- Address: jannairons.com
- Author: Janna Irons
- From: Encinitas
- Blogging since: 2011
- Post Title: Match.com, No Thanks.
- Post Date: August 12, 2011
“I’m looking for a woman who is loyal, honest, and genuine.”
TRANSLATION: “I am looking for a woman who won’t cheat on me like my bitch ex-girlfriend.”
Occupation: “Self-employed” + Favorite TV show: “Weeds” + Favorite music: “Marley”
TRANSLATION: “I sell drugs.”
“I just like to chill, be mellow, and cruise around town with my dog.”
TRANSLATION: “I am lazy and I have no life. I might also sell drugs.”
Age: “54” + “Seeking women 19-29”
TRANSLATION: “I may or may not be a pedophile.”
His Date Preferences: “Height: 3'0" (91cms) to 5'11" (180cms) Body type: Big and beautiful, About average, Curvy, Full-figured, A few extra pounds”
TRANSLATION: “I’m desperate.”
Screen names also quite revealing. For example, AdamWantsKids is tired of beating around the bush. Brains-n-Biceps wants you to know he’s got more than just massive, gym-nourished guns. BigBlackMan22…um, I think that one’s self-explanatory.
- Post Title: Adventures on Treadmills.
- Post Date: August 12, 2011
I begrudgingly rolled into 24 Hour Fitness at 9 p.m., the short-bus of gym shifts. The hot, hip after-work crew (the women whose makeup is thick and sweat is nonexistent, and the men whose tank tops conveniently end just above their navels) had long since gone home. The retards of fitness were all present: the guy in the garbage-bag sweat suit who drools uncontrollably as he stair-climbs for well over an hour EVERY DAY (and is still somehow mildly overweight), the personal-trainer-gym-guy whose eyes never leave the mirror, and my personal favorite, the 60-year-old woman who I got stuck next to on a treadmill once who told me, unprovoked, “All men are addicted to porn. The internet ruined the chances of a man being faithful” and then continued on with her tales of a 25-year-old “slut” her husband left her for.
- Post Title: I Just Wanted My Toenails Painted
- Post Date: August 11, 2011
I had the strangest pedicure ever the other day.
The place was called Le Bleu de Blah-blah or something fancy and French-sounding…I walk in and no one in there was French, or even European, or kinda white-skinned at all. They were Vietnamese. All of them. They were all middle-aged Vietnamese men.
So I sit down and the man takes my feet in his hands, lifting them up and looking at them at all angles, pulling them about 2 inches from his face and then leaning back, looking at them from afar. He puts on a pair of metal-framed glasses, examining my feet more carefully while rapidly spitting out what I was sure was Vietnam shit-talk.
Then a young Vietnamese boy appeared from the back room…He sits there, less than two feet from me, and well within my bubble, just looking at me, smiling. The place had no magazines, I had no book with me, or even an iPod, so I sat there awkwardly pretending to do something on my phone while the old man massaged my feet, and jabbered on in his foreign tongue while the weird little child stared at me. Plus, there was this weird French opera music playing and this chubby ’80s lady kept repeating — probably about 12 times — to the creepy shit-talking pseudo-Frenchies, “Oh, I sure do wish I knew what you were saying,” which they responded to by laughing and continuing on with their esoteric babble.
The seconds on the clock ticked by. The boy stared at me for well over 45 minutes. I am never going back. I think I’ll stop being high-maintenance now.