[Warning:  This post will come across as bitchy, catty, snarky, and, some will think, just plain mean.  Too fucking bad.  It's my blog and I'll do what I want with it.  Some people are so dumb they don't even know they're being made fun of.  Yes, I pick on those less fortunate than myself.

This is the second time writing this because fucking WordPress signed me the fuck out and didn't let me save the draft.  Consequently, I'm a wee bit pissed off.  That means it might be even bitchier than I originally envisioned.]

I recently received a message on OkCupid, “Nice attitdue and mouth at the bottom. Loved your profile till then. Omg some people actually own a car and might dribe the 20 minutes too you.”

He didn’t seem to like the fact that the final paragraph of my profile is written in all caps and that it says – for the third time in the profile – that I have no interest in anyone who doesn’t live in the city of Chicago, even if he has a car and is willing to come to me.  Not that I need to justify my desires, but if a guy lives in the burbs where the fuck are we supposed to fuck, if we want to fuck?  I’m sure as shit not going to the burbs.  Chicago has great public transportation so there’s no good reason to drive in the city.  And the environment and all that.

Even if the guy wasn’t on about a car, he had misspelled four words in three sentences including using the wrong to/too/two.  It’s in my fucking profile that spelling, grammar, and punctuation matter to me.  Many have complained that those things are unimportant, that the chemistry between the people is what matters.  That’s true, but I’ve been doing this long enough to know that I won’t have any chemistry with someone who doesn’t know the difference between “til” and “till.”  I suppose all his misspellings could be attributed to typos – he was so angry at seeing that he didn’t qualify for me that he was typing really hard and really fast, mixing up the letters in “attitude,” typing too many letters in “till” and “too,” and missing the V for the B in “drive.”  If that’s the case, then he’s careless, something to which I am not attracted.

I’m also not attracted to pointless lashing out.  He saw that we weren’t a match but instead of moving on he felt the need to send his carefully worded message.  I had one for him as well, “So you went out of your way to send me a misspelled message because you like your car? I would think that with all the entertaining options out there you’d have something better to do.”

That would have been that, but he couldn’t let it go so he sent another message, “And your still complaining[.]“  That’s it, motherfucker.  I was being nice before, but then he sent me a message without the courtesy of a fucking period (or the correct your/you’re).

“And you still don’t know how to spell. Lame shithead.”

Then I took a look at his profile.  So many gems all in one place!

This is his main profile picture.  The quality is astounding!

In the “details” section he indicated that he was a basic white guy with a college education.  That, and that he claimed to be fluent in English both surprised me, but I guess education isn’t what it used to be.

He had recently updated his profile including wishing readers a Merry Christmas, and asking for suggestions on how to have better luck on OkCupid.  Because I’m all generous and shit I decided to read the rest of the profile so I could give him some advice.

Under “What I’m doing with my life”:

I am tired, so many projects so little time.. I just redid my whole front of my truck,I was all over the road before this. N Good for another 300k

I try to eat healthy as much as possible but not a freak about it. Still need my coke. Sorry folks ya need some taste aka fat. No fat = no taste.

I walk often and been doing that since I was a kid. Always to this day walk around my neighborhood almost everyday. Sundays at the flea market much walk 2 – 4 miles.

I have some nice plants in my back yard that came with the house and trying to improve upon every year. My butterfly bush is so big and flowery should see all the butterflies I get. Also threw some tomatoes out last year in the yard for the animals ( as I love animals even find spiders in my house and let them outside instead of squashing )and some how they sprouted plants this year. Cool

Of course it’s just plain poorly written.  Though he indicated that he never did drugs, I guess he’s unwilling to consider his daily cocaine habit; he needs it so it must be medicine.  My absolute favorite – every time I read it I laugh out loud, literally – is “I walk often and have been doing that since I was a kid.”  Really, you’ve been walking since you learned how to walk? How amazing.  Basically, the guy just seems really fucking boring, and not too smart.

He’s “really good at”:

Shooting stick, golf, tennis, bowling, air hockey, darts, computers and restoring older cars. Love riding Quads Chevelle. Can fix almost anything and have the second largest tool box sears makes to prove that. It is cheaper to do the job and buy the tools to do it then have it done. When you buy good tools they last forever too. I have my dads tools and maybe some of his dads. Got some big tools and always wanting bigger ones. Craftsman tools and Chevy cars / trucks.

Real men don’t need instructions. (seen that one a T-Shirt at Sears and loved it fits me well)

Interesting facts:

I haven’t had a credit card in 10 years.
I haven’t had a full time job in 10 years or so.
I have 5 college degrees and two minors.
Associates in Applied Science
Associates in Arts
Associates in Computer Science
Bachelors in Computer Science with Certificate in Information Security
Bachelors in Interdisciplinary Studies with Minor in Management Information Systems

I have two certifications

Comp Tia A Plus
Comp Tia Security

I have many cars and trucks.
I have never broken a bone.
I never owned a new car or new lawnmower
I can fix almost anything

My last few cars and trucks were under $500 (my truck I currently drive has over 288k and not scared to take it anywhere. Love big tires and the noise they make down the road.).

I think he wants bigger tools because he wants a bigger tool in his pants.  Mostly though the guy is a tool.  Did he realize he was writing his profile to attract potential sex partners?  Because it reads like he’s looking for a buddy.  And he’s not even ambitious: Why doesn’t he have Sears’ largest tool box?

The guy may have five college degrees, but the guy is still a ‘tard.  An associate degree is, in effect cancelled out by a bachelors degree.  There’s no point in him mentioning the lower degrees after he earned his higher ones.  As the Viking said, “It’s like saying he completed a four year program, as well as the first two years of that program.”  (Or something like that, I wasn’t recording him.)  I’m surprised he didn’t mention that he graduated from junior high and high school, or that he walked to school.

The Viking assured me that all the degrees and certificates make the guy one of those annoying IT guys you might have at your office, not a programmer or anything that would allow him to actually create things.

He has no clue what people first notice about him but guesses it’s his blue eyes.  How the fuck can anyone tell what color his eyes are when he posts pictures like this?  My guess is that no one notices him at all.

He mostly listens to country music and was nice enough to provide a link to a play list.  Toby Keith, Garth Brooks, Lonestar, Keith Urban, and even Johnny Cash.  I wonder if he knows that “Hurt” was not originally Johnny’s.  He likes 80s and 90s music.  Way to go out there and expand beyond what you listened to on the radio when you were a kid, buddy.

Like CSI shows, some sci fi and muscle car and 4 x 4 shows on Spike on Sat and Sun mornings.

Mexican and ItalianLike Pizzera Unio, Cheesecake Factory, Cracker Barrel and Northwoods.

A good home cooked pot roast w mashed potatoes is the bomb or even using the grill.

This guy is boring as shit.  Why did he think we’d get along?!  His most heinous crime is his taste in restaurants.  Yep, I’m a food snob, which is one of the many reasons I don’t like the burbs, where the choices seem to be limited to shitty chain restaurants.  At least he can cook, and even use a grill.

I may focus on sex a lot, but isn’t the point of meeting someone via OkCupid to eventually have sex?  So I appreciate it when a guy’s profile says one of the six things he couldn’t do without is sex or women, or some combination thereof.  Our cowboy, here, listed only five things, three of them being modes of transportation.  The other two were computer and cats.  Just.  So.  Fucking.  Boring.

He spends “a lot of time thinking about” getting a masters, but what seems to be holding him up is that he’ll have to shell out about a grand for GMAT prep classes because he had a low GPA.  Told you he was a dummy.

Then I began to feel kind of sorry for the guy because he said he spends a lot of time thinking about whether he’ll “find the one” for him, and he admits he’s no good at approaching women (though he wrote “woman”) “or understanding any of them.”  Poor, sad, lonely, dumb, bad food eating, boring guy.  I get the idea that maybe Mom wasn’t around.  He definitely never had sisters.  But surely by the time a person is 37 he’ll have figured out how to talk to the objects of his affection.  From his messages to me I think he’s still in the elementary school stage of hitting girls and running away when he likes them.  Yet he posted not one, but two, photos out of which he’s cut a woman.  Yep, it’s true that he doesn’t understand women, or how not to be tacky.  I especially like that he took the time to cut out the woman (or women) but then didn’t bother to crop the rest of the photo.  This guy’s no visual artist.

I still have no clue why he bothered to get to the bottom of my profile considering he’s looking for women who are single.  It’s probably that he’s dumb and doesn’t know OkCupid’s difference between “single” and “available,” something I’ve had to explain to a couple of guys.

I no longer felt pity for him when I read his “you should message me if” section:

Not looking for penpals. If you need more then a month of back and forth daily emails and not ready to get past the first meeting it will not work.Please send a personal emailnot something like “we have lots in common” . Tell me what made you reply, Else I know you didn’t read my profile.Your in good shape, not scared to get dirty and have no kids.

Live in the area not hours away unless its STL or AZ. .Must have a full picture not just your head. Must not be scared to meet. ;)Side note : If I save you as a favorite, its cause we like your profile but getting tired of writing long personals emails only to be deleted and sometimes never read just deleted. Yet you woman cant find a good man. So feel free to say hey.Thanks so much

Every fucking grammar, spelling, and punctuation mistake made me hate him more.  And his demands made me know that he’s a fucking ridiculous loner who probably has never had an adult relationship.

And then I saw why he got to the end of my profile, “not scared to get dirty.”  He saw that I listed myself as bisexual and thought I must be “dirty.”  While I am quite dirty, not every person who considers herself bisexual wants threesomes and so on.  Or maybe he meant he wanted someone to help fix things with him, who wouldn’t fuss when she got dirt under her natural (he hates fakes) fingernails.  When his writing is so shitty it’s no wonder it’s not clear what the fuck his version of “dirty” means.

That he’s making such demands, they must be in shape and child-free, when he’s not provided that information himself just screams how clueless he is.  Inexplicably he makes an exception to his rule that the lady should be close geographically with the city of Seattle and the state of Arizona.  Huh?

I like how he thinks he knows what any of the women to whom he writes does with his messages.  How the fuck would he know if the messages are 1) read, 2) deleted, or 3) deleted prior to reading?  Since it takes him so much brain power to compose messages, he’s upset that they don’t get responses.  I’m not the only one who cares about grammar, etc.

I like how he switched to the royal “we;” I’m sure he knows why he did it.  “Yet you woman can’t find a good man.”  No, she (cause he must be talking to a single woman) just finds you not a good man.

Notice that he’s not smiling with teeth in any of these photos?  That’s a sure sign of some fucked up teeth.  At least he knows enough to hide ‘em.

I was still nice enough to give him some advice: “You’re not having any luck on OkC b/c your profile makes you seem dumb and boring. Just a little tip for you. You’re welcome. “Coke” is the drink, “coke” is the drug.”  Then I blocked him.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I was recently asked this.  By a guy who wants to meet me.  Based on reading Random Rim Jobs.

Men really are clueless.  The worst that could happen?  I could be raped.  I could be killed.  I could be tortured.  I could be maimed.  I could be scared.  I could be terrorized.  There’s a lot that’s not good that could happen to me, and all women, any time we leave the house.  Men seem to easily forget this, if, that is, they ever knew it in the first place.

Men get to walk around in a privileged bubble.  That’s fine.  I don’t mind being a woman, and I don’t want to be a man, but there are some things that women have to think about that don’t even occur to men.  Women have to be always diligent; we cannot relax when we leave our homes.  Some women can’t relax in their homes.

So, guys, don’t ask a woman you want to meet because she writes about sex what the worst thing that could happen is.  It’s pretty fucking bad.  Not for you, but for her.  Think of her and not your cock.

Why would a woman, even if she does write about sex, want to meet you?  Since you now know that she is always concerned that she could be victimized in some way, what can you do to demonstrate you are not the victimizing type?  Just saying you want to meet to see if you want to fuck is not it.

Even if she does write about sex does not mean she wants to have sex with you.  Writing about sex, even as she does, does not indicate she is indiscriminate; one cock is not the same as all others.  Those cocks are attached to people who have brains and thoughts and she likes getting to know a guy she fucks, even if she’s fucking him casually.

Sure, contact me if you think you want to meet me, but have more to say than that.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

On my fifth wedding anniversary my then-husband and I went to a very fancy restaurant for dinner.  The restaurant’s chef had been lauded in all the local and national food magazines and by word-of-mouth.  Part of that word-of-mouth was from a friend of ours (Well, mine now that we’re out the other end.) who had recently completed culinary school and who was working as a pastry chef in said fancy restaurant.  The meal wasn’t going to be inexpensive but it was our anniversary so we decided to go for not only the chef’s tasting menu but also the wine parings with each of the eight or so courses.

We dressed up.  I wore a vintage dress that was figure-flattering.  The Ex wore a button-down shirt and a tie and jacket – the same combination thereof he had worn to our wedding.  The jacket was still somewhat ill fitting, but not much can be expected from the young men’s equivalent of Express when pressed for time and money.

First we had a drink at the bar and then we were shown to our table in the plushly carpeted, heavy curtained, dimly lit room.  Once we settled into our seats we were brought a bottle of champagne along with a note.  The friend who worked at the restaurant – who was off that night – and his partner – with whom I’d gone to law school – had arranged for the champagne as an anniversary present, which was incredibly sweet.

With champagne flutes in hand our wait staff went to work telling us about our meals.  Though we had both ordered the chef’s tasting menu, our meals would be different from one another’s, as would our wine, since it was paired with our particular dishes.  I was very exited, and I liked that we would have the opportunity to taste twice as many dishes and wines since we could share.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened – if it was before the first course or between the first and second courses – but at the time there was no food on the table.  We were sipping our champagne.  We toasted.  We smiled.  He got a serious look on his face.

I don’t know what I expected.  I know I hoped for something along the lines of, “I hope we have five more wonderful years together,” or some other clichè bullshit.  If we weren’t blissfully married – and we were not, after all we’d been married for five years – then I thought the reason for the extravagant anniversary dinner was to acknowledge that there had been some good and some bad in the prior five years and to move forward in a positive fashion.

My then-husband and I had very different ideas of what it was to move forward in a positive fashion.  His idea was not to start anew with hope.  Or maybe he did think he was being hopeful when he said, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”  Then he said some other things that probably related to having once been so happy to be with me and those feelings fading over the years and wanting a fresh start, or something like that.

Truthfully, I didn’t hear much of anything beyond, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you,” and I’m not sure who at the receiving end of that sentence would.  I calmly placed my napkin on the table, got up, and walked away.

I went to the bathroom where I thought about how fucking much the meal was costing us – a meal that we couldn’t afford and that we wouldn’t have planned except for the “special” occasion that he ruined with his shitty timing – and how I wasn’t about to let the insensitive idiot put that money to waste.  I freshened up and returned to the table.

He told me he thought I had left.  Suddenly he was concerned about my feelings.  The rest of the several courses were tasty but icy, at least on my part.  We did not taste each other’s courses – I had no interest in sharing with him nor in asking him to share with me.

Since we had wine with each course, by the end of the meal I felt almost happy.  Well, my belly was full and my mind was intoxicated, both things that can feel like “happy” to someone who had no clue what she was feeling.  Was I supposed to “make” my husband fall in love with me again?  Life isn’t some fucking lame romantic comedy about how a couple can find love again.

So because I felt “happy” and because my then-husband didn’t want to be alone with me and hadn’t for some time – when we were home there was television and, except for that dinner, when we were out it was with a group – I agreed to go with him to meet up with some friends.  At a dive bar.  In the Tenderloin.

We had just dropped over $500 on what was supposed to be a romantic anniversary dinner but instead of spending some quality time together, he wanted to be around other people.  Even after we broke up he wouldn’t fucking admit that we did so much socializing for the last few years of our relationship so we didn’t have to deal one-on-one with each other.

Sure, we were close to the Tenderloin so it would be easy to take a walk, or to be fancy and hop in a cab considering our attire, to hang out with some mutual friends.  (“Friends” with whom I’ve had little to no contact since the final breakup.)  And it was our anniversary so I didn’t want to go home alone, something I would have had to do since he was set on going out.  So we went to the kind of Tenderloin dive bar that opens at 6am and has the kind of regulars that show up upon opening – daily.

I honestly don’t remember if it was that anniversary or the next one, or the next one, that a group of us ended up at our place after hours.  I remember anniversary toasts from our friends.  I remember a lot of drinking.  I remember a lot of years of avoiding any difficult conversations by being too busy, by there being too many people around, by drinking too much, by wanting to enjoy a fucking anniversary meal (which is not the place or time for a difficult conversation, something my dolt of an ex-husband probably still doesn’t realize).

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

12:31 P.M.

I would rather not go to work ’cause it’s such a nice day.  I feel like calling in sick so I can lay out.  But I can never lay out again unless I want to look old before my time.  Why does Henry think it’s alright not to call me during the week?  We’re supposed to do something Saturday but I’m not holding my breath, just hoping.  I don’t know what to wear.  I have to leave soon.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "Baby's First Chicago Thanksgiving (3)."]

Despite being a seasoned cook and knowing that the oven’s heat was significantly compromised every time the oven door opened, I didn’t have much of a choice.  The cornbread for the dressing had to be dried out; the acorn squash had to be roasted.

Soon our other guests arrived.  They brought a tomatillo gaszapacho and a pumpkin cheesecake along with some wine.  Folks, the proper thing to do when going over to someone’s house for a meal, be it Thanksgiving dinner or lunch, is to bring something for the host.  You can look that shit up on etiquette websites if you don’t believe me.

I put all the guests to work.  They offered and considering I felt kind of pressed for time I accepted.  One guest cut up the sage for the dressing – after I showed him how.  One guest washed and peeled the veggies for the salad.  She had offered to help but then seemed to want to get out of it but I didn’t let her; I needed hands working if we were to have a full meal.  The Viking did most of the vegetable deconstruction for both the dressing and the salad.

The guests, despite having a selection of snacks available to them, were getting restless – and hungry – so as soon as the salad was ready everyone began picking at it.  I was worried no one would like the salad, which consisted of very thinly sliced raw root vegetables (thanks to the Viking and his mandoline) over arugula with a hazelnut dressing, but they were all about it.  So much about it, in fact, that I replenished the platter o’ salad and all of it was gobbled up.  They also gobbled up most of the acorn squash.  I was surprised everyone was so into the vegetables, but I supposed they didn’t have a choice since the turkey was still in the oven.  We had gaszpacho to eat, too, so we had some of that and declared it quite tasty.

We were having fun socializing but I was getting worried.  I had put a temperature probe in the turkey so I was watching that, not the time, to determine doneness.  The thickest part of that thigh was not cooking nearly as fast as I had hoped.  Sure, the oven was opened a bit in the beginning, but since I took out the squash I left the door shut.  Still, it was cooking slow as shit.  What I didn’t realize until a couple of days later when I was still lamenting my poor timing of the meal, was that all the turkeys I had cooked before this year were done in a convection oven.  That hot blowing air really does make a difference so if you’re a roaster and considering investing in an oven, I suggest a convection-capable model.  The turkey ended up taking about two hours longer than I had expected.

The guests were very nice, and by that point it’s not like they could have found a decent Thanksgiving meal elsewhere, and claimed they weren’t bothered by having to wait so fucking long for the turkey.  The Viking said it was kind of fun to hear my frequent declarations of the turkey’s interior temperature.

When the turkey was finally up to temperature I pulled it out of the oven and put the turkey on its rack under foil to rest.  The roasting pan went over two burners and one of the guests endeavored to make the gravy.  I think he was really hungry and wanted to get on with it already.  After a tasting the gravy was declared very salty.  Shit.  Then someone pointed to the blender.  The blender – which had been taking up space on the counter since the guests arrived – was about a third full of a red sauce.  Duh!  The red sauce was a bunch of reconstituted dried chilies blended up to be added to the gravy, to make it an ancho chili gravy.  Once that was stirred into the contents of roasting pan, the gravy was not too salty and it was downright tasty.

Finally, we could eat! The six of us ate less than a breast’s worth of meat on the 14.5 lb turkey, but I had designs for leftovers anyway.  Some were going to go home with the guests.  We had saved some very sturdy take-out containers from previous meals that would be perfect vessels for reheating.  One of the guest helped me fill the containers.  Well, “fill.”  By that time I’d had quite a bit of wine and didn’t fully realize that my helper was having me put about a snack’s worth of food in each of the containers; I had meant to be much more generous.

There was dessert, the brought pumpkin cheesecake and ancho-chili crème brûlée that the Viking had made.  Overall it was a pretty satisfying meal, if a bit disjointed due to my timing issues.  Maybe you’re interested in seeing what the food looked like, or perhaps the recipes.  Go ahead and take a look at the Viking’s food blog for all the details.

And the final (very minor) disaster of the day occurred when we were running the dishwasher.  In my experience dishwashers are self-contained, keeping the water spraying within behind a locked door.  Not that day.  That day the dishwasher spit out a bunch of hot, dirty water all over the floor.  While I removed my socks, junker towels (the ones that aren’t suitable for company) were retrieved, and we spent the rest of the evening trying to ignore the huge mess in the kitchen.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "Baby's First Chicago Thanksgiving (1)."]

So it was fortuitous that I saw a Groupon for a home theater system.  It was affordable, had surround sound, and I didn’t have to do any research?  I wanted it.  The Viking was in San Francisco at the time so I texted him the info and asked him what he thought about just getting it.  His response was that it was a good brand and that we needed something.  Exactly.  I ordered it.

It arrived the afternoon of the night the Viking got home from San Francisco.  The night was taken up with getting reacquainted; we hadn’t spent so long apart from each other since he moved in with me, almost two years ago.

The next day, while I was fussing with dinner related household doings, the Viking installed the new system.  I helped a little – I didn’t just boss him around – but he did the hard work.  Thankfully, he didn’t have to re speaker wire the whole living room; the new speaker wire (with proprietary attachments to the amplifier) was simply attached to the old speaker wire with electrical tape (the Viking insisted on it), the new speakers placed, and everything plugged in.

The new subwoofer was significantly smaller than the old one and could fit on the shelf where the old amplifier had lived.  The new amplifier was thinner, but wider, than the old one, so its home would be next to the AppleTV on a shelf that was tall enough to fit about four DVD boxes stacked on their sides.  Even the speakers were smaller.

The sound, however, was much larger and clearer.  The Viking put on one of the Harry Potters and it sounded all around us like there was magic going on (I guess).  Music sounded good too.  The Netflix was about as good as it was via Wii, but now we had the option to access it two different ways.

With the home theater system – what I still think of as a stereo because I’m old – in place and working well, there was cooking to do.  I made the achiote paste.  “Paste,” that is.  I followed a recipe from the internet and I didn’t test it out first, which was a mistake, of course.  The problem with sites like Epicurious is that they don’t tend to address “ethnic” foods, leaving the recipes for those to lesser-tested and -regarded food blogs and such.  The “paste,” just three tablespoons of which I was to add to butter, was more of a liquid with sediment.  When it was all stirred up it was tasty, and the next day it worked into butter in a reasonable manner (with the help of an electric hand mixer).

The Viking made crème brûlée, with a twist, it was chocholate-ancho.  Less than a week before the Viking moved in with me he had a dinner party at his place and served crème brûlée for dessert so I knew he’d be up for the task.  Also, he hadn’t used his fun little kitchen torch for a long time.

I felt like I was pretty much on top of things.  Well, I thought it’d be a good idea to get the dressing assembled, but that was no big deal, I thought.  I had already made the cornbread itself, which was most of the work, right?  Uh, no.  I realized the next day that the dressing required a whole lot of chopping as well as some soaking.  When using dried chilies, most of the time they need to be reconstituted in hot water for about a half an hour.  I should have prepped the dressing and left it in the baking dish in the fridge overnight.  There was plenty of room since I was brining the turkey on the back porch.

That’s right, if you had broken into my yard and gone to my porch you could have stolen a 14.5 pound organic turkey in a chili-rich brine.  I’m glad you didn’t steal it because that would have ruined my day, and probably some other folk’s day as well.  I suppose if it went to feed some people who would otherwise be turkey-free then it might have made their day and it all would have come out in the wash.

The turkey was brining in a turkey bag inside an ice chest on the back porch and we were brining ourselves.  Well, I was.  I had a few drinks that night whilst watching a DVD – in the living room, something we hadn’t done since we moved in to our Chicago place.

I didn’t rise exceptionally early on Thursday ….

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

8:59P.M.

We had a nice time.  I cooked stuffed shells and we also had French bread and salad.  I made a cheesecake but forgot to give any to Henry.  I just had some, however, and it was quite good.  I wasn’t uncomfortable at all, it felt really nice.  He finally brought me my t-shirt – I’m a true fan now.  After we ate, we had sex, and then we cuddled.  It was nice and romantic.  His-uh-well, it wasn’t my imagination, it does go the wrong way.  But who cares, it doesn’t matter to me.  It still works.  And the rest of him has its merits too.  I asked him what purpose I serve for him.  He said, “You keep me sane.”  Oh god, where have I heard that before?  That’s just what I need.  Or actually not what I need ’cause I probably don’t need it but I want it.  So I asked what he likes about me.  He likes the way I think – that I’m so open minded.  And he likes it when I touch him.  I wanted to hear about my looks so I asked if he thought I was a dog.  He told me not to be stupid but sill didn’t give me any compliments though I did like the other ones.  Oh, and he told me that Blanca told him that Bill was scared at first too.  He’s afraid of missing out on his friends.  But I don’t think I ever let on that I wanted to monopolize his time and I said as much.  I told him I’d like to go out more and it doesn’t necessarily have to cost money.  why is it that I always to tell the person I’m having sex with that I love them?  Oh well he called to say good night and I asked what he meant about the sane thing.  I make him feel comfortable; he can be himself around me.  That’s so wonderful.  He does need me.  I forgot to ask him to call me his little girl.  I love his voice and his face.  He looks so cute when he smiles.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Camping with my mother.  Things keep going wrong.  She wants to do stuff that she/we can’t.  I fall and my sunglasses break.  I’m mad and frustrated because she won’t/can’t understand/listen.

Trying to do laundry at the campground but all the dryers are taken.  I call the women who’ve jumped ahead in the laundry line cunts.  They freak out over a word.  I grab my stuff and leave.  By that time my other family has shown – Dad, [Step-Mother], [Step-Sister], her kids, etc.  Everyone being friendly.  I get to my car/truck at the campsite and there are children in/on it.  A woman who’s not watching her kids because she’s busy chatting is close by but doesn’t stop her kids from getting on my car and going through my stuff.  She says that’s their site now.  I say I’m going to move my car.  I see that the brats have gotten into my stuff and eaten my candy.  I see the kids with wads of my candy in their mouths.  The mom still does nothing.  I yell at the kids to stay the fuck away from me.  One with a mouthful of candy stares at me slack jawed when I tell her to fuck off.  The mom still does nothing, thinking it’s no big deal.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

10:15 A.M.

Why doesn’t anyone call me?  The phone has not rung since night before last.  The rain just keep coming.  I want to spend a rainy day in bed with Henry.  The sound of the rain outside and the warm body next to me inside.  It’s so dark in here, like a cave.  School was alright – the class is going to be easy and Thursday’s class is taught by the same teacher so there won’t be much difference.  It’s raining so damn hard.  I want to either take Henry out to dinner or cook for him and I want him to be my Valentine.  I haven’t asked yet so I don’t know if he’s spoken for so I’d better get my ass in gear.  Wouldn’t it be cute to give him a card over dinner?  I want to give him a present but he’s hard to shop for.  Something personal but what?  He doesn’t really war jewelry, I don’t think clothes are close enough, what else?  The only thing I’ve thought of so far is a Zippo lighter with his initials on it.  But still it doesn’t seem right.  God, his birthday is over a moth away and I’m already stressed.  If I ask now, wil he suspect?  Probably, he’s not stupid.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Yeah, I know I said (more than once I think) I was done with these but they’re just too much fun.  Yes, I have fun being snarky.  But I promise I’m not mean.  Well, not to them, just about them, here.  This is the equivalent of talking behind someone’s back but these guys aren’t my friends so it’s ok.  It’s the equivalent of commenting on a stranger’s outfit, or something like that.

Hi, I like your profile and think you are absolutely gorgeous. And (from what I can read) I think we are looking for the same thing. I’m not into games, but require discretion–hence why i don’t have a profile picture–but if you provide me with an email then i’ll send some pictures so that you can have a look and see if i’m your type. In short, i’m a young, but mature, sporty guy who is (and looks) scandinavian. Hope to hear from you, and explore the prospect of having mutually beneficial fun together. take care, Mark.

This one isn’t horrible, but I take issue with people who are ashamed to post a reasonable profile with photos.  It’s fucking 2011, not 1994; people use the Internet for all sorts of things now.  If the guy didn’t want his coworkers – or, more likely, wife – knowing he had an OkCupid account to look for pussy he could have indicated he was looking for friends and then disclosed fully if someone seemed receptive to fucking.  Also, I don’t like having to do the work – I use OkCupid because it makes it easier to see and meet people.

i’m not sure but your hostility could be a need to be properly laid

I let this character know that I get laid plenty, by multiple people.  And I do; I’m not wanting for a proper laying.

Wonder why you’re single..hmmmm. cunt much?

I let this character know that I was not single.  There my profile was just sitting there not harming anyone and he made a point of being a nasty asshole to me.  I didn’t write my profile at him so there’s no good reason he took it so damn personally.  Maybe he was having a bad day.

Hi there how’s my future wifey doing besides gorgeous? :-)

This is just fucking gross.  I’m not sure there’s anyone who would appreciate such a come-on, but because I’m sensitive to anything having to do with marriage, I found it downright horrible.  I felt it necessary to let him know that his opening line and his profile sucked.

Would you be interested in going out with my gf and I? She has never been with a woman but wants to experience that. Her idea was to have the women fool around why I watch and then maybe I can join in later. She is 5’9″ 137 lbs. Dark hair and brown eyes. We are both professionals. I am sorry if this offended you.

This is not even close to the first time I’ve gotten a suggestive message that then apologized for being suggestive.  It’s lame.  My profile indicates I’m bisexual, open to casual sex, and interested in couples so there would be no reason to apologize for suggesting casual sex with a heterosexual couple.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.