Dating Over Thirty And a Follow Up To The Wrongest Story Ever

I have a friend who really wants to get married. She happily informed me on Sunday that she found out that the average age for a woman to get married is 29, so “she’s not too far behind the 8 ball”. I then had one of those moments where a thought pops into my head and tumbles out of my mouth by telling her that the number is probably that high because it’s based on the age of all brides and, since half of all marriages fail, that would include a lot of second marriages.

She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the luncheon.

As some of you may know, I was married once. And for those of you who just found out now, I’ll wait while you pick yourself up off of the floor since I agree that is shocking to consider me in such a role. Anyway, it was quite literally a lifetime ago, and unlike a lot of women I don’t feel the frantic need to be in a relationship again. That’s not to say that I’m actively opposed to the idea – I’m not one of those women screeching that she never wants to be in a relationship again while at the same time her head is swiveling in every direction for a Y chromosome – but rather, I’m okay with being on my own. I have however been told that I’m subconsciously avoiding a “real” relationship based on the caliber of guys that I’ve dated since my liberation. I can’t argue that they haven’t been a bunch of toads, but at least I ended it when I kissed them and they didn’t turn into a prince. I am. But apparently this is an avoidance tactic of my part.

However, I think I may have recently discovered the true reason why I’m not in a relationship ship, and this is thanks to a resurgence in popularity of the Probably (One of) The Wrongest Stories I Will Ever Tell You post. The first time I published that, the general consensus of comments agreed that it was indeed a very wrong story.  Since the second posting though? I have received a few messages and emails from women asking how this story is wrong. At first I thought that they were being facetious, but imagine my surprise when I discovered that a handful (HAHA!) of these women were serious. One woman told me, “I think that everyone has done this and they just won’t admit it.”

I replied with, “I have not.  But then I don’t date much.”

Her response was, “Seriously. You might want to think about it. When you find the right guy you’ll want to give it a try.”

And there you have it, peeps. This is why I will probably never be in a relationship: I can honestly say that I will never, ever find someone with whom I am so enamored that I will want to try holding his tally-whacker while he pees. In fact I will happily demonstrate my love by telling him that’s his rodeo and he can handle his own lasso.

But seriously, you all have some weird relationships – which is fine, but I just don’t want to know the details of them.

Consider No. 22 on my List of Shameless Shit, “Set a Boundary” done because I’ve just decided that the doorway to the bathroom is a sacred boundary that will not be crossed.

true love funny

The Time I Got a Brazilian Bikini Wax at a Jewish Community Center

I’ve wondered if my life is such a fucking dramedy because I’m a writer, or if I’m a writer because my life is such a fucking dramedy.  Granted some of it is a result of my own inanity, but then there are episodes where I am a complete innocent bystander.  I am seriously not joking when I’ve said that I’m a magnet for what-the-fuckery.  I can’t make this shit up.

For example, I was given a certificate for a Brazilian bikini wax at a local spa for Christmas. (Don’t ask, just go with it because that’s a story in itself.) I’d never heard of the spa where I was to undergo the aesthetic torture of having a stranger apply hot wax to my nether regions and then yank it off, but was assured that it was the best.  With summer finally here, I decided that it was time to use my certificate.  The first thing that I did was look to see if the spa had a website.  It did, but there wasn’t much to it except an overview of services and the address.  I happened to notice there was a “JCC” in the address, but ditzy me thought that this was a business suffix like an “LLC”.  It wasn’t until I typed the actual numerical address into Google maps that I realized that “JCC” was short for “Jewish Community Center”.

wtf, what the fuck, cat

I wasn’t even sure what a Jewish Community Center entailed, but I was pretty sure that it didn’t typically include chocha grooming.  Since I’m well-versed in life throwing me the perverse, I just rolled with it and called to make my appointment.  When I spoke to the owner of the spa, she verified that she was indeed located inside the JCC, but assured me that I didn’t have to be Jewish to enter the building.  Good thing since I planned on praying through the entire procedure.

The first thing that I have to say about this JCC is that it’s bloody huge.  Not only is it three buildings, but each of the buildings is massive.  I didn’t know which one held my destination, so I chose the biggest building which thankfully turned out to be correct.  After signing in as a guest, I was pointed in the general direction of where I would find the spa, but then I wandered the halls for ten minutes searching frantically and afraid that I was going to have to ask someone where to go. I finally stumbled in a panic through a doorway that I hoped was where I would just be waxed and not circumcised.  There was an elderly gentleman receptionist who assured me that I had found the correct place.  (Yeah it was a little weird to be asking an elderly Jewish man if I was in the right place to have my nonny-hoo-hoo primped, but again, I just rolled with it.)

As shocking as it might sound, the waxing itself wasn’t traumatic.  Aside from being aware that there were small children just a room away in the daycare center as I had my business all out there, it went off without a hitch, in fact, you can read about the actual waxing experience and what to expect if you want to have one done in my article “Making Your Brazilian Wax a Smooth Experience” at The Indie Chicks.

In other news, I’ve started edits on my book.  I pretty much rewrote chapter one the other day (long story as to why) and I have to say that it’s something that I’m proud of–like to the point where even if it’s turned down by every literary agent in the world, I’ll still love it and be willing to show it off.  My posts are going to remain a little sparser for a bit longer, but as you can read, a lot of the awesome that I’ve been mentioning in the past few months has been building momentum and I’m still adapting on keeping up with it.  It’s a lot of work–I pretty much live on my computer–but I love it.

The Shining at Victoria’s Secret

victoria's secret, VS credit card, VS VIP

You don’t get a black VS credit card without having a problem.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve a *ahem* problem with Victoria’s Secret, to the point where I can’t even part with their bags.  Luckily, I don’t like shopping and despise having to deal with large, roaming packs of humans, so I’m very unlikely to go into a mall where they are located.  Unfortunately there are times that I cannot avoid the wretched mall.  Like when I have to get false eyelash glue.

As soon as I walked into the mall, I felt a strange, almost other-wordly force pulling me into the Victoria’s Secret, and though it was in the opposite direction of my original destination, I found myself walking through their doors, dragging my confused mother behind me.  A saleswoman immediately appeared and handed me a shopping bag.

“Hello, Kat.” She smiled.

The fact that she knew my name should have been the tipoff that I was in very big fucking trouble, but I was too mesmerized by all of the lacy, pretty things surrounding me.

“Yes.  Yes, I’ve been away, but now I’m back,” I mumbled.

“It’s good to see you, Kat.  What will it be today?”

“Hair of the bra that bit me.”

“Demi with no padding. Of course.” Her eyes glowed as she gestured to a display in the center of the store.

“That’ll do ‘er,” I said shoving a woman with a baby carriage aside and vaulting over the makeup counter.

One way that I’ve been able to control my Victoria Secret spending is because I only really fancy the one style of bra, and they were running out of colours that I didn’t own for which I’m mildly ashamed but not really.

As I perused the drawer with my size, I saw one bra that was black under white lace that I loved, but given that I already had a white one under black lace at home, I was able to put it down.  I was about to make it out of Vicky’s without getting another bra! And then the saleswoman appeared in front of me.

“What about that one over there?” she asked pointing to the other side of the store.

I glanced over to the corner and amidst some PJs was an ice blue bra under silvery-white lace.

This was a problem.  I did not have an ice blue bra.  I have antique blue, but that’s a completely different similar blue, and besides mine is antique blue under antique blue lace, not under silvery-white lace! I could only pray that they wouldn’t have it in my weird size.

The saleswoman reached into the rack and pulled out the correct size, and then handed me the piece of Kat-Kryptonite.

“How did you know what size I wear?” I asked her.

“I should know, Kat, I’ve always been here.  Just as you have always been the caretaker…of these bras,” she replied.

I looked to my mother for help, but the saleswoman was obviously working her evil mind meddling on her because she just nodded her head with a glazed look in her hazel eyes.

“I think we have the bottoms, too.  Do you want to see them?” the saleswoman continued.

“No!” I screamed out loud. ‘Yes!’ I screamed in my head.

“Oh,” the saleswoman said sadly, “we only have one pair, and it’s too big for you.”

The bottoms were not too big for me, in fact they were my size, but using her telepathic power, the saleswoman knew that I feel that my ass is too big and that this last bit of flattery would be the thing to send me over to the edge.

gollum

Once again VS turned me into Gollum.

“Give them to me!” I demanded. “Give me the Precious!”

“We also have the matching gar-” she started.

I stuck my fingers in my ears and began humming The Macarena, but then I heard the woman’s voice finish in my head, ‘-ter, you know.

“Red rum!” my mother suddenly yelled.

“You are so right, Mumma!  We need to get out of here right now!  I mean, like, right after I pay for the Precious!” I turned to the saleswoman. “So how’s my credit in this joint, anyway?”

“Your credit is fine, Kat,” the woman said smiling.

“That’s swell.  I always liked you,” I told the woman as she took me to a register and checked me out.

“Come and see us again soon, Kat,” she told me as my mother and I began our escape. “Come and see us and stay forever…and ever…and ever.”

“I am never going in that store again!” I declared once Mumma and I were safely in the car.

But I know that I will.

The semi-annual sale is only a few months away.

**Today’s zombie survival tip is to not go to the mall à la Romero’s Dawn of The Dead.  As you can see the place is already corrupt.