Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: cybersecurity, email, Middle-Age, relationships, sex, spam, technology, Viagra
One of the things I do every day that brings me great joy is to look at the spam that comes into my email. According to the non-retail emails that get filtered (thank you, awesome security keep-that-crap-off-my-computer software) I am a middle-aged man who:
- is very helpful and willing to take lots of sketchy, unidentified meetings;
- is very, very lonely;
- is very, very horny;
- is bisexual;
- but can’t get it up;
- has hard muscles;
- is confident (according to my eyes);
- likes red wine; and,
- is dumb enough to go meet someone randomly with the promise of “good sex now.”
My favorites are the ones where the English is a bit…iffy:
“One doze is enough even for 60-years-old…”
“Your girl will really need a lotion!”
“With our pilules (that’s how it was spelled) you will have more energy”
“Perhaps you will come into a rage, but…”
And my personal fave: “Oh, it seems I’m ready to be yours today.”
Really? It seems you’re ready? That just sounds like you’re surprised that you would be attracted to me. You also don’t seem to be in control of your body, as if your body has just let you in on a little secret. I can’t imagine going up to some guy in a bar and whispering in his ear, “It seems I’m ready to be yours today,” like I was hanging about, preparing myself for the day I’d finally meet him. (Oh, I’d still get laid, because it would be said to a guy, but the slightly puzzled, matter-of-fact delivery just makes me giggle.)
Listen spammers, if you really want a middle-aged mom to open your emails, use phrases like this:
“I’ll just lay here and let you read until you fall asleep.”
“I’m the guy who’ll load the dishwasher.”
“Teenagers – WTF?”
“Mom, I’m sorry but they made me do it…”
“Cute dog pictures.”
“Free coffee.”
“Free wine.”
“You’re right – I’m sorry.”
“Outlander is coming to [YOUR TOWN HERE].”
“Huge Costco sale is on!”
I’m in the middle of a break-up. But, like a lot of my break-ups in the past, the guy has no idea we’re calling it quits. But I’m not telling him until I get my stuff back.
“I don’t deserve you.”
Why am I breaking up with him? First, he’s always late.
Always.
I get the late thing once in a while, but every…single…time? The last time we were supposed to see each other, I waited for over an hour. I finally left.
“I really don’t need the two of you in my life – you and your drama.”
Second, he’s pretty bad at communicating. Even the people he hangs out with have a hard time letting people know what’s going on. That’s fine for them, but when it starts affecting my relationship, that’s a problem. Before I left the last time, one of his “friends” told me I wasn’t a good listener.
“You need to be a better one before you can be a two.”
Third, we don’t talk anymore. When we’re together, he spends most of his time staring at his computer. I try to tell him how I feel, but he never seems to have time to listen to it all.
Don’t worry – I’m not breaking up my 25-year marriage. I’m breaking up with my doctor.
I waited too long for too many appointments in a room filled with a blaring TV and geriatrics talking at full volume. The last time I was there, after I’d waited 45 minutes, the receptionist informed me I’d been called ten minutes before, implying I wasn’t listening. She also said there was an emergency, and they had know idea how long I would have to wait. Um, yeah…I left.
“You only love me for my body.”
As for looking at the computer most of the time, that’s fine. Even waiters have iPads now. I’ve got WebMD and I only go into the office when I need a physical or a real diagnosis. What bothers me is that when I get my blood tested for my physical after the meeting with the doctor, I don’t talk to the doctor afterward. I am sent a piece of paper with my blood test results. There are columns with the numerical results of each test, which are meaningless to me because I’M NOT A ADOCTOR; there is also column that has recommendations based on the numbers, but unless I make (and pay for) another appointment, I don’t get to talk in person with my doctor about the results or the recommendations. How do I know he’s looking at everything as a whole, or that he looked at it at all?
So we’re breaking up. My time is just as important as his, and I am more than just an amazing body. I need someone who can meet my physical and emotional needs. If he can’t understand that, well, he’ll never get it.
“Maybe we should take a break.”
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: bachelorette, Blake, emotions, friendship, Garrett, Quinn, relationships, romance, tv
I was recently invited to a friend’s house to watch the finale of The Bachelorette. Seven women of various ages and relationship stages were there, from college to middle-age, from single to married to divorced to “talking”, or whatever they call it now. I’ve never actually seen more than 5 minutes of any episode (because I think the whole show is any Saturday night at a bar but extended for 15 hour-long rides on the Drama Train). This time, I decided the girl time was much needed and maybe I could figure out why the show is so popular.
Let me just tell you, I had a GREAT time. I was yelling and groaning along with everyone as the drama unfolded. So yes, friends who are rolling their eyes, I can be open to new things.
Now keep in mind while you’re reading this that I still watch Survivorand American Ninja Warriors, and I’m aware that I’m standing in the middle of a huge glass house.
When I arrived, I was ushered into a Bachelorette wonderland:
Each guest had to pick which bachelor “team” they were on. Since I knew nothing about either of the two finalists (Garrett and Blake), I chose Blake based on the pictures stuck into the team cupcakes.
And then the drama train started huffing down the Bachelorette tracks.
Or should I say weeping down the tracks. Oh my God, I have never seen so much weeping on one show. Mostly by Garrett. And let me tell you, Team Garrett lapped it up, goofy, salty tears and all.
“He’ll make such a great dad!”
“He’s so sensitive!”
“Why can’t I get a guy like that?”
“Why can’t I get a guy at all?” (Note – these girls were all gorgeous and in their 20’s – huge eye roll)
“He just seems so genuine!”
I wanted to hurl myself in front of the train, if only to make Garret stop crying every time it rained (often) or when he saw Becca (also often). What sealed the deal for me and Blake was when Garrett played his trump card – he told Becca he felt like her deceased father was with them. Becca melted, he cried (again? seriously?), she cried, and I finished another glass of rosé to get the taste of throw up out of my mouth.
Now, before all you Team Garret people FTFO, you need to understand something about me – I’m not a weeper, at least not where people can see me. When our 15-year-old dog died, my kids later told me that was the first time they’d ever seen me cry – that was three years ago, and they are eighteen and twenty. The Fam constantly makes fun of me for not crying when we watch sad TV shows. Clearly, I also have issues.
Obviously, watching Garrett the Weeper made me uncomfortable. All I could think of was: She’s going to be raising man-child along with her actual kids. poor thing – she’s always going to have to be the Bad Cop because he’s too emotional to do it the other half ofthe time. Plus he smiles when he’s crying and its creepy.
AND THEN SHE PICKED HIM!
There was more weeping from Team Garrett, and gnashing of teeth from Team Blake. But the best (and most important) part of the whole night was the dialogue that emerged during the event: What makes a good marriage, or a good boyfriend? When and how often should you be crying in a relationship? What kind of man makes a good father?
The show is still ridiculous, but it sparked these cell-phone-free conversations for straight two hours, and that, my friends, almost brings tears to my eyes.
(To hear another version of this night, check out my friend Alex’s blog. )
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, shopping | Tags: born again, christianity, church, humor, Middle-Age, relationships, religion, shopping, walmart
I don’t know how or why the Jesus Freaks find me, but they do – and it’s usually at Walmart. Now, before you get all upset, know that I do believe, but I believe in the privacy of my head and heart.
I’ve had two people tell me in the check-out line that it’s their second birthday, as in, they’re Born Again. (Personally, I don’t think it’s the best metaphor – why would anyone want to leave their warm, dark cocoon where they have been fed and grown with no effort for the cold, bright world where every day can be a struggle? How about something like “Refried” instead?)
Ummmm…so you’re Born Again. First, you look tall for a two-year-old. Second, I’ve had 47 birthdays, and I never once told anyone in a check-out line when they happened. Third, why do you think I need to know you and Jesus are besties when I’m standing here trying to figure out who wore the superman glasses better – George Clooney or Denzel Washington?
But the best encounter happened yesterday. I was standing in the freezer aisle at Walmart trying not to buy yet another bag of tater tots, when two teenage girls approached me.
“Excuse me, M’am?” they asked.
“Huh?”
“Hi. Um, would you like us to pray for you?”
“What, here?” I asked.
“Yes. Or is there someone you would like us to pray for?”
Oh my God, this is a blog happening right now.
“My family – they’ve got issues.”
“Okay. Would you mind if we lay hands on you, or is that too weird?”
“That is definitely too weird.”
Then they said a very nice prayer in the middle of the freezer aisle.
So why me? I recently asked my gym trainer if I have a serious RBF (Resting Bitch Face), because whenever I go to other gyms, the trainers never talk to me, while they talk to everyone else who is new. And it’s not because I’m doing things correctly, either. She said no (probably for self-protection), that mine wasn’t bad. I just always look like I’m concentrating (#thestruggleisreal).
Why do people feel the need to approach me and tell me all about their relationship with God/Jesus? Do I have a RSMF (Resting Save Me Face)? You can’t tell me my RSMF is worse than the woman smacking her kid in the child-abuse aisle, or the addict who’s hanging around in the parking lot asking for cash, or the people who live in their camper in the back of the parking lot. I’m pretty sure they might need help from Above a little more than I do.
So please, let me keep my headphones on while I play my soothing spa music and shop. And while I don’t want it to happen again, it just proves that you really can get everything at Walmart.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, adulting, Facebook, friends, friendship, guilt, Middle-Age, relationships, social media
I’m tired of FaceBook making me feel like a crappy parent, an uninvolved citizen, an un-inspiring adult, and someone who is only marginally good at weird visual puzzles. Mostly, I’m tired of feeling guilty about things I didn’t realize I’m supposed to be doing to be a good person, according to the Facebook Junkies.
Brace yourselves – I realize I’m probably going to offend some of you – but I’ve never been accused of holding back or using much of a filter, so here comes the hurricane…
First, stop with the chain posts – Share this with 10 people who need a hug today. If you send me one of those, consider it dead when it reaches my page. Adding a task to my already overloaded shit-I-have-to-do-today list does not make me feel more loved. I need an administrative assistant, not a FaceBook hug.
I also need a break from all those pseudo-inspirational messages like, Who did you inspire today? Or, my personal non-favorite, How are you bringing your AMAZING to work today? Seriously? How about “Congratulations! You didn’t punch that person in the throat today!” Or maybe, “Hang in there – they can’t all be that stupid.” Or, if you don’t like the heavy sarcasm, how about “Try to be nice to people today – yep, even them.”
But the ones that REALLY get me are the posts that say something like Share this if you have an amazing son/daughter. Wow – those are annoying on so many levels.
First, I’m pretty sure my kids know I think they’re amazing. If you don’t, D1 and D2, please be confident that I’m well aware that you both are already better people than I am, that you inspire me every day, and that I brag about you to the people that matter. When I criticize you, it doesn’t mean I think you’re stupid – it means I’m trying to protect you, and enable you to function as a kind adult in an unkind world.
Second, if I were a person struggling to conceive, or who’s child had passed away, I can only imagine that it would break my heart a little every time one of those little brag posts popped up.
And finally, I noticed there are precious few posts in the same vein saying, Share if you have an amazing husband/wife/partner/grandparent/parent. Hmmmmm….what does that say about us?
The Share this if you love your son/daughter/grandchild posts are almost as bad. So are you saying that if I don’t share it I don’t love my kid? Seriously? I would be more irritated with this one if I thought a lot of kids were actually on FaceBook and fretting that their parents didn’t love them since they didn’t share that post. But, since most of them are on every platform other than FaceBook, maybe these aren’t so bad – just mildly guilt-inducing for us dinosaurs who don’t speak in pictures and acronyms.
So, like many of my friends have from time to time, I’m going to take a break from FaceBook. My blog posts will still appear because they automatically push to it, so don’t worry – you’ll still get your doses of Subourbonmom wit. Of course, it will help my chances of getting them published in a an actual book if you follow the blog by signing up to receive it via email. (Okay, that’s my very rare marketing plug.)
And don’t worry, Family, I’ll still be stalking you on Instagram and SnapChat, and yes, I know y’all have Finstas and other places where I’m the subject of many a meme. Have at it – the fact that you’re posting anything about me means I’m making an impact on your life.
Share this if you love sharing FaceBook rants.
Subourbon Mom 