Bobcats, Cougs, Grandpas, and Pervs.

This week's blog is inspired by one of my very lovely friends who recently started dating someone slightly younger than her.  We'll call her Olivia Pope.  Olivia Pope is by no means a grandma; quite the contrary.  She's a total hottie babe; in fact, I would do her if vaginas didn't repulse me.  Even mine scares me.  I digress.

Her recent foray into dating a younger man has made me recount the numerous times I've dated (read: slept with) someone younger.  I'm only 29, but have recently concluded that I'm too old to be dating anyone under 27, because... I'm just going to come out and say it... I no longer want to teach men how to locate, utilize, or spell VAGINA.

Alas, this brings me to the general topic of today's blog post.  Young men, old men, grandpas... you guys; they are all creepy and immature in some way.  I'm convinced that men never really mature past the age of 15; so instead I just focus on finding ones that are hilarious and mildly intelligent or don't live in their cars. One of my favorite little tidbits of advice people give me is "you should date older"; which is a giant crock of shit.

I've gone on one date with one dude over 40; it's safe to say it was the worst night of my entire existence.  I feel strongly that this guy could single handedly halt reproduction of mankind in the US by drying up vaginas from New York to L.A.

He said he was 5'10'... this dude was 5'6"... in heels... on a good day.  He also said he was 44; false.  He was at least 54, or a George Clooney 60. For reference, my Dad is 54.  He was wearing one of those awful purplish pink collared paisley shirts with the embroidery on the insides of the collar and cuffs which instantly reminded me of a senior citizen episode of The Jersey Shore.

He definitely had a spray tan a la LC from Laguna Beach circa 2001. He used the "c word" FOUR times during the evening, kept commenting on how fat people were, and eventually asked me if the hand sanitizer on my keychain was lube for later.  I would bet my left tit that there literally isn't enough lube in the world to make sex with that guy enjoyable.

At one point he actually said to me "I snuck a peek at your ass when you got up, and crossfit is really working out for you." When he wouldn't stop touching me, I told him I was Mormon.  Safe to say, I'm still enduring extensive therapy from that evening.

I love when I meet betches who seriously think they could marry anyone for money or a good pair of Louboutins. I would LOVE to introduce them to LubeDude (now a proper noun) and see if they could endure even two hours in his presence.

More recently, a guy contacted me on Tinder and spelled my name wrong.  I mean... my name was literally RIGHT above where he was typing.  If you can't spend .358 seconds to review how I spell my name, I'm willing to bet my right tit that you can't find my lady parts with both hands, a flashlight, and the Marauder's Map.

Then there's the young dude who you go home with and his room looks like the DMV and Goodwill had a one night stand, birthed a child who came out of the womb wearing a wifebeater, and then it threw up sugar-free Redbull cans and condom wrappers all over the place. If you can't handle keeping your room clean enough for me to maneuver towards the bed in five inch heels after consuming nine whiskey & diet cokes, I'm going to assume that your mom still pays your phone bill and lets you do your 19 piles of laundry at her house every other weekend.  Also, I would really prefer to put on a nice Burberry or Hugo Boss button up after sex, rather than an XXXL Denver Nuggets Jersey that has been steeped in the stench of old socks and beer for weeks.  Secret's out... you're white.  And poor.  And I need higher standards.

So, what have I learned?  Poor, rich, young, old, it doesn't f*cking matter - all men are going to be men.  I'm just trying to find one with enough redeeming qualities to make me care less when he leaves his socks on during sex.

Hope you have a magical week, betches.  And mom - I really hope you didn't read this.

XOXO,
~K~

Literally, the Hottest Mess. Ever.

I had a date earlier this week. I am a f*cking disaster before dates.  Even if I'm going out with someone I couldn't give two shits about, I'm a damn nightmare.  But, since I actually like this dude, I was even more of a hot ass mess than usual.

Weeknight dates are the hardest.  Since I have to bring home the bacon for my cats, I have to strike a balance between working and getting my shit together beforehand so I don't look homeless. On my last date, I accidentally got REALLY drunk because I hadn't eaten anything but a tuna sammich all day. #rookiemistake

SO, this time, I planned on amping up my class level and adult-ness by having some food prior to going out.  Mostly, in order to combat a massive hangover while sitting through nine meetings the following day.

I decide toast is a good option because a) I struggle to make cereal successfully and toast is hard to f*ck up, b) if we end up getting food I won't be super full, and c) bread is basically the only thing currently in my kitchen besides ketchup, an expired bottle of Xanax, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

Here's my issue... I'm more of an adolescent than an actual adult.  And I am still using the toaster that my Mom bought for me during my freshman year of college... 12 years ago.  And, apparently, that f*cker doesn't pop shit up, it just eats the toast until it bursts into flames like Bill Cosby in church.

So I'm in my bathroom, getting ready, when I smell smoke.  GREAT.  Just what I want when sexypants is coming over to my house.  "Welcome to my humble abode, this is also what the ninth circle of hell smells like."

I run my ass out to the kitchen to find flames and smoke EVERYWHERE.  Cats are panicking, the smoke detector is blaring, my life is flashing before my eyes, I'm unplugging the toaster and running to my sliding glass door, I'm screaming "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE BEFORE I GET LAID." ('We're' referring to me and the cats, obvs.)

Up until this point, this is just an honest poor-ish person mistake; like I will refill my Xanax and buy more whiskey before buying a new toaster any day.

My toaster just ate the bread and I started a small kitchen fire, nbd; this happens on MasterChef all the time.  But, of course, because I'm me, I had to make things worse.

Without thinking I throw open the back door and instead of just catapulting the singed toast into the snow, I run outside in a panic.  This wouldn't be that big of a deal, except that I live in a condo and I was obviously dressed in a see thru bra and underwear... because...maybe, sex... in the toast house. So, there I am, standing 90% naked in 15 degree weather, barefoot in a snow drift - and that's when I see my 87 year old neighbor walking her dog.  She's in a full parka, snow boots, her dog has a sweater on... and I look like I've just stepped out of a brothel.

As if this wasn't bad enough, I waved.  I WAVED AT HER.

SHE SEES YOU, K.  NO NEED TO WAVE. SHE ALSO SEES YOUR BAGINA.  It probs looked great, but I doubt she wanted to see it.

She just stared at me; I didn't get a friendly wave.  So I slowly backed up back into my house like if I moved slowly enough, she wouldn't see me.

My house still smells like I've been burning an "Eau de Hades" candle from Anthropologie nonstop for a week. But, thankfully, he was real nice, and pretended not to notice. After two glasses of wine I was like "I accidentally started a fire before you came over."...

His response... "I know."

In hindsight, I looked pretty good and kind of wish I had let the smoke detector keep going off so the firemen could've seen my getup. I feel like that was a real missed opportunity.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again.  If anyone has an adult babysitter they can refer me to, that would be great.  #safetyfirst

~K~

The Legend of Thor

If you know me, you likely know this story, but it's important to share it with the world.  This blog entry has been requested a few times, so here you go, bitches.

Once upon time, there was a man named Thor. Thor is a mystical creature, son of Odin (side note: I have not the slightest clue who Odin is but I loved Odie from Garfield), and keeper of all the panties. Thor is beautiful. Because... Chris Hemsworth, guys.

This is a story about the time I almost married real life Thor.  And by married, I mean spoke-to-for-a-few-glorious-then-incredibly-disappointing-minutes.

One night, actually - Valentine's Day last year (remember, my inner slut was at max potential on said evening), I was at a local establishment with a bunch of my best bitches.  Around 10:04pm, the music stopped, thunder rolled, the crowd parted, someone nearby turned on a smoke machine, and everyone turned to see a glorious creature walk through the doors of the bar.  He was hefty, beefy, rugged, manly, and magical.  He was real life Thor.  With a man bun rivaling all man buns and blonde locks more authentic than mine, Colorado Thor entered the room looking like a walking beefcake on a stick.  Is a beefcake on a stick a corndog?  I digress.

... for some reason he came and sat next to me.  And I was about to make damn sure I was lady Thor for the rest of my life.

Thor and I chatted and flirted.  He told me he was a firefighter, at which point my right ovary exploded.  He also told me he did some lumberjack work on the side, at which point my panties  caught fire. He let me try on his giant poofy Patagonia vest, because obviously he was a sponsored skier during the winter, at which point my bra burst into flames.  He smelled of Christmas, celebrity sex, magical woodland creatures, Juniper Breeze lotion from Bath and Body Works circa 1998, and those pinecones you get at King Soopers in December that are doused in cinnamon oil.

And then my world came crashing down.

Thor was so perfect that I could've justified so many downfalls.  No job?  No worries, he's probs like a law student or some shit.  Just broke up with a girlfriend?  Whatevs, I can make him forget; give me five minutes.  Possible sociopath?  I'm sure there are meds to like, make him want to murder me less.

So, I asked the question I regret asking most in 2015.  "So... where do you live?"

"Well, to be honest I'm just living in my car right now because I don't want to pay rent."

F*ck me.  But like, not literally, because you don't have an actual bed.  And sex in a car is so 2003 for me.  I'm too old for that shit.

I mean, where do you poop?  What happens if you need to go #2 in the middle of the night?  Where do you keep your toothbrush?  How do you watch the Real Housewives?  On your phone? Do you park/sleep next to Starbucks for better wifi reception?  Is there buffering?  Where do you keep your hammer?  It doesn't seem like Odin would be cool with you keeping it in your car all night...

Sure, I could let Thor come and stay the night with me, but then he would probably never leave.  I know if I got a taste of a 12 hour "Say Yes to the Dress" binge with two magical cats on my lap and HEAT, I would never leave. If he came and stayed with me, where would I drop him off afterwards?  Just like... his car?  "Ok, have a good night... make sure the heater is on cause it's like February and you hear of all those homeless people freezing to death..." Is it ok to use the word "homeless" around someone who lives in their car?

I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS.

Thor saw the horror on my face.  Because, he's magic and his hammer probably gives him super mind reading powers.  And, if you know me, you know you can tell exactly what I'm thinking at all times because I have the worst poker face known to womankind.  Thor moved onto some other blond, who was shorter and probably folded into the backseat more efficiently anyway.

The worst part of this whole ordeal was that a month later, I was telling this story at a party (because it's a great party story).  Mid regalement, some dude at the party I don't know goes

"Wait... was his name Thor (names have been changed, obvs, because this is real journalism)?"  

I said.... "yes." 

He retorts back "OH I KNOW HIM HE'S A GREAT GUY!"  

So, then I felt awful, but I refuse to feel bad about not dating someone who doesn't utilize an actual set of sheets.  He was so beautiful; my heart is still broken, but not broken enough to spend the night on a reclined heated seat.

Moral of the story, guys.  Things are not always what they seem. And the legends are true, Thor does exist and he is magical, but I shall never tell the tale of his magical penis.

Also, everyone wants to know what kind of car it was, as if this somehow justifies his living situation.  I found out later that it was a jeep, so everyone just calm the f*ck down.

#singleforlife

XO,
K

The Sluttiest Days of the Year

There are just certain days of the year that bring out the inner slut in 98.4% of the female population.  The obvious one is Valentine's Day.  Another, not recognized as a slutfest by government institutions and religious organizations, is New Year's Eve.  These nights possess a mystical unicorn-esque energy that turns us into salivating whore bags that wander aimlessly around the bar settling for a solid 6.5 when we deserve at least an 8 (because we put on false lashes and waxed our crotch, dammit).

Last night I got all dolled up with a bunch of friends and spent a night out on the town.  We drank way too much and our whore-y energy (whorenergy?) was at max capacity.  Things are going well; you're socializing; you're convinced you're going to wake up next to some hottie with a beard and two man-buns playing Sam Smith's "Stay With Me" in your head on repeat. But you know what can really kill a betch's crazy pheromone-fueled lust search?  A loser.

You meet a NYE 8 (a 5 on any of the other 363 days of the year and a 9 on Valentine's Day) and you're chatting away.  Batting those falsies, being sups cute and witty (but not too smart because no man wants a woman that is TOO smart, right?).  He buys you a drink that you DEFINITELY don't need, and even though he probably spells "definitely" as "defiantly" in his texts, you think you've succeeded in your slutty, self-confidence boosting, loneliness killing search.

But then you ask him what he does.  And he tells you.  And you instantly wish you wouldn't have asked. "I tried accounting for a few months and didn't like it.  So I'm a server."

...

  **internal chant begins: 'don't be a judgey bitch, don't be a judgey bitch'** 

My internal chant obviously failed so hard.  I mean - a few months isn't really long enough to decide you hate something that is life altering, is it?  Like... I used to really hate salmon because pink foods weird me out; but like, I tried it a few more times and now I like it a lot.  And like, if salmon was deciding whether or not I got to keep my DVR and continue to record all the Real Housewives due to cost savings reasons, I would probably suck it up and try and stick it out with salmon before switching to those vacuum sealed packages of Bumblebee tuna (which, by the way, are delicious).

Because I'm an accidental bitch, I asked him what his five year plan was before I could think about what was coming out of my mouth... because, apparently I took off my lust crazed hat and put on my boardroom bitch one.  He didn't like that.  Oopsie daisies.  This blond went home alone to her condo that she owns and her cats, both paid for by salmon.

So, general fail for NYE of 2016, but I have big plans for Valentine's Day, you guys.

Happy New Year!

XO,

K