do I look like my pictures?"
What I said: "Um, yeah. Sure."
What I meant: "You look like you ate the guy in your pictures."

Not only was he facially unattractive, but he was also fat. He was a good 50 pounds heavier than in his pictures. He had an explanation for this: knee surgery prevented him from exercising for about a year. Whatever dude, eat less then. I can't eat as much as an active 6'4" guy can, but I don't use that as an excuse to be a fat-ass.

Misleading profile pictures aside, Cliff turns out to be a real asshole. You know your date is a douchebag when these phrases are actually spoken on a first date:

"I wouldn't get out of bed for less than $150,000 a year." It's good to know that the one and only motivating factor in your pathetic, empty life is the almighty dollar. You are a real stand-up guy.

"You sound retarded on your outgoing voicemail message." First of all, Cliff tells me this after I recount the tale of my unwitting date with the retarded man. Ergo, this insult is not only stupid, but it is also wholly unoriginal.

"It must be really hard to still be dating at your age." No, actually this date would be far more painful if I weren't old enough to drink my face off. Another mojito, please.

And my personal favorite:

"I could buy all these little faggots in this bar." OK, let's just disregard everything that is so obviously wrong with this vile statement, because I clearly do not need to explain it to you. But why in the hell would an allegedly straight man want to buy some gays? I mean, aside from being condescending, disrespectful and disgustingly intolerant, this comment just doesn't make any mother-fucking sense. What exactly are you going to buy? Are you going to buy them some drinks? Are you going to buy them like you would buy a prostitute? Either way, I think that makes you gay yourself, buddy. Seriously, this is what I get for going on a date with someone who voted for McCain.

Could I Be Any More Of A Loser?

Seriously, I am the most pathetic person that ever lived.

So, I developed a little crush on a guy at my gym (based solely on the way he looks while working out, naturally). This, in and of itself, does not make me a loser. No, I am a total loser because, as a result of said crush, I have resorted to wearing full makeup while at the gym.

As if looking like a kabuki performer working out is not bad enough, it is exponentially worsened by the fact that I do not go to the gym after work, at a time when makeup could be acceptable. Oh no, my friend, I go to the gym before work . . . at 5 a.m . . . an hour when makeup is never appropriate . . . especially not at the gym.

And if my nonsensical, pre-dawn, face paint doesn't quite earn me the title of 'World's Biggest Loser,' let's throw some painful awkwardness into the mix, shall we? So, my gym crush politely engages me in a bit of small-talk this morning. And I, being ever the social moron, could not come up with a single clever or witty reply . . . so I said nothing. OK, I only wish I said nothing. I actually made a weird grunting noise, which is, unfortunately, far worse than saying nothing at all.

Yes, I really am this sad.

The Hair Made Me Do It . . .

Seriously, the hair is evil. It has actually made me into a bad person. (OK, a worse person . . . who the hell am I kidding? No one is going to confuse my bitchy ass with Mother Theresa.)

So I caved and called Brandon back (out of sheer boredom), and he invited me on a picnic with him and his wild mane. Normally, I'd find a picnic a lovely idea. If a hot guy with a decent head of hair, or hell, even no hair, wanted to take me on a picnic, I would think it very sweet and romantic. However, I found myself irrationally and senselessly annoyed by this request.

It wasn't just that I didn't like the idea of a picnic, I was incensed by the mere suggestion. Like, you want me to eat tepid sandwiches outside with the bugs? Fuck off, Brandon. Why would anyone be so pissed-off by an invitation to a picnic? It had to be the hair.

My malevolent feelings towards Brandon and his tacky tresses are clearly products of psychological transference, probably stemming from the time I accidentally gave myself a mullet in the sixth grade. I was just innocently trying to trim my bangs when things got out of hand. Needless to say, it wasn't a good look for me.

Regardless, Brandon's hair is truly heinous, and, to be frank, I could never bring myself to fool around with someone whose locks would actually flop around while we got it on. The 'do is also quite feminine, and not in a good way. It would look way more appropriate on the head of a really unfashionable Pittsburgh lesbian, rather than someone who, allegedly, has a schlong. So, for the past week and a half, Brandon and his hair have been getting the fade.

My new goal is to meet someone a little less metro and a little more manly. Again, is that too much to ask?

An Ode To Public Transportation

I had to take a 9-5 at an office, like a normal person, because I ran out of money. One of the perks of working downtown is riding the bus. Public transportation never fails to remind me that, yes, I am way better off single.

Nothing brings out the man-hating bitch in me like seeing a healthy young man sitting on the bus or train while a woman stands. It must be so hard for you to stand in your comfy, flat-soled, round-toed shoes. That sack-lunch your wife packed must be so heavy, it's really weighing you down. Maybe you insist on sitting because you have menstrual cramps . . . or, better yet, you’re pregnant. That must be it!

Perhaps when your contribution to the promulgation of the human race consists of more than just blowing your load, then, and only then, do you deserve a seat over a woman.

In addition to proving that chivalry is, in fact, very much dead, public transportation also serves as a lesson in the grotesque. Clearly, attractive men have alternative means of travel, as one look around the bus displays a veritable parade of miscreants.

Take, for example, the rotund gentleman seated to my right, while I am in the aisle precariously teetering in my work-appropriate heels. Aside from his sexy buddha-belly, he is also blessed with a misshapen bald head. Fortunately, he has an ample amount of hair sprouting from his ears to balance the aesthetics.

As hard as it is to see beyond his immense physical beauty, I manage to spot his wedding band. This depresses me. For some pitiable woman, he is it. He is all she gets. I'm not saying that looks are everything, but this dude is clearly as boorish as he is repulsive, and all women deserve better than that.

Maybe I wake up to an empty bed every morning (drunken "accidents" aside), but at least I don't wake up with fleas.

Is Hair A Legitimate Deal-Breaker?

I've been out with Brandon (not his real name, but rather an homage to my generation's 90210, which is so much better than this generation's cheap, skanky 90210) twice thus far. This means I am running out of time to decide whether or not I want to continue seeing him.

I once read an article on the internet (the source of all truth and knowledge), which explained that "the fade" is only appropriate up to three dates and/or sexual activity. This does not mean that if I went on four dates with a guy and/or did the nasty with him, I would feel morally obligated to do the mature thing and tell him I wasn't interested . . . it just means I would feel guilty while giving him the fade.

So, to save myself from any future self-reproach, which I firmly believe is bad for the skin, I should either shit or get off the pot.

Personality-wise, Brandon is pretty dorky. Dorky enough that he undoubtedly spent most of his formative years picking his briefs out from deep within the crevice of his ass . . . but not so dorky that he couldn't appreciate the humor of the funneling incident of '98 (involving two 18-year-olds, a seedy dive-bar, a funnel and copious amounts of Jagermeister). And I happen to personally like dorky, though I do realize it is an acquired taste.

Looks-wise, Brandon is neither ugly, nor particularly attractive. He's relatively tall and thin . . . which I like since, in my world, men must be significantly taller and firmer than their bitches. But, sadly, the boy has a huge turn-off perched atop his head: this poofy, blond disaster that he, admittedly and purposely, pays someone (at a salon, no less) to shape into a tragically ridiculous quaft. It's got like this peaks-and-valleys thing going on that really is quite distasteful . . . not to mention distracting, as I find myself unwittingly drawn to it. It's like a car accident on top of his head . . . as much as I would like to, I can't look away.

Can a particularly vile hairdo actually be the deal-breaker that kills a potential relationship? It's been seven hours since I screened his call, and I just can't bring myself to phone him back. Apparently I've reached a new superficial low.

Things You Should Not Reveal on a Second Date:

Date: "My step-dad is from Buffalo so we watched the Bills game together this weekend."

Me: "My dad's ex-wife lives in Buffalo. She once set my dad on fire . . . while he was sleeping."

This, strangely, did not go over well.

Jeez . . . it's not like I told him my mother set my dad on fire (bad genes), or that I set my dad on fire (pyromaniac).

Tough crowd.