It’s only Monday and we already have pervert of the week!

Its the first time I’ve gotten an email that demanded instant blogging.

May I introduce…. Vern.


I like to ride my bike on long trips camping out along the way with a good woman with her on my bike or hers or even better ON me i like to cook but i am the only one that likes it sometimes i have big house in spakan with 3 BIG bedrooms you jus havent met the right 50 year old jus wait n see growl

I have to take a minute and say, once again, Thank God and All that is Holy that doesn’t give out your personal address. Seriously. I’d buy a gun tomorrow- and beg someone to teach me how to shoot it. Actually- I’d take Shawn’s advice and buy a shotgun that would definitely take this guy out.

His email is nearly a perfect description of hell on earth, for me.

1. Long trips on a bike… No. Never. I’ll happily kiss my husband goodbye and send him on his merry little way if that’s what he wants to do- but I’m past the point of doing shit I hate to impress the man I love.

2. Camping out along the way… I love to camp. Love it- but I’m a prepared camper. Just because you’re sleeping on the ground does not mean you have to suffer. Who likes to suffer? I want my kids to love camping, not dread it. I take air mattresses, down comforters… and my egyptian cotton sheets. To hell with anyone who would talk smack about my camping in comfort. Something tells me there’s not room for the sheets and air mattresses on the Harley. Not to mention- if you’re ass is stuck on the seat of a motorcycle all day long- shouldn’t you at least be able to look forward to a hotel room? Ugh- yuck.

3. Making a sexual reference in a first email is just nasty. Riding ON him? Suffice it to say- I’d become a man first…and we all know how likely that is. 3 BIG bedrooms… Yuck, gag, yuck. Shiver…

4.He likes to cook but sometimes he’s the only one that likes it… That’s so tempting. Especially for a girl who’s recently come to terms with a cooking fetish… No. I don’t ever want to be the only one in the relationship that can cook, ever again. I’ve officially been ruined for you Kraft Macaroni & Cheese boys. Thank Goodness.

5. The man is 59 years old… There are so many things wrong with him emailing me I don’t even know where to begin.

6. growl…. the man growled at me? Or is that his biker name? Does it really matter? lol

I couldn’t resist. πŸ™‚


Generally I don’t take the time to write back to people who decide to boldly ignore what my profile states I’m looking for. But in your case, I decided to make an exception.

First and foremost- you’re nearly 60. I’m 33. It says you have children, and I’d be willing to bet they’re probably my age?Β  Making gross sexual references in your first email to a woman who could be your daughter’s age is disgusting- and you should really be ashamed of yourself. For both the perv-o email and the fact you can’t seem to capitalize, punctuate or spell the name of the city you live in.

Vern- go take a long hard look in the mirror… then at my picture. How often do you see that couple?

Bad form, Vern, seriously.


Fade to black…

The bartender smiles as we walk in and asks us: “Are you girls here for breakfast?”

Both of us giggle and say… “Nope… Beer.”

Which is a pretty surefire sign that we had way too much fun last night.

Drinking on an empty stomach with a dented ego is perhaps not the best idea I’ve ever had. Doing it in heels and a little black dress…. was fabulously fun.

We joked about it before we left.

J- I’m gonna get black out drunk tonight- don’t let me ride the bull in my dress.

K- Well wear panties anyway just in case I can’t stop you.

J- You’re funny.

To my horror, I realized when I woke up at 6:30 this morning…. that I’d succeeded. I haven’t the foggiest idea about the end of the night. None. Once those little pink and blue shots started showing up… it gets fuzzy… or… black. πŸ™‚

I grabbed my phone… and OH FUCK, please no… Yep. Plain as day- there was his number in my dialed calls…. 2:32 AM… Great. I prayed I didn’t leave a message- and put my phone away…

So as we’re sitting at Connie’s- I confess my gigantic absence of judgment in drunk dialing him.

J- Worst case scenario- I left a message- right?

K- Did you check the length of the call?

J- No.

K- Yeah it’ll tell you how long the call lasted.

J- Fuck.

K- What?

J- 4 Minutes and 40 seconds.

K- Oh no…You talked to him. You did not leave a 5 minute voice mail.

Fabulous. Nothing like making a drunken late night declaration.



I think to myself, beer only from now on- no more drinks named after candy.

Neither of us even remember who took these pictures- and I lost an earring. I have my drunk face on… oh my.

My sister looked at me and said:

K- Listen. We went out- got shitfaced- left on our feet, in our shoes, in a cab home together, alone! We had a great time- and anybody who thinks anything of any of it can go to hell.

J- You have peanut shells in your shoes.

K- Beer only from now on.

No hangover… but I’d rather have one right now than not remember- and hey- my makeup is still great- we may go in later…

in jeans….

and flats.

for beer.