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Oh man, you guys. Dating is the WORST.

Wait. Let’s back up a minute.

Am I supposed to be dating? I mean, I don’t really want to. I am truly so happy just sitting. I work a billion hours a week and the rest of the time I am either, you know, raising a tiny human being or watching TV. But people are making it sound like I should be dating. It’s funny. After getting out of my super horrible relationship early last year and moving in with my parents, I was surprised at how many of my friends were like, “Don’t worry, you’ll find someone else really soon!” At that point, that thought never even entered my mind. Someone else? Jesus NO. I just want to sit and eat an entire box of Big Cheez-Its by myself in the bathtub and be LEFT THE HELL ALONE. The last thing I want to do is go make small talk with some dude and even give half a damn about coming off as “nice” or “normal” or even “datable” or if I have crumbs on my shirt after I down this entire loaf of garlic bread BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF THERE IS FOOD.

And the deeper stuff, the “let’s talk about our past relationships” and what you’re “looking for.” Honestly? I’d be happy to go out for a steak dinner once in awhile and have an actual naked penis touching me again and not have to drive more than 30 miles to get it, ugh. SORRY, GUYS IN THE CITY. My car’s pushing 120,000 miles on it as it is.

And then there’s this. I am just too lazy to even care. What’s that? Are my legs too hairy for you? Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll just put my pants back on. What? No, you say? You’ll power through? How good of you.

And do NOT even ask me about my kid. I don’t know what it is, but the thought of discussing my child with a strange man makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. And the idea of dating some dude who wants to, like, actually meet my kid? Play that whole game? No. Not going to happen. And that is only because I can imagine a scenario where we’re all out, say, playing at the park, and Kiddo and some other kid get into a toddler dispute over a toy in the sandbox or something, and New Boyfriend decides to intervene and says “No, Kiddo! You come over here and stop that right–” and then his face explodes into a spray of bloody, shredded flesh and hair by the sheer force of my Overly Protective Single-Mother Rage. OH HELL NO YOU WON’T DISCIPLINE MY CHILD, GUY WHO I LET PUT HIS PENIS IN ME SOMETIMES.

Or the divorced single-father types who are all “So you’re a good diaper changer by now I bet?” and “I bet our kids would love each other!” and “Do you like to cook?” Read: I NEED A STEPMOTHER FOR MY KIDS BECAUSE DEAR GOD I CANNOT DO THIS ALONE I AM AFRAID OF THEM HELP ME.

No thanks.

So I guess you can say I’m not “ready to date” yet.

But then again, it would be nice to go out once in awhile with someone and eat. See a movie. Hold hands? Maybe I should be dating? I think I’m perfectly fine now, but what if I feel like dating in ten years? I mean, I am sure I’ll still be super fucking hot when I’m 45, but what if my vagina has dried up and fallen off by then? Can it do that? I think others are more uncomfortable with me not dating than I am. “Don’t worry,” said one well-intentioned individual, “You’re still young and pretty, you won’t have trouble getting a date, even if you do have a kid!”

Now I feel like Emily Maynard of The Bachelor/The Bachelorette fame.

Emily Maynard“Hi, y’all, I’m Emily. I just want y’all to know that I’ve got a kid from my dead race car babydaddy and she is the center of my world, y’all. And the man who I am going to give this final rose to is gonna hafta be someone who sees her as not ‘baggage,’ but a BONUS, y’all. Because WE’RE A PACKAGE DEAL, Y’ALL. I need to be a role model to her, y’all. A stunningly beautiful role model who’s teeth may or may not just be one big tooth that wraps all the way around my mouth. Got that, y’all?”

Dating as a single mother is a whole other bag of meat. Before I would date just about anyone. What’s the worst that can happen? Now, I have to have “standards.” That makes it much, much more difficult. I am supposed to look out for dudes who just want to shoplift the pootie:


Ok but maybe I want to get my pootie shoplifted? Can I just put a big sign on the pootie? “Free?” “Free Pootie?” “Free Pootie To A Decent Someone Who Isn’t Looking For Anything Too Serious, Just Dinner And Occasional Genital Shoplifting?”

Fuck it. I signed up to OK Cupid. I know it’s skeezy but it’s free and I’m certainly not going to pay to market my pootie. So I signed up to see what would happen. What was even out there these days?

Apparently THIS is out there:Young

BJ 2Much, much younger guys who are all about hitting you over the head with their sexual escapades right from the get go. Because they’ve just started “exploring their sexuality” and now they think they’ve invented it. Hi, I’m John and BOOM BLOWJOBS FOR DUDES! Not that I’m not all about dudes blowing each other, because I am. It’s more just about leaving that until at least date number two.

And then there’s this:

Preg

Um. What?

And then there’s this gem from a 21-year old writing in white, me in blue:Fun 1

Fun 2Fun 3I call that one, “Dead Grandma Love.” <3 <3 <3

I seemed to be getting a lot of messages from much younger guys and was wondering where all the older men were. And then I found one from a lovely 62-year old:Old

Music 2Perhaps I could be the companion of his dreams. And after corresponding we could have discussions on the telephone and transactions in public which might eventual lead to sexual intercourse within the confines of a private residence. I guess I can’t really make fun of this one, as it’s generally a very nice form email, probably blasted out to everyone within a 60 mile radius. And I would like to see his collection of concert photos he’s taken over the years. He’s right. I am interested. I don’t know who Roger Hodgson is though, but I can’t judge because that’s how the last two 21-year olds probably felt when I talked about Soundgarden or something. I’m not sure where he got the “Lipstick Lover,” however, as I assure you it’s not my name. I wish I had thought of it, as it sounds more mysterious than “Covered In Baby Poop.” But the next dude made Grandpa look like a a viable alternative:

WI 1WI 2Where. To. Start. First of all, you look like one of The Blues Brothers, and not in a good way. Second of all… you know what? No. I’ve addressed this enough.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. If you need us, me and my dusty vagina will be on the couch with our box of Big Cheez-Its.

Please feel free to share your awesome OkC stories with me. Because I KNOW you have them. Please. NO REALLY, PLEASE LET ME KNOW I’M NOT ALONE IN THIS.

(Emily Maynard’s Perfect Image courtesy of abc.go.com/shows/the-bachelorette/)