Is English Your Second Language - Dating Part III

Is English your second language?  In the grimy underworld of online dating, this seems to be the question I want to begin most messages with.  I'm fine if it is your second language. Let a bitch know so I don't think you dropped out in the 3rd grade and now you're out in the world messaging me pretending to be a grown ass man with a job & shit.  

Being a user of online dating services numerous times over the last 7 years I've noticed that some serious fuckery occurs.  Not just the members are guilty of said fuckery.  The sites blow ass chunks too. These dating sites need to take a lesson from Fuckerburg and get their shit together.  It can't be that hard.  Facebook is a free site and and those bitches know the last time I pooped and what kind of toilet paper I used because you can be damn sure there's ad for it the second I log on.  The only thing these sites have in common with Facebook is their nonstop need to get my money.  Denied.

The sites

A perfect example dating website shenanigans.  My first day back on display, I go directly to my matches because I'm all excited and shit because the man of dreams is going to be waiting for me. Negative.  You know who was waiting in my matches?  My next door neighbor (an ex meth dealer who was released from a federal penitentiary two years ago, and has seen me naked a million times because I don't close my curtains - zero fucks given here), a dude I hang out with every Friday night (for years), my ex best friend's brother-in-law (who I know well enough to have spent 9 days in Alaska with), my first Florida boyfriend's little brother (I've known him since he was 12 and still know him as an adult because he might be a bar whore), and a guy I've known for years (and cannot fucking stand). It was like Facebook's "People you might know".  I already know all those people and I have zero interest in them.  Zero.  So much for meeting new people, shitty dating website.  I wanted to just give up immediately because seriously, this kind of bullshit makes my face squinch up. I'm not attractive with a squinchy face. Trust me.

These sites also get off on subjecting its members to horrible quizzes.  They are tedious, annoying, and by the time I finished with just 2 of them (there are 5 on this particular site) I wanted to stab every person on the site.  Seriously, if the fucking men and women on these sites can't even bother to read the paragraph I so painstakingly typed up to describe my bad self, I'm pretty fucking certain they aren't reading the 3 page long quiz results to see if we are a personality match.  Get off my tip with your tests, dating site.

The members

Please, please read my list of my Dating Profile Dont's by clicking HERE after you finish this post. In addition to that list, I've found some new shit that bunches my thong (and it's hard to bunch a thong). Men with the profile pic of them in bed.  You know, the head on the pillow looking all dreamy?  So not.  They do not look dreamy.  They look downright scary.  Scary like they have bitches tied up in the basement.  I'm not sure the reasoning behind this particular pose but if you know anybody who's particularly fond of it? Tell them to fuck off for me.

The profile "about me" section is not meant for 1 line of text that says: "I'll fill this out later" or "If you want to know, ask me" (and about 75% of profiles state one of those).  If I wanted to ask you shit, I'd be at the bar asking not trolling a goddamn website, BITCH (I totally shook my head like a black girl while I typed that - picture it).  The best fucking thing about a dating website is that you have time to properly describe yourself without downing 7 vodka drinks like at the bar.  For fuck sake, handle that shit.

Every guy on the site cannot have the tag line "Looking for a Good Woman (usually spelled women)".  There needs to be a limit on tag line usage.  Like email addresses.  There can be only one, motherfucker.  Sites, do your damn job.  Good woman, my ass.

And last but so not least - This is my 3rd attempt to date via the internets.  There are currently 27 men on this particular site that I have talked to at least once since the first time I did this shit 7 years ago. Each and every one of these 27 men has the same profile picture as they did then.

Every.  Single. One.  

Makes ya' think, don't it? 



PPB aka the Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, currently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 13 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.

Sad Frown Vodka Face

Sad Frown Vodka Face.  I have this.  I have this a lot. Not because vodka makes me sad but because people make me sad. There are bad people in my life who think my love of vodka should be integrated with a love of people. Specifically bar people.  These lousy fucks are insisting that I should go to a bar and pay triple the price for my delicious vodka and wear pants while I participate in complete fuckery.  This is all wrong.  This is not how I do it.  This is not how I do it at all and here's the fuck why:

I work with people all day long.  Co-workers.  Customers.  All goddamn day I manage to hide my disdain for the human race.  I'm attentive, understanding, and downright fucking pleasant. Everybody is under the impression that I'm fanfuckingtastic.  I hate them.  They don't get me.  I'm sarcastic and witty.  People aren't.  This is fine. I don't hate them because they don't get me.  I hate them because they aren't me.  I like me.  I'm comfortable with me.  Me gets me.  When I take me home after a long day at work we have a great time.  My patience for the outside world ends promptly at 6 pm.  And then...it doesn't.  In addition to being a lover a vodka and a hater of people, I am a parent and that shit means there are kid things to tend to: parents, teachers, assemblies in the middle school gym, and the absolute worst - other kids.  I shoot the fuck outta my comfort zone each and every day.  Coping with the minutiae of every day life wears my ass out.

I have serious anxiety.  I shoveled my meds in like a good girl, hand over fist, for years.  Last year, I quit.  The zombie life wasn't fun anymore.  I needed to feel things again.  I feel eleventy-million times better but I FEEL THINGS AGAIN.  I am acutely aware of my emotions.  No - I don't understand them - that would be crazy.  I'm just aware of them. Anxiety and the unknown are a bad mix.  People = unknown.  I cannot predict what people, specifically strangers, will throw my way.  At work I'm paid to deal with these situations.  At home, not so much.  For the safety of myself and others, I tend to take the most familiar route to all the things.  I try new things.  However, I try new things with old people.  People I'm used to.  People who know my crazy and embrace it.

Bars fucking annoy me.  I hate cigarette smoke (yes, I smoke, shaddap). The smoke consumes me.  I don't like the smell and it plays hell on my allergies.  An hour into the smoky bar scene I get fat, watery eyes and I become a creepy mouth breather who grunts her words. Additionally, some fuckhole I happen to traveling with will insist that we sit "really close to the band so we can hear them better". Now the talking and the hearing are gone. And then there's the asshole of the group who wants to sit inside because "It's way too humid out here and my hair will get frizzy".  Inside is either a) smoky as fuck, it's dark and there are 3 men from Deliverance sitting at the bar or b) you can't smoke at all, it's dark and there are 3 men from Deliverance sitting at the bar.  Also, bars have karaoke.  A lot of karaoke.  I cannot take karaoke in any way, shape, or form.  #Ihatekaraoke   There's people at the bar.  A fuckton of people.  People I don't know and people I know all too well. Neither are good.  If I wanted to see these people, I'd invite them for brunch (champagne style).  I don't.

I'm not looking for a man.  If I accidentally fall over one at the grocery that's cool but I'm not out on the prowl.  Hunting down men in bars is what I did 10, wait, and 20 years ago.  Not only have I outgrown it, I live in fear of it.  I was the party girl. I couldn't keep up with the men I met.  It was fun. No, I thought it was fun.  I know now for certain that shit wasn't fun.  I gained nothing from that time in my life except massive utility bills from sheet washing and Sad Frown Vodka Face.  This me doesn't want to get hopped up on goofballs and fall for some guy who pays attention to me because he wants to get laid.  I'm no longer that person and the desire to go back in time is zero.  Waving the "come out and meet someone" flag in my face will get you set on fire.  I've already met all the people I'm going to like.  At least for now.

I love to sit outside with friends, listen to a great band, have a few cocktails, converse, judge the other people, and nosh. I rock the theater, stand-up comedy, and concerts.  A day drunk at the beach with friends is spot the fuck on.  Hanging at local events, trying new restaurants, and day trips are how I do it now.  Hell, a day of people watching with a good friend is fucking tops.  Life is way too short to have Sad Frown Vodka Face.  I choose Happy Smiley Vodka Face.  That's how I do it.  If you don't like it, fuck the fuck off.

Thank you to my good friend Briton over at Punk Rock Papa for making my Sad Frown Vodka Face not so sad.

PPB aka the Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, currently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 13 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.

Dear Dudes

Dear single dudes,

This letter is to inform you that I'd really like you to wake the fuck up.   And shut the fuck up.  Just stop.  Pick your sack up off the floor, jam it in your tightie-whities, put on some non-skinny pants, and grow up.  The whiny, pathetic fucks you have become would make your momma slap you.

Sure, I poke fun at the average male more than I should but in reality I have a lot of respect for you guys. You go through a lot of cockamamie bullshit to get with the ladies; to find that special one who won't cut you while you slumber.  I got a secret, women are bitches.  Yes, I said it.  Bitches.  I am one.  I know this. Vagina equals crazy.  I don't care who you are.  You just have to find the crazy that fits with your crazy.

 But first...

Stop your incessant bitching about the woman who hurled your ass directly into the "friend zone". She ain't the girl for you. Move on.  Just because some sweet thing you sugared up with happy hour drinks doesn't want to move in and make babies doesn't mean she hates nice guys.  Stop that.  She doesn't dig your happy ass, that's all.  Your annoying social media posts about her, the ones where you moan and bitch and feel oh so sorry for yourself because she wants a nice guy but not you (Whine, whine, whine, whine), absolutely blow.  Maybe she doesn't want to be with you because you're not a nice fucking guy. I'll bet you never even considered the fact that you might just be a grade-A nine inch dick.  You think you're so damn nice.  All of you.  Teensy hint boys, you aren't. You can't all be nice. That's not how it works. Or what if maybe, just maybe, you weren't her bowl of jelly (cuppa tea is so overused). What, you say?  How could she not be into you?   It's the stuff romance movies are made of.  I know, sigh, you've never seen one.  I'll give you the gist, he likes her - she doesn't like him, she likes him - he doesn't like her. It happens.  Suck it up. Whatever the reason she friend zones your ass, its her damn reason so accept it and shut the hell up.

You bash these women because they don't want you.  When do you take some responsibility and accept that some of this knuckle deep dating diarrhea you've found yourself in is your fault?  Why are you on the hunt for women who aren't interested in you?  You're always searching.  Searching for someone, anyone.  You are continually the victim of the lady's buy me a drink syndrome.  Have you tried watching?  Listening? Taking your time to maybe, I dunno, meet a woman who doesn't suck the life out of your entire being?  Stop settling for the first one, or even the second one.  Go for number six. Six seems safe.  The woman who wants you will let you know.  She's out there, you guys.  She might not be where you think she is. She might be home reading a book, watching "Love, Actually", waiting for you to call (not text, asshole).  She might be hoping you'll drop by her job with one of those tacky gas station flowers. Not because you're trying to impress her with corny romance but simply because you're thinking of her.  She may just be hanging at the bar, hoping you'll stop in for a cocktail so she can stab you in the chest.  Keep your chins up, boys.  She's out there.  Just shut the fuck up about her.

Exes & Ohs,

#PPB
PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, currently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 13 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.

Angst

It's been months since I've put pen to paper or opened my laptop.

I'm tired.  I'm depressed.  I wake up every day searching for a good day.  Every day I'm let down. The day gets utterly sucked away, quickly.  Every day.  Most days I want to curl up and hide. I'm beaten down. I'm losing.  The struggle is sucking my every last drop of life.

  My fucking kid is 13!

  My fucking kid is 13.

Gone is everything decent and sweet and innocent and good.  There is hate.  And screaming. There are girls.  And boys.  It's all snarling and spitting.  And fear.  One moment my kid is thirteen.  And the next?  A creepy monster bitch with hair of fire (because her head exploded).

I prepared myself for this.  Since the birth of my daughter 13 years ago I've been prepping myself for for this, this nasty puberty.  It feels so free to type the word puberty.  I can't say puberty or talk about puberty because I'm not allowed to use the "P" word in front of the 13 year old giiiirrlll. "OMG I'll die if you say that word" - whatever.   The hysterics aren't worth it.  I can write about it.  You should listen.

There is no advice I can give.  I cannot tell you what I do not know.  I can share a few thoughts and feelings that might help you decide whether or not to buy condoms later tonight.

I feel...hated.  It's not so much the "I hate you!" that rolls from her gaping blabber-hole on the daily - it's the look.  The "don't even look at me or I will burst into flames" look.  It slams the hate home.  Straight into my guts. 

I have been deserted.  My child is no longer trying to crawl her ass back in the womb.  I have wished for this day. I knew it would come.  I was excited.  I thought I was ready.  I clearly was not. We are separated.  I've been replaced with video games, computers, ipods, phones, and friiiieeeeends.  I'm lonely. 

There has not been a day, not one single day, that I haven't wanted to give up.  My parenting is tested - Every.  Single.  Day.  I am physically tired of arguing over every miniscule detail of every situation. I'm drained.  I am turning gray.   I am sad.

I am downtrodden.  I'm positive I'm a failure as a parent and that I'm raising the next infamous serial killer.   In my mind I'm sure that one morning when I ask if she wants eggs she'll reply by swallowing my head.  This girl with black eyeliner and an attitude.  

I'm completely uncomfortable.  It's gross.  Boys and giggly girlfriend drama sucked ass when I was a kid.  I have zero desire to do this shit again!  We average at least 1 awkward conversation per 12 hours. More on the weekends.  More on bad days.  More during pms. More on days that end with y.  

It's terrifying.  I'm afraid most days.  I'm afraid to say the wrong thing, look the wrong way, or ask the wrong question.  I am a complete bitch but this nasty, teeth gnashing witch scares the shit out of me.  Horrified that I will have to listen to all that whining.  It's scary.  I hate it.  

I'm way stupid.  I mean, that's how I feel.  That's how she makes me feel.  "Mom, you wouldn't understand" - whatever.  I know stuff.  I can't help with physics homeowrk but I can make a helluva meatloaf and I can stand on 1 foot for a long time.  I'm useful, damnit.

Watching my child's metamorphis from a little kid to to big asshole kid is not a good time.  I go into every day with hope.  I begin every day with understanding.  I also end every day screaming "shut up, I'm done".  It's okay.  When my day ends like that it means we talked.  I have that.  

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, currently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 13 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.

It's such a perfect day

A perfect day - anything goes - no boundaries

My day begins the usual way.  I drag my slovenly ass out of the bed (the alarm begins alarming at 5:30am and I wake, turn on the news, hit snooze until 6:00ish) and clomp to the potty where I spend 15-20 minutes performing my a.m. constitutional (aka - on the Facebook).  I jump (crawl) off the throne because I realize I wasted 20 minutes being a dick-around.  I gracefully complete my morning stretch and all the muscles in my body react - poorly.  I shower, ignoring the screaming pain from my parts.  I stand in the shower, letting the hot water attempt to relieve my aches and pains until I realize, once again, that I'm a dick-around.  I've been in the shower for 10 minutes and I haven't thought about soap.  I rush to half-ass wash my parts paying close attention to the stinky region (I have standards), wash, condition, and haul my soaking wet ass back to my room and lunge for the caffeine.  I sit, nude, with a towel wrapped around my head and ingest the much needed caffeine & take my much needed meds.  I take the towel off my head, wrap it (barely) around my ample business, and plop into my 12almost13 year old daughter's room for the first of many morning visits.  I turn off her nightlight, make sure the t.v. is off, and turn on her overhead light.  I do something horrible like rip a huge fart, squeeze her cheeks, or jab my finger into her closed eye while chanting "poke, poke, poke" to give her a little wake-up boost.  I'm a gem.  I flap back to my room to smear on the war-paint and do up the hair.  I head back to the kid's room where both of her alarms are blaring; one beeping and one playing music.  She's sound asleep.  She acknowledges me with "5 more minutes" and I pound the snooze on one of the screaming alarms.  I hit the kitchen to throw lunch together for the kid, and conjure up something for us to jam in our face-holes for the a.m. meal.  During this portion of my morning routine, the kid enters using the zombie walk, eyes half closed, arms out, and stomp-y.  She snags my breakfast offering, and heads to the family room to fuck with the cat.  I get dressed, get all my work shit gathered, and brush my teeth.  I check on the kid's progress  (still fucking with the cat), and help her out by screeching: "hurry up, brush your teeth, hurry up, shoes & socks, shoes & socks, brush your hair, is all your homework in your backpack, hurry up, brush your teeth, hurry up".  I know this helps because she is screaming back at me but moving her ass all the while.  I head for the car, and get myself settled with a few moments of quiet before the morning drive to school.  School for the kid is .4 miles from our house.  It takes approximately 20 minutes door to door to sit in the drop-off line.  The school is .4 miles from our house.  It takes the kid 7-10 minutes to walk.   The kid slams her whole body and her 40+lb backpack into the car, and the talking begins: "So this boy made me laugh, why is bacon red, I almost peed my pants yesterday, baaaaa, pewtiepie is so funny, we should get a dog, I want a dog, the boy's name was Freddy, what's for dinner" and so on...until she bolts from the car without so much as a goodbye.  

Every second of that shit is gonna make my perfect day, perfect.

I will do what I dream of doing almost every morning while I drive to work.  I will go and I will do - anything I want.  Because I can.

I head to the beach, alone.  To not think.  To relax, to listen.  I hop of out of my car with zero aches and pains.  I effortlessly set up my umbrella, chair, towel, and cooler in the perfect spot.  The spot where the water reaches my toes, the breeze is consistent, and the view is breathtaking.  I yank off my beach cover-up, giving absolutely no fucks about what my fellow beach goers think about my fat rolls, pasty white skin, or the jiggly-ness that is me.  I lay in the sun with headphones in my ears, a book in my hand, and an amazon-sized, fruity umbrella drink that was just delivered to me.  Delivered.  I sit for hours.  I totally fry the fuck out of myself.  I am totally red.  hot.  

I see a couple of hobos while leaving the beach.  I give them each a $50 and a Fireball mini (because its my fucking day and I can)

I meet friends for food & drinks at a restaurant on the water in a nearby town.  I'm wearing the perfect dress to compliment my lobster complexion.  I have heels on my feet
(I can wear them without the usual searing pain).  I bounce into the restaurant.  We eat, have grown-up drinks, and we dance.  I dance.  For hours.  In heels.  With no pain.  I dance with wild abandon.  I forget how I think this isn’t cool; I let go.  I embrace my inner fool and I laugh - and laugh.   I'm not performing.  I am not "on".  I'm just me. I’m free.  I feel, ahem, giddy.  It feels good.  I feel good.  Friends.  

I come home and whip up dinner for the family.  The kid scarfs what I make.  We chat about the day - school, friends, homework, etc...  After dinner, we walk a couple of miles around the park. My feet don't hurt.  I'm not out of breath.  The kid showers without argument and she washes. She says thank you and tells me she loves me.   We eat chocolate and head to bed.

I slip into a magnificent, non-scratchy, nightie that makes me feel glorious.  I slide into freshly washed sheets, turn on a great show, and get ready to sleep without assistance from OTC sleep-aids.  As my eyes close, I feel hot breath on my neck.  He's come to hump me and he's my best friend in the entire world.  I forget my cottage cheese ass, my untidy pube-age, and the fact that my mouth tastes like a day old egg-salad sandwich.  I forget my wrinkles and my saggy milk bags and  I let go.  I have hot, dirty sex.  Sex that should make me blush but it's dark and I don't give a damn.  After, there is kissing, some hugs, and more kissing.  He watches me fall asleep, and then he leaves.  He texts me from the car, "I miss you already, talk to you in a few hours".  I read it, then sleep.  I'm smiling. Even though my vagina feels ripped in half when I wake, the rest of my parts made it out unscathed.

I smile because my day is not ending.  It has no boundaries.   

I smile and I begin again.  

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Until she changes her mind. Be afraid. 

Liquid Parenting Advice

I am the current keeper of a piece of parenting advice that I wish to hell somebody would have given me when I was with child.  Because I am awesome and this is important, I will share this bit of info with all the uninformed parents. 

Indulge.  Sip that wine.  Slam a beer and chase that beer with another beer. I was not a big drinker prior to having my one and only child. I was never told that it was okay imperative to consume a little nip here and there to calm the nerves while attempting to parent.  Subsequently, the first several years of my daughter’s life were alcohol free.  Insanity. That's what ensued.  Total insanity. The fact that we made it out of babyhood alive is a mystery.  I know damn well my obsessive-compulsive tendencies, my helicopter mom-ness, and my need to be in control of every moment would have been kept in check if someone had told me to shut hell up and pop a cold one. I was so worried what people would think if I was drinking, or god forbid, I got drunk.  The world would have ended. I would have been shunned by my peers.   I have since learned to embrace the joy of a cool buzz when my offspring has lost her damn mind. 

The word needs to be spread, folks – drink.  How else can we support each other through this madcap journey of rearing the snatch monkeys? 

It is rarely mentioned that soon after the bundle of joy is brought home, many new parents are hiding in the hall closet sipping whiskey from a brown paper bag like hobos. This closeted behavior must be made common knowledge so whiskey can be sipped in an appropriate place, everywhere.  People with zero kids, new parents, and those perfect television type parents will argue that this is not the case.  Parents would never hide from a screaming baby. Lies, all lies.  Yes, there are probably some parents out there who don’t down a shot of tequila after an especially fragrant thirty-seven-wipe diaper change.  That’s because they didn’t receive this nugget of sage parenting advice. 

It’s okay to have a drink when the day is long and there are too many kids.  It’s really okay.  In essence it’s fairly cool to do almost anything that assists with making it through one of the endless days that make parenting so special (<--------- insert sarcasm font).  If the kids are breathing, fed, and happy content, consider the day a success. 

For those days when the newborn is screeching for hours for reasons unknown, the toddler is tearing through the house naked, his poop-filled diaper swinging from his arm like a lasso, with the shit literally (literally) hitting the fan, and the tween is calmly ignoring the entire scene while foraging in the kitchen (and everywhere else) for food.  Those days are made for a glass of wine (or 2).  The simple act of ingesting some alcohol can keep a parent from ending up in the snow, rocking, wearing only underwear & cowboy boots.  It can keep them from burning down the house, or taking the train to run far, far away.  

The shit, it never ends.  Even before all of the above scenarios have been dealt with, the damn kids are on to the next disastrous event that will require yet another glass of the red.  Or white. 

Perfect parenting is total bullshit and it does not exist. There are no perfect parents.  There are no perfect children.  Parenting sometimes most times calls for a cocktail.  There will be parents who will not agree with this advice.  Fuck those parents. 

Drinking is bad, blah, blah, blah.  Everyone will be an alcoholic, blah, blah, blah.

Nervous breakdowns are bad.  Ignoring, screaming at, and shaming kids is bad.   Also, all that stuff is like work.  Parenting is hard.  Sit down and enjoy a nice tall glass of vodka. 

That’s stress free parenting right there, folks. Enjoy that shit.

*The above post was written in jest.  Really.  – Sorry – I have to say that shit because people are assholes. 

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Until she changes her mind. Be afraid. 

“Dance with the one what brung ya”

Post originally published on the Original Bunker Punks website because they rock and I am one.  A punk.  An old punk, but a punk. 

Growing up in the South you hear a lot of quaint sayings. One I have heard many times is, “Dance with the one what brung ya.” Proper English, no, but the meaning was well-defined. I am sure that originally it meant exactly what it states. You should dance with the one that brought you to the dance. But it has evolved to mean stay the course with the talent, process or system that got you here.”  (Definition taken from the Southern Writer’s Magazine)

There are numerous definitions and variations of this phrase but essentially they are all very similar.  I was married and almost 38 years old when I first heard this expression.  I didn’t know what it meant.  I had never heard it.  I had no idea that this simple phrase would define how I felt over the next several years.  

The first time I heard it, it was in jest.  A friend said it in regard to waiting outside the bathroom, which by the way should be some sort of law.  I’m always getting left or leaving someone in the bathroom.  I digress.  This silly hillbilly phrase intrigued me.  I needed to know more and I needed to use it.  I wasn’t sure how but I was damn sure going to work it into conversation as much as possible.  You can never overuse old southern sayings, can you?  You can, but I didn’t care.  I was using that shit.

It wasn’t until almost 2 years later when I was single that this silly little saying made a real impact.  I was always a flirty hooker even when I was married and I was married almost my whole life.  Things didn’t change much when I was single.  Flirty hookers are popular in the single community.

It’s my personality

It’s how I am.

I married; I’m not going to cheat

I’m single; I should be flirty

In the beginning stages of my dating frenzy, I was usually on the receiving end of this phrase.  I didn’t know how to date.  I didn’t know how to meet people.  I was married for 17 years.  I was under the assumption that I could just play my usual role of flirty hooker which in reality was, douchey asshole.  It was not attractive.  I never really had a date say anything about it but I noticed it.  I noticed that I was getting that reputation.  Not that I gave a flying unicorn shit what other people thought of me but I cared what I thought of me.  

I took a dating break and have recently returned to the scene with my new outlook and I’m trying hard not be that douchey asshole who needs to be told to “dance with the one what brung ya”.  It hit me hard this time around.  I figured out what this phrase meant to me.  I am really paying attention and now it’s me giving the speech.  My new and exciting take on the world of dating has made me realize just how important that old hillbilly saying is. How serious.  How important.  To me.  

Respect

For yourself

For others

It isn’t a difficult concept.  Whether you’re on a first date, out with a friend for the evening, 3 months into dating, or married for 15 years, “Dance with the one what brung ya”.  If you cannot respect the person you have chosen to share time with you shouldn’t spend time with them.

That person, regardless of the relationship, should be your one and only focus.  If you are never going to see them again or live the rest of your life with them; the time you spend with them should be spent respect them and making them feel like they are the only other person in the room.

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Until she changes her mind. Be afraid.