My Aunt Trish recently shed three hundred pounds in a single day. She got rid of her absolutely worthless husband. And by “got rid of”, I mean she divorced the son of a bitch, not that she killed him. Although if she had killed him, I would have happily driven to Mississippi with a shovel and a tarp to take care of that body.
You know those people you really, really hate, but you have to be polite because they’re married to someone you love? Well, her husband wasn’t one of those people. He was an ass, and I was never shy about making certain he knew that. He’s one of those straight guys who are so completely terrified of gay people that it has festered into a powerful hatred. I knew this, and I delighted in and took advantage of his fear whenever possible.
You know those people you really, really hate, but you have to be polite because they’re married to someone you love? Well, her husband wasn’t one of those people. He was an ass, and I was never shy about making certain he knew that. He’s one of those straight guys who are so completely terrified of gay people that it has festered into a powerful hatred. I knew this, and I delighted in and took advantage of his fear whenever possible.
Ours was a relationship of mutual distaste.
And now, like a bad dream, or a bout with Chlamydia, he’s gone. Poof! Ding Dong! Every time I think about this, I do a little dance inside. It will take a while to completely erase him from my memory, but I’m more than happy to work at it.
Aunt Trish called this week because, suddenly sixty and single but still sassy, she’s decided to delve into the world of internet dating. After discovering most men won’t talk to a woman without a photo to offer, she enlisted my aid.
“I wish I could put a picture of Sigourney Weaver. She’s very attractive,” she said.
“True, but it’d be awkward explaining that when you actually meet.”
“Well, do you have any good pictures from Christmas? Something where I look young? The men my age all date women in their forties. I guess I’m supposed to date men in their eighties. They won’t be any fun.”
“It’s a Viagra world now. Everyone can still be fun.”
“Well, I don’t the bastard to die on me before I’m finished.”
Isn’t it neat when you’re grown up and you find out which of your relatives talk dirty?
Trish has turned to the internet because she has no interest in the widowers and divorced men her Mississippi matron friends have been suggesting. I’m always doubtful of people playing Cupid. Matchmaking is inefficient because we’re all unwilling to admit whatever it is we’re REALLY looking for in a mate. My sister Shannon was attracted to her husband because he seemed like a jerk on the outside, but turned out to be a big softie. She wanted a man who was unafraid to tell her “No,” and she’d respect enough to listen. But how do you tell that to a friend? “Jennifer, go find me an asshole who bosses me around.” I liked Preppy instantly because he knew what he wanted (in that case, me), and was direct in getting it- we kissed before even exchanging names. But if you told me you had a friend for me, and that was how he introduced himself, my inner Julia Sugarbaker would be appalled by his lack of social decorum.
Maybe you want a spineless type who will fulfill your demands without question, or a fella who’s a little less attractive than you so you’ll always feel pretty. These are not the traits you’re going to list when a friend asks, “What kind of guy are you looking for?” And that’s why matchmaking usually doesn’t work.
But in Aunt Trish’s case, we have a glorious opportunity. There’s no risk involved in being forthright on an internet chat, and none of your friends have to know what you’re into. I tell her she should go ahead and be very clear on what she’s looking for when she writes her profile.
“Very clear in what way?”
“Well,” I say. “I’d definitely put it out there that you expect them to survive sleeping with you. If there’s doubt there, you’d wanna know.”
“Oh! That might intrigue them, let them know I’m a hellcat.”
That’s something she’s unlikely to share with the Mississippi matrons. I like her style: Just throw some dirty talk out there and see if any healthy boys bite. Sometimes the tried and true methods really are best.
And now, like a bad dream, or a bout with Chlamydia, he’s gone. Poof! Ding Dong! Every time I think about this, I do a little dance inside. It will take a while to completely erase him from my memory, but I’m more than happy to work at it.
Aunt Trish called this week because, suddenly sixty and single but still sassy, she’s decided to delve into the world of internet dating. After discovering most men won’t talk to a woman without a photo to offer, she enlisted my aid.
“I wish I could put a picture of Sigourney Weaver. She’s very attractive,” she said.
“True, but it’d be awkward explaining that when you actually meet.”
“Well, do you have any good pictures from Christmas? Something where I look young? The men my age all date women in their forties. I guess I’m supposed to date men in their eighties. They won’t be any fun.”
“It’s a Viagra world now. Everyone can still be fun.”
“Well, I don’t the bastard to die on me before I’m finished.”
Isn’t it neat when you’re grown up and you find out which of your relatives talk dirty?
Trish has turned to the internet because she has no interest in the widowers and divorced men her Mississippi matron friends have been suggesting. I’m always doubtful of people playing Cupid. Matchmaking is inefficient because we’re all unwilling to admit whatever it is we’re REALLY looking for in a mate. My sister Shannon was attracted to her husband because he seemed like a jerk on the outside, but turned out to be a big softie. She wanted a man who was unafraid to tell her “No,” and she’d respect enough to listen. But how do you tell that to a friend? “Jennifer, go find me an asshole who bosses me around.” I liked Preppy instantly because he knew what he wanted (in that case, me), and was direct in getting it- we kissed before even exchanging names. But if you told me you had a friend for me, and that was how he introduced himself, my inner Julia Sugarbaker would be appalled by his lack of social decorum.
Maybe you want a spineless type who will fulfill your demands without question, or a fella who’s a little less attractive than you so you’ll always feel pretty. These are not the traits you’re going to list when a friend asks, “What kind of guy are you looking for?” And that’s why matchmaking usually doesn’t work.
But in Aunt Trish’s case, we have a glorious opportunity. There’s no risk involved in being forthright on an internet chat, and none of your friends have to know what you’re into. I tell her she should go ahead and be very clear on what she’s looking for when she writes her profile.
“Very clear in what way?”
“Well,” I say. “I’d definitely put it out there that you expect them to survive sleeping with you. If there’s doubt there, you’d wanna know.”
“Oh! That might intrigue them, let them know I’m a hellcat.”
That’s something she’s unlikely to share with the Mississippi matrons. I like her style: Just throw some dirty talk out there and see if any healthy boys bite. Sometimes the tried and true methods really are best.
