Douchebag Determinator

I am pretty ignorant about Superhero inventors, but I would bet on this amazing slice of Johnny’s Pizza I’m eating right now that men invented the majority of them. How could they know the ultimate sexy fighting warrior in spandex did not fight crime with her wrists and big tits? It is pretty clear Wonder Woman can’t get shit done because all her superhuman powers are being used to fight off the Douche Bags, that’s right.

Maybe a gay Superhero, Mr. Awesome could show up as her sidekick, but they tend to get sidetracked with shiny materials, a shame, gay Superheros are so a century overdue.
Spiders, Jokers, Gigantic Green Men called Hulks, so what.

I would rather be caged with an Avatar not on my side smoking a crack pipe in a teeny wrestling ring then be spotted by the common Douche.

Even my poor mom, a NANA, got cornered by Grandpa Douche, telling her at the bus stop he can pick up 40 year old women. Get real people, we need more than blue elastic skin, lightning eyes, and pointy tits to fight off the common Douche. You could put a paper bag on Wonder Woman’s head, wrap her in a Snuggie, and the Douche will still find a way, so back to the drawing board Superhero writers, Douche Baggies need Wayyy more than a belt and a push up bra to be kept at bay. This is not my first rodeo and I have had some fine tuning in Douche determining and eliminating school, and I still find myself throwing my hands up in the air, DOUCHED again, this weekend a perfect crime fighting fail.
I had a lovely night on Friday with Harpua, discussing with a bad ass chick on his balcony her infuriating encounter with the pool Douche, a man who was NO LIE, on the DR. PHIL Show about DOUCHE BAGS, a guy who went to an Ivy league school, who can’t find anyone smart enough to hang out by the pool with, a statement he yells over at her, which by the way, he also mentions he has his own modeling agency, of course.

I laughed till my sides hurt at little Miss Cowgirl from Auburn describe these models with track marks down their arms, her disgust over his constant harassment finally coming to confrontation. She said she lifted her self right off the pool chair, her top forgotten not on, to wave her pretty little finger in the air, her Southern drawl in full effect.

“Hey honey, you really don’t think girls from Auburn can be smart, do you?”

She took a long sip of her beer for dramatic effect. He called her sweetie, said that Auburn was fine for people who loved football, that he had a Marketing degree and this is my favorite part. I made her tell me three times.

Sweetheart, I am a Nuclear Fuckin’ Chemist,” she says with fire, flipping her long brown hair, her lip gloss shining as bright as her infuriated eyes, and she is, in fact, a brilliant scientist with brains and nice breasts.

She loves getting in the elevator with him, her husband giving her a look, which she doesn’t care, glancing over at him, her eyes saying, “Your penis is absolutely teeny.” Instead she says rolls her eyes asking him, “How is the pool?”
We need more of her, and I don’t have nuclear chemist brains, but I do have big boobs, so I have to fight with what God gave me, which is sadly, a lot of experience. I met up with Mr. Confident after he sent me a message on face book that said, “You are way too beautiful to be single.”

Now, I know this is total grounds for Doucheness but I remember him to be sweet and completely harmless in high school, now writing me about my blog, the impact of losing a loved one, and so, my heart strings rattled for of course, just one drink.

Little did I know the man was twice the size of my bedroom door, and had just came off the set of the 80’s sitcom, no lie, Joey Lawrence, down to the chin drop and signature, WHOAH, breathing God’s fresh air with his mouth dropped open while his eyes lost in space. At least, I thought, until I saw it was the GA game behind me.

Honestly, he reminds me of Joey from “Friends” now that I think of it, his Doucheness was especially skillful, so I was on red alert, aware his mental handicaps could appear adorable if not watched carefully, and he had in fact a real head injury, so I needed some Super Woman help here. She must have been at Auburn, cause she sure as hell didn’t show up at Taco Mac.

He began by asking me if I knew across the street from his house there was this place that was a bar that had a lot of, wait for it, good wine. He said it again, much slower.
I pointed out to him we were at a bar with wine right then, my head cocked in my own, “Really?” a signature head cock of the Super Woman Douche Bag Destroyer.

He hit his leg, laughed, showing dimples as enormous as his pecs. He then told me this unbelievable story. His last relationship had been going great, an Australian woman he picked up in a t-shirt shop, and said that they had gone out and had some fantastic sex.

He said I wasn’t going to believe this next part.

He got drunk, sent a text to come over for a hundred dollars, and she actually ripped him a new one, said he had treated her like a prostitute! He took a sip of his beer, shaking his head, signaling the “Crazy Woman” head shake.

Bat Mobile Back UP.

Say what? I then asked the two lovely women at the bar next to me to hear a story about my friend, one who had taken a girl out, had sex with her, who then preceded to text her later to come over for a hundred bucks. Then, that same man told the story to a woman on their first date.

Oh, Super Douche Bag Fighters, it was a win, a hilarious win, and he got an earful, a glorious earful, not to mention the Braves were on, not the Georgia game.
I gave him the short list on our way out, which he laughed, saying this is why everyone tells him he is single.

His “STORIES” about receiving and sending texts while receiving a blow job, one about being broken up with after on a “break,” he sent a text saying how hot this chick looked that morning. His girlfriend replied saying, “You didn’t see me this morning.”
He is a HUGE fan of my blog, but has never heard of Rob Dyrdek, but my favorite was him asking me, “What did you think when you saw me, sitting over here, on the bar?”

I told him he looked like a man sitting on the bar.

He asked me what I was looking for in a man, and I was almost about to answer, but he either got excited or had a nervous tick, waving at the hostess, calling her over to tell her she was doing a great job.

“Confidence,” I was saying, as he turned to me, his eyes on the big screen.
“I don’t have that,” he said, his hands cutting across his throat to signal no way, not at all.
I am still not sure if he was being serious.
It was kind of funny and authentic, a word I love so much I said enough for him to comment, something I have been told before, a quirk of mine, being I do love the dang word.
“You love saying, what is it, Authentic?” He must have asked six times.
It was then when he was driving me back to my car, the beers in my system, that my fine tuned skills appeared from either experience, DNA, or just being a smart ass.

You are hot, baby,” pointing to the curve of my neck with his finger.
“Really?” I said it sweetly, pulling my shirt off the side of my neck with one finger, letting one bra strap fall down, and then the next, “I will give you three chances to see this if you can answer one question,” I said leaning in, his face locked. He suddenly got serious.
What is my favorite word?
He beat his head against the steering wheel, thought of Awesome, Intuitive, and Awesome, again.

Authentic.” My straps felt tight back around my shoulders, and in spite of it all, I laughed at his reaction, telling me it had to have been the brain injury from his coma.
Maybe I am not a chemist, but I think I did okay.

I used my breasts and big words, the only material they clearly gave Super Woman, and she wasn’t even around to save me.


I have been asked by several people to write a book about some of my dating experiences. OUCH.

I admit that after my divorce I didn’t give a damn, became somewhat a serial dater, protecting my heart so insanely that it just made sense to date the outrageous and ridiculous, rather than risk finding something real.

In fact, I wasn’t real. Not really. Not yet.

I think I will eventually write about some of these experiences, like Mr. Electric, who picked me up at church, took me to Moe‘s, and bought me a car the next day. I think about all the musicians and I just cringe, especially B. H. Rocker, who screamed into microphones and called it music, believing he was so huge underground that I should have to walk behind him into bars. It was for my safety, you see.

The man wore pigtails and different colorful bandanas for God’s sake.

There was the man prescribed to me by my doctor, Prescription Dan, who after coffee, sent a penis shot captured in the midst of ejaculation, a stream so brilliantly photographed, I can’t figure out how he did it. A tripod? My doctor was profusely apologetic.

I think you get the point.

After being devastated with my last boyfriend leaving to live on a boat in Italy, I decided it was time for me to take some serious time out, to refocus, to think about who I was and what I wanted out of life. I buried myself in self help books and work, and at first, I didn’t like what I saw. I avoided mirrors and had night sweats, breaking addictions to sleeping pills and anxiety meds.

I found that all my coping mechanisms came in the form of blue tablets called Xanex and without them, I had to rediscover ways to function. The first thirty days were terrifying. I put one foot in front of the other, took on one day at a time, let every scary emotion I had been running from come to the surface. I wasn’t used to feeling anything much less everything, all at once, all the time.

I felt like I would never stop crying and that I had been issued one big life sentence, a lifetime of pain for all the mistakes I had made, for all the hurt I had accumulated and had been unwilling to address.

And then something rather shocking happened.

Thirty days turned to Sixty and then to Ninety and by the time six months was approaching, I was beginning to not only become comfortable but actually like my own skin. A spark I forgot existed began to ignite inside of me and I was effortlessly laughing, creating, dreaming.

Until my friend M decided it was time for me to be set up on a first date. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Hell no. NO WAY.

I wanted to vomit. I listed out every reason why I was one big mess and she laughed me off saying it would be fun, great, and well past due! It began with text messages and he had this irritating way of making me smile constantly, pulling me in to compulsively checking my phone again and again for what he would say next.

We decided to meet the day after Valentine’s Day and quite frankly, I kind of hoped it might be disastrous, so that I could wipe my hands of this risky relationship business, something I was so tired of failing at.

And well, he wasn’t a disaster at all, damn it.

he was smart, and funny, and kind, and yes, sexy.

The entire time he talked I wondered what the hell he would do with a girl like me. He was a gentleman, thoughtful, believed in taking his time in relationships and I respected him immediately.

There was also something so endearing about his open and honest nature, telling me things about his past relationship that made me know he was healing as well. He let me know things right away that were not easy for me to handle at all, but for some reason, I just couldn’t find any of them reason enough to walk away. And believe me, I tried.

And Oh my goodness, is he funny. Silly, actually and very childlike.

And a really good friend.

On our third date, we went to the movies. It was fun, relaxing, and I didn’t really want it to end at all. He drove me back to my car where we talked for at least an hour, until I noticed a man in a hooded jacket cut across the parking lot, his eyes darting back and forth, and my stomach started to turn.

I felt something might be dreadfully wrong. I felt my blood pressure rise and my heart stop and I worried about what Clyde might have to do, knowing he kept his gun close, having been robbed at gunpoint just earlier this year.

The shady dude slowly opened my car door. I almost vomited. In a flash, I saw every scary horrible scenario flash through my mind like a series of bad movies, but happening to me, to Clyde, to the people who might never see me again.

I froze. My jaw clenched tightly, my fists tight.

“Is that your car, K?” Clyde said quickly, pointing to my actual car a few feet ahead of me, where the relief of the moment melted from shock to hysterics.

I couldn’t stop laughing. It reminded me of nervous relief, and I am definitely the kind of girl that laughs at funerals.

I have been living on edge so long, waiting for someone to hurt me, to break into my car, to crush my heart into a million pieces, to lie, hurt, and suddenly disappear.

My mind has taken over and I see that it has been playing tricks on me, and somehow I had turned a man with a sweatshirt getting in his vehicle into a possible murder scene where I lost my car, possibly Clyde, and myself. I

realize now that I have made the same mistake with my heart, giving it away to unusual suspects and jerking it back before some unlivable crime is committed and in doing this, I have become guarded, afraid, and alone.

I don’t know if I give Clyde my heart some day if he will break it into a million pieces. I just met him.

I don’t know if I can handle the hurt of another failed relationship, what and how much the human spirit can take, but I must have the courage to at least try.

I guess this is what it means to trust, to feel the fear and do it anyway, to surrender to now, to live in the joy of today.

I guess this is what it means to be real.