Tuesday, January 24, 2017

The winter of my discontent

Sorry for the absence. I've been drowing in snow and interesting dates. I will visit your blogs very soon!

I must ask, is it so much to want to meet at guy who doesn't want to pee on me, or want me to call him Daddy?

So anyhow...our area got socked with more than a foot of snow in one day about 10 days ago. To give you an idea of how unprepared we were, we typically average four inches of snow in a winter.
Things I have learned regarding snow in Oregon:

1. If you share a driveway with neighbors who have four-wheel drive, they have no fucks to give, and no impetus not to create PILES of snow that trap your car.

2. It's good to have a shovel. I own one now.

3. Shoveling snow is a hell of a workout! And it impresses people. One friend from the Midwest said I was a badass...another asked if I stretched first...and another sent me a text warning me of potential muscle, back and heart damage. I told him that I merely shoveled the driveway, I didn't fuck it.

 Things I have learned about dating as a 40-year-old:

1. "I want to be exclusive" right away = "I am needy as fuck and I want to smother you."

2. "I've gotten kinkier as I've gotten older" = "Please pee on me."

3. "Do you want to get married again?" = "I can't be alone. Ever!"

And, most recently, 4. "I just met this girl I'm going to be focusing on" = "She slept with me on the first date and you wouldn't."

For those of you who are single... you're welcome ;)

Saturday, December 31, 2016

Goodbye to all that

Dear Dave,

#Fuck2016 is trending on Twitter, and I agree.

I can't believe you are in the ground.

I can't believe you are the second ex from high school who appears to have died of suicide.

I can't believe we never talked about these feelings of hopelessness. How did we hide them from each other?

Because I was there too. I wanted things to just stop hurting. I wanted to not feel like I wanted to die anymore. I just wanted the pain to go away.

Things are far from perfect, but it was worth sticking around. I'm so, so sorry you found it too painful to do so.

I wanted to lose my virginity to you. We tried, I got too nervous, it didn't work. You were patient.
You never knew about the subsequent assault, in between times we went out. 

I didn't realize how significant a role you played in my healing. You were the first guy I went out with who never pressured me, who let me do things on my terms. I went back and forth on you, I saw other people and then went back to you when I felt like it, and you were always OK with it. And when I decided I wanted to just be friends, you were OK with that too.

I wish I had known the kind of pain you were in. I wish I could have comforted you. I wish I would have thought to reach out to you and say hello, instead of having you simply occupy a fond space in my memory.

Your obituary read, simply, "At peace, in Monterey." I hope so. This song is all I can think of.

Monday, December 12, 2016

Dear potential dates~

Dear potential dates,

I don't remember dating being such a pain in the ass, or perhaps I just have selective memory.
From our holiday bag project at work...we got 2,000 condoms donated...I love my job!

Here is a list of conditions/dealbreakers I never thought I'd have to make. FYI:

1. DO NOT request anything involving pee. Ever. Period. I do not have any interest in anything in this area EXCEPT PEEING ON MY OWN, WITH MY DOOR CLOSED, WHEN I NEED TO. Why the hell does this keep happening?!
2. It's not a moment of brilliance when you feel compelled to say, "I like the woman to have her orgasm first" ... out of nowhere, when we haven't even kissed. (Yes, more than one person has done this.) And...Really? How fucking generous of you! Only one? I have vibrators that can do better than that.

3. Before you request anal sex, I require you to have experience it first, on the receiving end. Pun intended. Then tell me how you feel.

4. If I say I don't want to go out again, don't ask me. Especially don't ask me five more times.

5. If you feel the urge to send flowers to my office after I say I don't want to see you again, refer to condition #4.

6. Don't ask me about how your dick stacks up to anyone else's.

7.  Really. Don't. Ask.

8. I told you not to ask.

9. If you have a stash of Viagra, tell me about it. I date older guys, I get it. There's no shame. Don't spring it on me by surprise and leave me wondering if I'm going to be there for five minutes, and be like, "What?" or an hour, and have to limp home.

10. Speaking of which, if you need Viagra, FUCKING GET SOME.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016


Thanks to all of my blog and offline friends who have been so supportive during my divorce and the other shit this year. For the handful of people who have simply stopped communicating with me since I announced this, I have no interest in your husbands, you idiots!

I'm incredibly thankful for all of the rest of you. I wanted to give a shout out to my cyber buddy Matthew Williams, whose online insights on dating and divorce and living with depression have really resonated and gotten me through more than one bad day! Plus he's just a cool guy and good writer. I encourage you to check him out.

 I'm going to try to make the rounds and catch up on your blogs a bit over this post-apocalyptic holiday. I still feel, as one of my colleagues put it, that I woke up next to Rod Serling's corpse.

Instead of focusing on that, I choose Snoopy. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
PS The dating adventures continue...but that's another post. No one else has asked me to give them a blow job while they pee, thank God!

Friday, August 19, 2016

Of warrants, sex toys, and peeing

If you haven't figured it out from the subject line: I went on an online dating website. I wanted to push myself out of my comfort zone and meet new people, because even though I meet a lot of people through work, I don't want to shit where I eat.

WENT. As in, past tense. As in...oh holy fuck, I have to get this out of my system and share it with you people.

First off, sorry for the long absence. Just when I think I am turning the corner from depression this year, I am right back where I started. I really appreciate the support from my friends in blogland who have been checking in on me, especially as I get ready to go over the hill next week. (More on that later.)

So, I was married for 11 years, and needless to say I'm out of practice at dating. I missed the whole online thing and the smart phone revolution (read: naked pictures) happened while I was married.

I get that in dating as in life, you have to meet a lot of idiots and creeps before you meet people you like. It's a fucking tall order, trying to find someone who 1. isn't a creep, 2. isn't an idiot, 3. DOESN'T OFFER TO SEND YOU NAKED PICTURES OR ASK YOU IF YOU'D BE UP FOR GIVING HIM A BLOW JOB WHILE YOU PEE.

Um. WAT. You say? It's true. I had that come up as a "theoretical" question.
Some of my favorite doozies:

1. A message from someone who looked at my online profile. "I have no wants or warrants out for my arrest." Oh really? Glad we got that out of the way...

2. Sexting etiquette. Two people messaged me offering naked pictures "on request," because "I'm a gentleman" and wouldn't send them unsolicited. Oh. My. GOD. How about never? Does never work for you?

3. People who wax poetic about things like architecture and books in their online profiles, and then message you with questions like, "Are you into anal? How about beads?" Not making this up.

4. 25-year-old idiots who ignore the age filters. I am turning 40 next week! I am old enough to be your mama!! Not only that, you're probably living in your parents' basement, don't have a car, and won't be any good in bed, because you're 25. End. Of. Story.

A tip for the uninitiated: women don't ever have to go online for sex. If we ever get truly desperate, there is always an ex or a friend waiting in the wings. And we know better than that anyway. Most of us have invested in products with batteries.

So there you go. Stay tuned for part 2...because there are more horror stories to make you laugh.

Hope all is well in your worlds.

Friday, July 15, 2016

Celebrity fuck your way to wellness!

As I've mentioned here I have been in therapy recently. One of the things my therapist recommended was a workbook with some mindfulness skills.

Even though that was the section I was supposed to read, having OCD, I like to finish things (like books) from start to finish. So I started reading from the beginning of the workbook. Topics included "pleasurable distractions" when moods crash.

Among these suggestions, and I kid you not...

"Imagine the top 10 celebrities you want to have sex with. Write detailed encounters."

Um. Really? As a guy friend told me, "Writing about a fantasy with a celebrity who doesn't know I exist would make me even more depressed!"

At this point in the book, I wondered aloud, "I wonder if all of the authors are male?" (Yep.) I suppose they could rebrand this book, or at least this section, with "how to use your shitty moods to inspire your hidden talent for writing erotica."

Now, mind you, the book was worth $11.99 just for the amount of laughter it has generated for me and for friends!

Another "pleasurable distraction" was to "have sex with someone you are interested in and care about."

Yeah, if I was that person, that motivation would make me feel good. "Hey, RK! I was reading this psychological workbook and it told me to go have sex with you as a distraction." Goody.

Or, better, "And I'm choosing you, RK, because the book said to pick you, because I care about you and am interested in you. As opposed to the hot blonde down the street that I'm just screwing for fun." 

How do you distract yourself when you're in a bad mood?

Wednesday, June 08, 2016

My hometown rape culture

Since the grief, triggering and rage that was Monday, learning about the verdict in the Stanford rape case, I've written and re-written this post in my head.
*A ninja edit: I love Joe Biden!*

Like millions of other people, the emotional rollercoaster between those three kept going around and around. And I don't want to be silent about it. Not anymore.

Stanford is in my hometown. The judge that is now up for recall was elected in the county where my family still lives.

In high school, we were warned not to go to Stanford frat parties because we heard girls got raped there. We stayed away. It didn't protect us.

Apparently the law still can't, either.

Even after decades of feminism, of advocacy, of public awareness campaigns, it is being argued that "alcohol and promiscuity" are to blame for a violent crime.

This rape culture existed in my hometown in the 1990s. Some things, apparently, don't change.

More even than the ridiculously light six month sentence are the ludicrous objections to any sentence at all by the rapist, Brock Turner, and his family. His father, it seems, is more interested in whining about him being so "depressed" that he no longer craves his favorite steak, than showing any concern whatsover about the woman he treated like a piece of meat.

This tells us what we have always heard before: don't tell. 

No one will believe you.
Your name will be dragged through the mud.
It isn't worth it.

And our internal voices told us: just blame yourself.
Which is what so many of us have done.

The longer I am involved in advocacy, the more people come to me and disclose that too many of us - far, far to many of us - have been suffering in silence.

Brock Turner's father wrote in a letter to the judge that his son would never be the same. Turner himself complained that he had already lost two jobs because of "this." This, bucko, is the fact that you raped an unconscious woman behind a dumpster. Clearly he thought of her as trash.

Try living with PTSD for 25 years. Try burying things that happened to you when you were 14 because the handful of people you tried to talk to 1. didn't believe you (therapist), 2. couldn't handle it and changed the subject (family), 3. groped you and tried to get it on with you when you just needed a hug (male friend. Yes, really. He's a district attorney in upstate New York now.)

Try living and reliving this in your nightmares and having lifelong trust issues and only recognizing it now.

My boss said he hadn't signed the petition to recall this judge because "it's not here, I can't vote to recall him, so I really can't do anything about it."

I disagreed. I told him what I thought: expressing outrage, protesting, sends a message around the nation and the world that this is fucking unacceptable. That no one should be afraid of coming forward because they're afraid of being humiliated. That rape is never, never the victim's fault. That it is a violent crime that should be punished like any other violent crime.

After the triggers, after the hot, angry tears all through my drive home Monday, I decided that I am not going to be silent anymore, in hopes that other people will believe it should be OK to speak up.

If you or someone you know needs help, call the National Sexual Assault Helpline at 800.656.HOPE (4673.)