VWW- Dating (and why I want more than a dick pic)

 

Date: noun a social appointment or engagement arranged beforehand with another person, especially when a romantic relationship exists or may develop

Dating: verb-A form of romantic courtship typically between two individuals with the aim of assessing the other’s suitability as a partner in an intimate relationship or as a spouse. The result of dating may at any time lead to friendship, any level of intimate relationshipmarriage, or no relation.

The Urban Dictionary has a more realistic definition of the nuances that are modern dating.

 

 

I fucking hate dating. I hated it before there was technology and I hate it even more now. Lets put aside the fact that swipe culture and the anonymity of the internet has created short attention spans and an increased level of shallowness. That rant is for another time. I want more than a cock.

That seems that all a modern man is willing to invest is his cock. Sometimes it is blatant in sending of unsolicited dick picks (Please, just stop!) Or they say they only want casual and that means that you have no value as a person but they don’t want to actually pay for a whore. They will try to avoid dates because your pussy isn’t even worth the cost of a cup of coffee. Instead they offer some version of Netflix and chill. WTF is that? Hell, I’d be happy if a man offered to permit me to see where he lives. Often they only want to come to my place. I guess it’s easier to leave. The old-fashioned ones will lie. They will pretend to be the things you want, will act like they have a genuine interest right up until you sleep with them. Then it’s all “I don’t want commitment” and “I thought we were just having a good time.” Ugh! We were until you decided I had no value and it was OK to treat me like I had no value.

 

What every woman thinks when opening a text and seeing a dick pic

I feel like this is the narrative inside the average mans mind; “What is the minimum effort that I can put forth to get her to fuck me. If I like fucking her what is the minimum effort I can continue to exert to get her to keep fucking me, but only when it’s convenient for me and never for her. Because she isn’t real and doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I get my dick wet and get to live out some of the porn fantasies the internet has shown me.”No one is allowed to have feelings anymore. Emotions might as well be herpes. Actually, I think saying I had herpes would be received better than if I said I enjoyed spending time with a man.

Examples from my recent experience (names changed because I have integrity, not because they deserve it). Carlos has been texting and fucking me since the spring and I just realized that he may not remember my name. Jack is married and claims to be in an open relationship. He only wants sex and only on Tuesdays. So, what do I get out of that? Dennis and I had great conversation and amazing chemistry. But I realized that he never asked me any questions, nor did he compliment me on anything that wasn’t sexual. He wants to fuck me, but I don’t think he likes me or finds me attractive. Then there is the growing trend of men that claim to be “ploy”  and the assholes that think this is licence to act like fuck boys,

Is it too much to ask for a man who knows his masculinity lies in his strength of character and not in his pants?

I want to find someone I have a connection with. I’m not talking marriage. I don’t really have an end game in mind. It would be nice to have some companionship to enhance the physical relationship. Someone who will hold my hand, put their arm around me, and watch a movie to the end before trying to get my clothes off. Really, I am setting the bar pretty low here.

Underboob and Vegan Cooking

I am not a good cook. That’s a lie. I’m an awful cook. There are fires and the possibility of stomach pumping. With this in mind, it does seem odd that I would sign up for a meal delivery service. Let me explain.

I am tired of eating frozen vegetables. I need fresh food, healthy food. I need healthy food for one person. I need healthy food for one person with detailed instructions. Meal delivery systems! I choose Purple Carrot. I would like to be able to say it’s because I had some noble vision of sustainability and global freedom from servitude for all livestock, but it was because they offered the largest discount to sign up.

I won’t review the service. If you want my opinion then you can ask. However, I want to share the spectacular disaster that I am in the kitchen. Some background, these kits come with all the ingredients portioned, grouped, and labeled and have a recipe card that includes photos. This story is about Kale and Quinoa Bowl with Tahini Drizzle.

Step 1– Heat the oven to 425ºF. Spread 2 tablespoons of olive oil on a rimmed baking sheet and put it in the oven. Rinse, trim, and peel the root vegetables. Cut them into 1/2 to 1/4 chunks, carefully spread them on the heated pan in one layer, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and return to the oven. Roast (and get to work on the rest of the recipe), undisturbed, until they’re golden brown and easily release from the pan when gently pried with a spatula, 8-12 minutes. Once they can be turned, toss them every 5 minutes until they’re tender and browned all over, 10-15 minutes more. Remove pan from oven.

What actually happened: Find pan. Coat with oil. Put in the oven. Rinse roots veggies and remove cat from counter. Wash hands. Remove cat again, rinse veggies cat was licking, wash hands. Decide you will need wine. Open a bottle and let it breath. Peel carrots. Remove cat from counter and wash hands. Peel sweet potato. Yell at cat for licking the turnip. Rinse and peel after washing hands. Start chopping veggies. Grab towel and wave in front of smoke detector. Return to kitchen, call cat an asshole, remove him from the counter, wash hands, and rinse veggies cat was licking. Take towel and step stool to smoke detector and remove battery. Turn heat on oven down and open a window. Chop remainder of veggies. Get pan out of oven and too late remember that the pan is hot. Call yourself a moron. Take a swig of wine straight from the bottle. Put veggies on pan with salt and pepper. Put in oven and forget to turn heat backup.

Step 2– Rinse the quinoa in a strainer and put into a small saucepan with 1 and 3/4 cups of water and a pinch of salt. Bring to a boil, and then reduce the heat to medium-low. Cover and bubble gently until the quinoa has absorbed all of the water, 15 minutes or so. Remove from the heat and let it rest, covered, for 5 minutes.

What actually happened: Look at your strainer and realize there is no way to rinse that without all the quinoa going through the slots with the water. Skip that part and put directly into the small pot. Put on stove and forget about it. Realize that the temperature of the stove was turned down. Shout profanity, drink some more wine, and turn up the heat.

Step 3– While the vegetables and quinoa cook, rinse and juice the lemon into a bowl. Rinse, dry, and destem the kale. Chop the kale and toss in a large bowl with 1 tablespoon of lemon juice, 1 tablespoon of oil, and a pinch of salt. Massage the kale between your palms until it’s tender and a deep green color, 1-2 minutes.

What actually happened: Completely ignore this step for no good reason. Perhaps due to all the wine you drank. Wash all dishes from prep and congratulate yourself. Have some more wine. Skip directly to step 4.

Step 4– Mince 1 clove of garlic, put in small bowl with tahini, 2 tablespoons hot tap water, and 1 tablespoon lemon juice, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Whisk or stir with fork until it’s as smooth as possible. Taste and adjust the seasoning. To serve, toss the kale and quinoa together and divide among bowls. Top with roasted vegetables and drizzle with tahini sauce over everything.

What actually happened: Hunt through kitchen for the garlic. Realize the asshole cat is running around the house with it in his mouth. Wrestle away from asshole cat. Wash garlic and hands and start chopping. Mix with tahini and ask Siri to explain to your ignorant ass what tahini is. Realize you never tossed the vegetables or checked on the quinoa. Turn down heat on quinoa and decide veggies will be ok. Stare at the lemon and wonder what you are supposed to do with that. Read instructions and become grateful it’s not asking you to do something obscure like zest the lemon. Realize you skipped step 3. Swear loudly and drink some wine. Take quinoa off stove and go to step 3. Realize halfway through cleaning the kale that your largest bowl is not big enough. Decide you can work through this and add the quinoa. Spray quinoa all over the kitchen trying to mix with kale. Tell yourself you don’t need all those carbs anyway. Remember that the veggies are still in the oven. Take them out, turn off the stove and decide they look edible. Attempt to divide kale/quinoa mixture and come to understand this is more than 2 servings. Dig out storage containers. Put leftovers in fridge and hope you like this recipe because you are going to be eating this for days. Find your largest glass and fill with more wine. Plop down on the couch with bowl of food, huge glass of wine, and eat.

The finished product. It was pretty good.

The finished product. It was pretty good.

Things I learned:

  • My cat is an asshole
  • Cooking with a cat ensures good food safety
    • you wash your hands and the food often
  • I can’t multitask. I need to do things in order or I forget about them
  • What tahini is made from
  • Apothic Dark pairs really well with tahini
  • The people that write the instructions have no comprehension of my dysfunction

VWW- Velleity

Velleity

the lowest degree of volition

a slight wish or tendency: inclination

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With the New Year celebrations almost upon us we must also prepare for the onslaught of resolutions. In a combined state of nostalgia, optimism, and drunkenness citizens of the world will decree their desire to change in the next twelve months.

It’s all bullshit. We all know it. Most people don’t desire something different enough to put in the effort. No, resolutions are simply things we wish would change magically, on their own, without the sweat.

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It’s not laziness. It’s not falsehood. It’s simply that change is scary. Change is difficult. When you change there are unknown ripples in the pond, and what if you don’t like those. On some level everyone realizes that there is no going back. You can only move forward. Or stay put. And that’s the option most people take by February.

But at that precise moment in time, on New Years, millions of people will look at their lives. Millions of people will think it isn’t what they want. Millions of people will wish and hope for something more.  For just a brief moment the population starts to wake up and acknowledge it is raw truth. But then….

 

 

Not Today

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Today isn’t going well. Sure on the exterior is look s fine. I’m dressed and at least minimally presentable as a professional adult. I showed up on time, or at least close to it, I have my work, I am pretending to perform my work (I’m really writing this).

Under the surface I have a dull and muted sense of defeat. Where it came from I have no idea.  It’s one of those days were all the small and insignificant things go wrong one after the other. I forgot to make lunch, I’m out of cat food, the button on my last pair of clean pants is missing, I have no matching socks, the kitten chewed the cord on my straightening iron, I’m out of gas, I can’t find my wallet in my bag, my tires are low on air. Fuck it! I just want to drive to work.

I would really like to crawl back into bed pull the covers over my head and sleep for a few more hours. But that isn’t going to happen, so I’ll settle for driving. Just drive. But what should have been simple turned into a 40 minute delay. Damn it!

So now I’m at my desk, I’ve had my coffee, I participated in a conference call, I was pleasant but for the most part silent. My give a shit has broken down. You are out of supplies? I don’t care. You are missing paperwork? I don’t care. Do I have anything? Yes I do and I need it by next Monday. The answer? OK, I’ll get you something. I want to scream that a vague reply of “something” simply won’t suffice and I need details, but I don’t care.

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I’m hungry and have access to food. Food I usually enjoy, but I don’t want to eat. I’m just not interested. It would take too much effort. And what’s the point? In a few hours I’ll just be hungry again. Might as well wait a few hours and see if food is more appealing then. I can’t even muster the motivation to reflect upon why I don’t care. I don’t care enough to warrant the effort.  

Today I am a pile of flesh taking up space and wasting precious time. Perhaps I will look back and be angry of all the increments of time that passed, moments of limitless opportunity that I squandered. I probably will, but not today.

 

Expiration Date Approaching!

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I feel like I am approaching my expiration date as a woman. Sure, we tell each other woman are attractive at all ages, but who are we kidding? In this declining civilization with its emphasis on the perfunctory aesthetic the desire for superficial expressions of worth have gained significance in the social strata. Whether the fault of changing values, the sound bites media sensationalize, or the internet and social media removing our human interaction the result remains that there is an increasing amount of value placed upon outward appearance. This is true for both men and women. Though, as usual, women bear the heavier burden as historically they were nothing more than property and an extension of a man’s wealth and status. To have an attractive spouse and /or daughters was a symbol of prosperity. Much the way we view cars today. Think that has changed? Just look at fashion or gossip magazines. It’s still all about the outer package. We may propound ourselves to be more enlightened about such things but the truth is we still judge women more harshly than men in regards to physical attractiveness. Agree or disagree, my point is that I am approaching my expiration date. How do I know this? The amount of young men who approach me for the Cougar Experience.

Young men, vital and alive, exploding with the promise of the unknown future. These men approach me with all the bravado and pomposity that their egos and some alcohol can produce. They come up to my table, they interrupt my conversation, and they think that I will be impressed by their rudeness. They know that I am older than the girls they normally approach. I am some mythic beast, a gauntlet thrown down before them, K2 that needs to be conquered. I am an “older woman.” I’m not sure what bawdy stories get passed around among the post college young adult males about the sexual prowess of older woman but I can gather from their demeanor the tales have grown to epic proportions. This is not an attraction borne out of biochemistry and pheromones. It’s not a vestigial evolutionary instinct. No, this is an entirely socially constructed bucket list challenge and I am their target. They are going to bed this cougar and live to tell the tale complete with embellishments and photographic evidence of flesh wounds endured at her hands.

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It makes no difference to these young men that I have no interest in their quest. I just want to enjoy my meal, my show, the book, my coffee. But alas, I am confronted with a fine specimen of masculinity at the height of its potential, complete with the confidence that only comes with either youth or the privilege of white male mediocrity. I am inundated with flattery and blatant lies, they pretend to fall at my feet and adore me with false worship thinking, incorrectly, that is what I want. They know my youth is fading, to their eyes it is already gone, they believe the honeyed words with make me delusional enough to believe that they have an actual interest in me. They cannot comprehend why someone teetering on the edge of obscurity and staring into the abyss of middle age and looking down the barrel of the loaded gun that is menopause would deny myself a night of adventure with an exuberant creature such as themselves.

But they know little of women. They are cavorting with what are still girls. Young women who are still playing games, who have time on their side, who haven’t yet settled into their own skin. These girls have not blossomed into women. They have they physical presence of a woman, but not the internal fortitude. The cougar hunter hasn’t developed they skills of honesty and vulnerability, they can’t balance guarding themselves with being genuine. They can only replay the schema that has generated results for them in the past. They know not what a woman wants from a man. And not a man of media construct, but a man who can vanquish his own demons as well as the demons hiding under the toddlers bed at 3 am. A man who knows how precious time is and that to waste a moment of someone’s time is a crime too heinous to consider. A man who understands that being inebriated is not having fun, who understands that enthusiasm is the best gauge of consent, who respects the space and decisions of another person. A man who is discreet.

No, the cougar hunter will get nowhere with me. The posturing, the genuflecting, the capitulation to prescribed gender norms is usually diverting. But not enough to waste an evening. Not enough to try to get them to leave, because the youth never understand when they have overstayed their invitation. Not enough to revisit the unskilled encounter that all women remember too well from their own youth. Nor do they understand how unflattering it is to be singled out as approaching antiquity from the perspective of the youth obsessed culture. I enjoy watching them try though.

VWW-Sinecure

Sinecure:

an office or position that requires little or no work and that usually provides an income.

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Can I get an Amen! There is a word out there that describes these wastes of space! We all know them. At some point, we have all worked alongside them, because they were not doing any work! Now if we could just find a way to remove the dead weight wouldn’t our precious time spent at the office be a bit more productive?

The thing that always miffed me the most was that this individual always seemed to be a higher ranking member of management. You know, the one that saunters in at 10:30 after playing a round of golf. Oh sure, he claims it was with a client and he will expense it to the company, but it was really with his buddies and it was just because he can. This jerk will then lock himself in his office claiming he is behind in his work and needs to concentrate. We all know he is on YouTube. Everyone either grumbles about him or just accepts that there is nothing that can be done.

I think I might be more understanding if it was a low-level employee. Like if the minimum wage janitor slacked off I could cut him some slack. I mean, that’s a thankless job. Emptying trash cans and cleaning up the break room after everyone else’s mess. Yeah, that guy deserves a few moments of goofing off as a means of stress relief.

When I became a high level corporate manager I mistakenly believed I could have some flex time. Wow, was I wrong! No morning meetings or lunch’s with clients. I had to log my every move. I couldn’t deliver first aid kits to a satellite office without alerting Big Brother. And heaven forbid I was five minutes late returning from lunch! The lectures I received on stealing time and being an example to those beneath me… Ugh!

Some of us will never be able to be the slacker.

 

Perceptions and Patronizing Assholes

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I find myself stuck in the middle of the age divide. And believe me, it is a divide between “young” and “mature”. There seems to be no middle ground. Professionally I find that men, though occasionally a woman or two, which are older than I am are shocked to find out my age. The response is always “I thought you were much younger.” Why? Because I am immature? No, I highly doubt that with my attitude. It’s easier for them to dismiss my ideas and authority if they believe their perception of me as young. If I am young I can be inexperienced. If I am inexperienced I can be challenged, dismissed even, as not understanding the nuances and inner workings of any given topic. If I’m older and therefor wiser I have the experience, the log time if you will, to justify my position not only in the company but at the table. If my age is known and therefore my experience I can’t be written off as a “girl,” just some kid that is full of idealistic philosophies with her head in the clouds dreaming of boys and puppies and unicorns. If they see me as a peer they have to regard me as an equal with my feet grounded and heels dug in ready to work. It creates cognitive dissidence and they hate me for it. So the only thing left is to go after my appearance. That I’m not pretty.

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I’ve never been pretty. Not in the mass media, magazine photo shop, female sexuality as commerce sense that has been shoved down our throats as a minimal standard of female worth. I have zero fashion sense, I can’t and won’t wear heels, I hate make up jewelry and nail polish. My hair is brushed but rarely styled. Though I can totally rock a bun! I know the image that conjures is a frizzy haired hag in mismatch, ill-fitting stained clothes clomping through the halls but the reality is that I am presentable. Clothes are clean, pressed, and of neutral color and pattern that they all work together. Shoes are simple, comfortable, and practical. Skin is clear and clean, hair is clean and brushed. Generally this is the same criteria applied to the men. Do I look like I put effort into it? Nope. But I do look acceptable.

Back to pretty, I’ve never participated in the soul sucking, self-depreciating, time killing mania that is pretty. Not to say that the individuals that participate are in some way inferior. I mean, if you find some intrinsic joy in curling your eyelashes and waiting for paint to dry on your fingertips who the hell am I to criticize? But I’ve never been interested. I’ve got shit to do. Things to learn, books to read, fun to have. I can’t worry about my hair or if I am carrying last year’s handbag. The distance between pretty and me has always been a gaping chasm I never bothered to try to cross. As I approach my best by date it gets farther and farther away. Currently it’s just a dot on the horizon, so far away that I often look at it and wonder if it’s really there. I’m confident in who I am and what I do, the contribution I make and I shrug and move on. Pretty doesn’t concern me, pretty is irrelevant.

 

Baron Von Fruitrooster Can’t Manage People

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Everyone has had this manager

 

Your employees suck because you suck as a manager. That’s the cold hard truth. Sorry cupcake, but it’s not that they are lazy, stupid, or don’t want to work. The root of the issue is that you don’t know how to motivate people. If no one gives a shit then that is a direct reflection on you as a manager. You want people to be responsible? Show them that they matter, that the work they do matters. Treat them with respect and dignity. Shut your damn pie hole and listen when they talk.

Do you need to manage them with write ups and progressive discipline? That says more about your failure than it does your employees. Managing by paper trail is the way of the passive aggressive tyrant. You obviously haven’t trained them or they would do it correctly. Either that or they have no incentive to perform.

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Please corporations, realize this is truth!

A true leader raises up the staff. Leaders don’t step on the backs of their workers, they stand in the back ground smiling and cheering them on. You should be a coach not a dictator. These are grown ass people. They work harder than you do. They make less money and their lives are harder than yours. Because of them your life is easier. Be fucking grateful. Say thank you, give them credit, and show them that the work they do matters and that the company gives a damn whether or not they are happy and healthy. Learn the names of their spouse, their kids, and their pets. Ask them about them. Put their birthdays on your calendar and say Happy Birthday. It’s cost you nothing but means the world to someone making just over minimum wage working a 12 hour day so you don’t have to.

Allow them vent their frustrations without judgment. Take their advice. Tell them what you expect from them. Give them the tools they need to succeed. Hold them to a higher standard and encourage them to reach beyond their comfort zone. Be humble. Apologize. You will be amazed at the results.

Continue to ride your ego and stomp around on your inflated power trip and reap what you sow. High turnover, complacency, call outs, extended break times, the bare minimum, and a group of people that constantly need to be monitored. It’s your team, they are your responsibility. If they suck, you suck. Stop you bellyaching and step up your game.

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You want better people? Be a better leader. Can’t do that? Get out of the way and let someone who can show you how it’s done. Just ask anyone who has ever worked for me. You have nothing but gripes about your team. I have loyalty. People that will follow me if I ask. You can’t get people to follow you out the door at five o’clock on a Friday. My team has solutions, yours is just more problems. Face your inadequacies and do better. Not only will your team improve, but so will your work day. Or maybe you are just so overcome with the tiny bit of power and control that you need to make others feel bad to give yourself a boost. Trust me, the team doesn’t care. They have bigger things to worry about and have no time to waste on your insecurities. You are a slimy selfish bastard and the tragedy is that people like you are everywhere

 

 

VWW-Lalochezia

Lalochezia:

the emotional relief gained from using abusive or profane language.

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Ah, profanity! What joy it does bring to my life. And release. Yes, there is something about letting out a strong of curses that is incredibly cathartic.

Stubbing your toe isn’t as bad when you can exclaim “Shit, Damn it!” As opposed to a restrained “Oww!” Though personally, I have found that the profanity doesn’t increase with the severity of the injury. At a certain point you plateau and swearing no longer provides an effective outlet. Breaking an ankle, lots of swearing. Smashing head with resulting arterial bleed, no point. I think it has to do with the adrenaline released into your bloodstream.

Now for everyday stress there is nothing like profanity to provide you with a little reprieve from the mass of humanity surrounding you. Someone cuts you off? Call them a selfish motherfucker. Bob waits until the last minute to inform you he dropped the ball on the big project? Go in your office and call him a cock juggling douche canoe. The company declares there won’t be any raises or bonuses this year? God damn mother fucking son of a disease riddled whore!

Does it fix anything? No, of course not. But it does allow you a reasonable way to release your anger. Then you can take a deep breath and get on with life. So go on everyone, let it out. Get creative. It’s gonna’ make you feel just a little bit better.

 

VWW- Drapetomania

 

 

Drapetomania:

an overwhelming urge to run away
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The strange thing about adulthood is that I have had the urge to flee more once than I ever had when I was younger. At least once a week I fantasize about bailing on my bills, my house, and my career packing some clothes and the pets in the car and living like a nomad. As time passes I am slowly coming to realize that I don’t own anything. All the things own me. And I just need to break free from the suffocatingly stiffiling cage I have locked myself in. I can’t be alone in that.