Goodbye, Angels

  Around the holiday season there are a multitude of things I look forward to: the festive decorations, displaying my slightly obscene collection of 30 plus Nutcrackers, all the calorie-laden sweet treats, time with family and friends, and of course, the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. If you are unfamiliar with this little gem, suffice to say it is a phantasmagorical display of the most unearthly, stunning models on the planet rocking feathery, lacey lingerie fanfare accompanied by live music, celebrities, and plenty of bling. As I was Googling to find the date of this year’s fete, my youngest told me she had heard it was cancelled. This was confirmed with my online search and made me utter my quintessential “What the actual FUCK?!” catch phrase out loud. Say it isn’t so.

  Upon further Scooby Doo-style investigating I was able to discover details surrounding this travesty. Apparently ratings last year were at their lowest and Victoria’s Secret had been scrutinized for not including curvy body types and transgender models. There was a “lack of body diversity”. I'm sorry but AND??? It’s about to get heated in here so someone hold my beer….

  Our society has slid down the proverbial shitter and we have become a nation of, in my estimation, complete PUSSIES. Yeah, I said it. The constant need to, God forbid, offend anyone, always be 100% politically correct, to make everyone feel all warm and fuzzy at all costs, to essentially give everyone a shiny participation ribbon for just being alive is making me stabby and wanting to scream. THIS IS NOT HOW LIFE WORKS, PEOPLE!!! Nobody is going to give you a really good job just because you want it or feel like you deserve it. No teacher is going to just give you an A because even though your paper was plagiarized trash you submitted it on time and need an A to keep your GPA up. No credit agency is going to be like “You know, you said you MEANT to pay your bill but the money just wasn’t there so I’m gonna give you a pass.” No dance company or sports team is going to let you perform or play first cast/string if you don’t have the skills and technique to back you up. You aren’t going to get a $20K raise because you are living beyond your means or life for you just plain sucks balls. In real life you have to work hard, pay your dues, be stronger, better, and smarter than the others who are vying for that trophy, job, pay raise, or good grade. Our world has become a playground for complete apathy and entitlement and it’s doing NOBODY any favors. In the words of one of my favorite comedians, Dennis Leary, life sucks get a fucking helmet.

  Those Victoria’s Secret models have not ended up on that runway because they just sauntered up after getting their Venti half-caf macchiato and on a whim they thought, “That looks like fun. I love those feathery angel wings and I have a shit ton of followers on my Insta so I definitely should be up there with Gigi and Kendall!” They may have been born with the facilities—height, lankiness, a distinct look, a thigh gap—but they have been modeling and working their tiny, perfect little asses off for a long time. They train physically to be in top form. If they are one of the select few to be given that Angel status, it is not because they half-assed their way through life or by sheer birthright.

  I will never, ever be as tiny as one of those models. I am 100% okay with the fact that if I wear corduroy pants I can easily start a fire from the excessive inner thigh chafing in a flash. (It's actually illegal for me to travel in the states of Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico and the Dakotas during the dry season.) I have never had a 6-pack other than the mess of flesh that resembles a pack of hot dog buns on my back. (Thank you, Spanx.) I often have DBS (Double Boob Syndrome) from my sweater puppies spilling from the top of my bra like that exploded can of Pillsbury biscuits that rolled out of your grocery bag in your trunk in August. Even if I worked out with a trainer 5 days a week, had my jaw wired shut, bought a tapeworm off the internet from a witch doctor in South America, and picked up an $800 a day coke habit, I would never be able to take so much as a step onto that Victoria’s Secret runway. It has never made me mad. This may be an unpopular opinion based on the Era of Entitlement and Participation Ribbons but I don’t want to see anything but those lithe, perfect, possibly part alien goddesses rocking that runway with homely Ed Sheeran crooning his heart out alongside them. There ARE women of all shapes and sizes in this world and I accept and embrace that, albeit in the most non-lesbian way ever. Why ruin a good thing to pacify this hoard of oversensitive jag bags who are boo hooing like the whiney bitches they are?? 

  I have fat friends, transgender friends, friends with acne and cellulite, friends who are proud to wear a bikini in public with less than perfect bodies, gay and straight friends, feminine and masculine friends, friends with scars, friends who are above a size 0. They are cool and real and AMAZING. But guess what? They don’t deserve to be a Victoria’s Secret Angel just because society is screaming for this flat out equality. It’s just fact people, so please don’t start a boisterous witch hunt and start picketing in front of my house with flaming torches, “Angel Lover” signs, and water balloons full of Hellman’s mayonnaise to chuck at my windows. This is part of life, REAL life. Fairness has become blasphemed to derail the definition. “Impartial and just treatment or behavior without favoritism or discrimination”. Sometimes you need to pull up your damn big girl panties, which are likely not from Victoria’s Secret but you probably saved a bunch o’ dough using that Kohl’s cash (go, you!), and GET OVER YOURSELF.

  The outfits those models wear are specifically created for them. These are not cute little lingerie sets in all sizes you will find at the mall on Black Friday. The diamond-ruby-sapphire million dollar bra will be bought up by some Arab tycoon to be worn by one of his 8 wives in the privacy of his own mansion in Dubai, you never had a shot at bargaining with a sales girl and her pink tape measure to “just let you try it on for fun”. It’s a FANTASY. It’s high fashion and opulence, a visually stunning masterpiece. That’s it. End of fucking list. 

  My holiday spirit is a little bit crushed, not unlike (spoiler alert) discovering Santa isn’t real. You have ended a good thing, Victoria’s Secret. Our society of keyboard warriors and protesting pacifists are nothing but big, fat bullies and you have succumb to their trash talk and empty threats. There has been talk that the show may be revamped or not even broadcast on television. I don’t have Kanye’s cell nor a million bucks so I probably won’t score a seat if this spectacle makes its way back to that glorious, Swarovski-encrusted runway. And in all likelihood if you DO choose to alter the lineup to include body diversity and whatever else is de rigueur in the misrepresentation of society, count on your ratings dropping even lower because this misshapen, middle aged chick will NOT be tuning in. 

Sincerely,

An Angels Fan Girl Whose Wings Have Been Crushed

Dating Redux

  Some time ago I visited the phenomenon of online dating and made commentary surrounding the adventure. Whelp I’m back at it and this go ‘round is not so much an adventure but more like being on Naked and Afraid for 7 months straight with no rescue crew in sight, minimal provisions, warding off wild local animal species with nothing but my wits and my tits. I am questioning the evolution of mankind at this point based on my most recent experiences trying to date and find a compatable guy in my life.

Read the fine print. I have a lengthy profile bio and it’s pretty specific what I am looking for and what I am not. Yet the influx of those who buck the system or are potentially illiterate enough to bypass this is ludicrous. Geographic location, age, children, musical preferences, favorite foods and drinks, things that are my jam are ALL IN THERE. If you come at me with a cheesy pick up line and the obvious mental capacity of a Russett potato it’s going to be a hard pass.

Age. I have dated younger and we can get the Molly roast out of the way right now. My parents once told me my rental agency might think I was running a daycare. My mom offered to buy the guy some Hot Wheelz to play with. I now know better. And though as adorable as a Capuchin monkey who sits on your shoulder for a photo op in Cozumel, the young boys aren’t for me. It’s comically apparent how a guy speaks to you indicating his age. Calling me a MILF or saying you want to be my boy toy is some rudimentary frat boy lingo. Lay off the Porn Hub and come back once you’ve read some literature and don’t open a conversation with asking if I would sit on your face.

Pretending. I have been at this neverending rodeo long enough to see right through proclamations of intent geared towards what a man wants me to believe. “I’m not really sure if I want kids.” “It’s totally cool if you don’t like country music.” “I’m looking for a relationship not just a physical hookup”. Ummm, you specifically state you are DFB (down for babies), have a cowboy hat in 9 of your 10 pics, and are shirtless and making duck face at the gym which is code for “Let’s bang, baby.” I was once married to a slick, used car salesman type of guy. I can read your transparency clearer than a wet t-shirt contest in a monsoon.

Distance. Even dating someone who lives 30 miles away can be an obstacle yet somehow men think it’s reasonable to message me from Iowa, California, Minnesota, Hawaii, Florida, New York, etc. Even IF one of us traveled many miles for a date, then what? My yearning to be with you is going to be some Disney fairytale shit that I will just leave my friends, kids, job, and life as I know it for a ride off into the sunset with you? I’ve actually met some really great guys but then we have to go back to our respective states. I’m not moving, you’re not moving. It’s unfortunate the well of local ladies has dried up or you have gone through them quicker than a reformed Keto fanatic at an all you can eat pasta buffet but let’s be realistic here.

Humor. I’m a hard sell on this. You can’t fake funny like a porn star fakes an orgasm, you’ve either got game or you don’t. I need sarcasm and an edge, Dad jokes aren’t gonna cut it. And if we throw a penchant for Jesus and telling me it makes you uncomfortable to curse this is just not going to work. I’m cool with JC but you are also a little bit of a fucking pussy because a well-placed swear word can be golden. 

Dick pics. Yes, it really IS a thing. Guys send these in an abrupt, unsolicited manner often. Sometimes with an accompanying live action video. One minute you’re telling me how your mama raised you right and you’re cooking a gourmet dinner and then BAM it’s a baloney pony party and you’re telling me you’re covered in lube and wish I was there. Charming. Not sure what your mom did for a living but that was one crazy homeschool class. I maintain that functionally with what you have is one thing, visually I am not jumping through my phone for the chance to ride your Magic Man Meat. Put your pants back on, your pasta sauce is burning on the stove, Chef Boyardong.

Vocabulary. I can be a grammar Nazi and will let a few spellcheck fails pass. I know guys have fat fingers and texting sometimes doesn’t convey their level of tools in the shed. There’s a distinct difference between a couple of your/you’re mishaps and just all out ignorance though. Writing an entire profile bio with zero punctuation, saying “exedera” (is that a new headache medication or a revelation that you never made it to the spelling bee in 5^thgrade?),  repeatedly messaging “Your sexy”, or just complete moronic sentence structure is inexcusable. I don’t know if your mom dropped you on your head but here’s a helmet to avoid further concussions and please visit a library STAT.

Lines. UR sexy. Did anyone tell you you’re a MILF? I can show you things guys your age could never do. You should come over and sit in my hot tub and relax. Come spit on me. …I can’t make this shit up. First of all, Doogie Howser, I will break you in half and you might not even have hair on your sack yet. And secondly, your ignorance will be far more appreciated if you stay within your own species range--young, dumb, and full of....far less brain cells.

Ghosting. Ironically this is the catch phrase epidemic that literally haunts me, making the notion pretty damn accurate. You message someone, there’s interest, the communication is really good, maybe you text or even talk on the phone. You meet for a date and the conversation and humor flow effortlessly, there’s physical attraction and chemistry. You’re completely on the same page. Then NOTHING. Texts stop, no messaging. Umm,  pretty sure I wasn’t hallucinating you calling me your new best friend and I definitely didn’t shit my pants at that cozy little Italian place so what the actual FUCK?? Recently called a guy out for this BS and he said “It’s not that I’m not interested in you but my ex girlfriend came moseying back so…SORRY CHARLIE.” Like the mother fucking Starkist tuna commercial. Really? It’s a straight up land of douche baggery and I am literally swimming in it.

Kids and babies. My girls are older. I am not interested in having, raising, hanging out with, or spending the weekends with wee ones. At my age I maybe could still conceive but the baby would for sure have antlers. And far be it from me to crush someone’s dream of being a daddy some day. So don’t pretend you “don’t really know if it’s in the cards for me to be a father” if it is. The light at the tunnel is bright for me and that selfish me time is right around the corner. You know what's NOT right around the corner for me? Diapers and sippy cups. Sorry not sorry.

About those photos.. I love that you have been all over the world and are yearning for adventure and more stamps in your passport. You climb mountains, love the Cubs, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Eiffel Tower, your frat bros, your three cats (umm why?), your Harley, skydiving, and your mom. But unless you plan on bringing all of those things to a first date, you probably should stick to photos that actually include YOU. Actually thanks for sharing the cat triplets with me because it’s going to be a no for me, dog. More than one shirtless flex pics from the gym, looking wasted with a cig hanging from your mouth while you’re one tequila away from drowning at the swim up bar in Cabo, posing with animal pelts, police officers, stippers, a bong, or your token pink vagina beanie from the protest are not exactly lady boner-inducing. I would like to see who you are. If you are bald, don’t have 17 pics with hats and one grainy one in a group photo of you with the shiny noggin. If you are not exactly at your fighting weight, I gather the montage of you with Sun In highlights and that Pearl Jam concert T is not in any way current. And why are all your pics of you with sunglasses? Do you have a glass eye? Were you involved in some crazy scuffle on Pirate Night on that Disney cruise and can’t find your patch, Matey? Do you regret that guyliner tattoo when you were super into Poison? 

I’ve heard stories on the flip side of women rolling up much older and heavier to those first dates so I know women can be guilty as well. Just don’t post a stock photo from the 1987 Chippenale’s calendar of a shirtless, hairless, super tan guy shaving WITH A BASKET OF KITTENS and expect me to take you for real. 

Call me…maybe. If you throw out your number or demand mine within three exhanged sentences you seriously need to calm your tits. If we like each other we’ll get there. I’ve been burned too many times by misfits of the dating world sending ignorant, rude, mean, and presumptuous texts. I’m not giving you my number, my Snapchat, my Facebook, or my Instagram because I A) don’t want Netflix and chill shots of your schlong watching the Bears game, B) I don’t believe that your membership is LITERALLY expiring today and this will be the only way we can communicate, and C) I DON’T EVEN FUCKING KNOW YOU YET. There is a protocol to even online courtship and you’re acting like that asshole kid in the gift shop at Disney who needs a nap and is flipping his shit over a $45 Pluto stuffed animal.

I literally don't even know which way to swipe anymore...