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By Kernut, on December 7th, 2011%
Mostly, I get wonderful, sweet and praising emails from you folks. I save them all.
Sometimes the BS I get in my inbox requires a special rant. This is one of those times.
 Let's Play Carpenter... or not. As the Match.com Dating Chronicles and Dating Exiled Royalty attest, my love life has been nothing if not interesting. Dating still seems to me one of the strangest activities. It’s like a prolonged interview, and you don’t really know if there’s even a job for you.
Needless to say, my experiences, especially those with Match.com, have left me leery of dating in general. Most especially of internet dating in particular.
While I do get asked out fairly regularly, it takes a special person and a special request to get a “yes” out of me. In the last two weeks I’ve received several requests over the internet for a date, or a general indication of interest. A couple are worthy of a “Yes”, but we’ll discuss those in the next post.
Would-be suitors take note: Included herein are the don’ts of asking for a date. There are ways to ask a lady out to get a “yes”, and ways to be assured you’re turned down. If you want a quick hookup, just go to the bar and don’t waste her (read: my) time.
Like this article recommends, calling someone over the phone is much better than asking for a date over the internet or, Heaven forbid, via text. If I don’t know you, emailing is appropriate while we get to know each other. However, if I’ve given you my number, a phone call is much better. Someday you will have to pick up that phone if you want to date me.
The first couple requests for “dates” were from married men I know. Don’t stop now! Continue reading How Not to Ask Me For a Date
By Kernut, on December 11th, 2010%
When we left off, I had just realized I was being followed by some stranger in a beat-up pickup truck with dark tinted windows. If you missed part one you can read it here: The Time Martin Sheen Saved My Life. Part three (the conclusion) coming soon.
Trying to lose the strange vehicle stalking me, I quickly drove around corners and waited for him to pass by. Whenever he realized I was no longer in front of him, he would search the short streets for me. When he’d spot my car, I’d pull out and speed off in another direction. After one such turn, I got stuck in a dead end culdesac with him right behind me! I think it surprised him, too. Oddly enough, he didn’t block my exit, instead backing up to let me out of the narrow dead end.
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, after passing him I sped down another street.
Thinking I’m safer in this small neighborhood of nice houses, I’ve become afraid to return to the main highway that pretty much goes nowhere for 27 miles. But I’m frantically trying to call the police. Cell service on Point Dume? Damn near non-existent.
My calls to 911 kept getting cut off part way through. Unlike the police in Northern California, the 911 operators in LA just don’t give a shit, probably jaded by the many horrendous calls they get. They made no attempt to call me back when we got cut off. None. Had this been Northern California, the 911 operators would have blown up the phone trying to call back a terrified woman cut off during a 911 call. (To give you a little better idea of the police mentality down in LA, if you ever get pulled over for a DUI, just make a $2,500 donation to the police department and there will be no DUI. Heard stories of police brutality? All true. You’re not famous? Oh, no help for you until after your murder. That’s the treatment I was getting from 911. This probably also explains the high rate of homicide in LA: 911 is apathetic to your pleas for help.) Don’t stop now! Continue reading Martin Sheen Saved My Life (For Reals), Part 2
By Kernut, on November 19th, 2010%
Ahh, what a lovely day. (UPDATED: This should say “week”.)
Ok, I’m lying. Totally fucking lying. (I apologize for the cussing, but sometimes only a cuss word will do. There are more, just so you know. I probably have that cussing disease today, you may want to leave now.)
You all know about the Droid X issue, which may, or may not be resolved. Some ex-boyfriends responded to the age-old texts as if nothing had changed and the conversation – and relationship – hadn’t ended LONG ago.
One ex asked, “So how you sleeping?” Much better without you’re nasty a$$ taking up the bed.
Learn from my mistake my dear Kernutties: Clear your text cache. Seriously. Do it now. I’ll wait.
And some of you know about the persistent MF who keeps trying to hack my blog. Seriously? WTF?! At this point, his persistence (12 attempts that I know of, plus three lock-outs) causes me to think it’s personal. There are two people whom I think sociopathically capable of this. I’m working on a post that includes one of them, and is about the time Martin Sheen saved my life. (Not a joke.)
The new job? Sucks balls. Well, some of it sucks balls. Big fuckin’ hairy balls. (The actual marketing parts of the job are great fun.) Don’t stop now! Continue reading God Grant Me The Senility
By Kernut, on July 13th, 2010%
 Do you think he means a 'blow job' at the salon for that hair?? I said job I had, not gave. sheesh No, not had as in got, either. Remember, I’m a woman – I give them I don’t …oh, never mind.
Where was I? Oh, yeah.. jobs.
The kind you get paid for.
Oh ferfuckssake.
I was fairly young at the time I went to work for this insurance company. My boss was named Fred Krueger. I could not making this up if I tried, people. To separate himself from Freddy Krueger The Slasher, he insisted we called him Fred. Just Fred Krueger.
Yeah, that worked well. Calling him Fred totally made me forget his name WAS IDENTICAL TO THE INFAMOUS SLASHER FLICK DUDE. Don’t stop now! Continue reading The Time I Worked For Fred Krueger and Donna Mills
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