Tag Archives: marriage

Does a man’s sexuality change in his 30s?

25 Jan

 

Straight from his mouth to God's ears.

You may think I made that up, but no! Someone actually found TTTM by searching for today’s blog title. First, I’d like to offer up, “Oh, man, thinking about the sexual conquest possibilities really makes me squish.” Clean up on aisle Var, please.

 

Anyhoo, I can only assume that this Googler, or whatever, was attempting to find out if men tend to come to terms with their sexual curiosity in their 30s more so than any other decade of existence. Personally, if someone were to say yes, I’d contend bollocks. That’s not to say it doesn’t happen, but that it happens when a person is comfortable enough with who they are and don’t worry about how the world views them. I’m not basing this on any statistics I’ve read or any specialists I’ve consulted. This is just my gut instinct.

Now this brings some questions to mind for me. 1.) Why would someone question their sexuality after 3 decades? 2.) <I pray the Googler is still following the blog, and if so, are you in a state of flux/questioning about your own sexuality? Do you have a friend experiencing this? Essentially, why did you google/yahoo/bing this string of terms? 3.) Hell, I want to know the answer to all of these when you substitute ‘woman’ for ‘man’. We’re dying to know your thoughts, so feel free to pipe up. In other words, comment. Do it!

I’ve gotta say I’m feeling very Dan Savage right now.

Guest Post: Elopement–No Bells, No Buffet, & No Bullshit

26 Nov

Annnndddd, here we go again. What is up with you women and weddings.*gags* The 30s really do get that clock to ticking louder, eh? Being gay is so convenient. I don’t have to worry about any of the bells, buffets, or as Maria titled it, bullshit. Thank you gay-marriage haters of the United States. I salute you. (I’m also giving you the finger. Stop trampling on other people’s rights. Why can’t we all me miserable during and after matrimony.) Nonetheless, Maria has the ticket. If you’re going to fucking do it, do it in stealth. Less money. Less headache. More dubious. *wringing hands* I love dubious.

It may be fun to look at wedding porn for a few seconds, but eventually, nausea sets in and you’re ready to blow up the nearest bridal boutique. You think all you need is a dress, but then it turns into a dress, a veil, shoes, fake flowers for your hair, bouquets, bridal party attire, catering, favors for your guests, a wet bar, a 5-piece band, an exorbitant rental fee for some cheesy location and a crackpot preacher, and a giant migraine. You can get seriously ill thinking about your “perfect” traditional wedding.

Your reasons may be different from mine, but what I’ve decided is that elopement is looking pretty good. I’ve been engaged for almost 15 months now, I don’t have some giant frilly dress, I haven’t set a date, and I honestly don’t plan on doing any of that. I have a ring on my finger and a fiancée who’s willing to spontaneously tie the knot when the mood strikes.

“Planning” an Elopement

I may hate the idea of having a whiny flower girl and snot-nosed ring bearer, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely heartless – just almost. In my opinion, the courthouse isn’t the place to get hitched. I don’t want to remember the felon or the lawyer sitting next to me waiting for the judge when I recall my wedding day. You may be less of a fairy tale princess, but when it comes down to it, I don’t want to be starting my marriage with divorce candidates or unsavory characters. My fiancée and I are planning to simply pick up our marriage license from the courthouse and run off to some undisclosed location for the actual ceremony. And the best part about this is that we’re not setting a date – we’re both ready to get married, but we’re enjoying the engagement and the idea that children are only in our nightmares.

We’ve talked to our local county clerk’s office at the courthouse about how long it might take on certain days at certain times, we’ve checked out gardens and parks, and we’ve found short-notice officiants who can be persuaded to meet us and get us on our way to married life for a reasonable fee.

In our county, we have to wait 72 hours between getting our marriage license and having our ceremony, so there’s a little bit of planning ahead there. But the bulk of the planning is actually the honeymoon – the best part of the whole wedding shitstorm and the only reason people ever survive traditional ceremonies in the first place. To get everything in order, we’ll plan two weeks ahead for the honeymoon, which is still pretty spontaneous for a marriage. It’s no shotgun courthouse wedding, but it’s not the year of planning recommended by any wedding porn magazine you pick up either. It’s just enough peace of mind and flexibility for a couple of thirty rotten scoundrels.

Maria Rainier is a freelance writer and blog junkie. She is currently a resident blogger at First in Education, where recently she’s been researching different online msw degrees and blogging about student life. In her spare time, she enjoys square-foot gardening, swimming, and avoiding her laptop.

Guest Post: A day in the life- shut off that fucking alarm, and where did this peanut butter come from?

20 Oct

Raw! After reading this, that was the first word that came to mind. I love the Talk Thirty To Me community because of posts like this—when we all get to peep into the private and intimate moments of other Scoundrels’ lives. However, I could do without the 7:15am mention. vaguelycool, thanks for your open, way informative, and give-me-a-laugh post. I don’t envy you. Nonetheless, I’m sure we have some mommies, wives, and all around, up-to-their necks women out there that are definitely relating to you right now. Happy reading, Scoundrels.

This was written at a stoplight.

I have no GD time. I have literally composed, edited and submitted this piece at stoplights from Denver to DTC over the last two weeks. I’m a working mother of two rascals and I have not one minute to myself in a day. I used to shop at Banana Republic between appointments during the week, swan into wine bars at 5pm and entertain clients/friends until the wee hours. I had time to read magazines, get pedicures and go on dates with my husband, and then things changed. For the better definitely, but time just…disappeared.

Here’s what my day looks like. Mind you, this is just an average weekday, not inclu

ding special events, friends/family in town or heaven forbid, a date with my husband. Just a regular day.

My day starts at 12.01am. I have been asleep for about an hour with any luck.

3:30am – feed infant son, burp him, change his little pants, settle him back to sleep

Oh, the joys of doing it all. Image courtsey of parmeter.net

4:15am – “pump my bosoms” as my 2yr old says

4:30am – go back to sleep

5:30am – husband’s stupid alarm goes off

5:40am – husband’s stupid alarm goes off

5:50 am – husband’s GODDAMNED stupid alarm goes off

6:00am – (GETTHEFUCKOUTOFBEDYOUMOTHERFUCKER) husband’s stupid alarm is turned off, husband gets out of bed

6:30am – a) infant son wakes and cries or b)2yr old daughter wakes and begins the “MUUMMYYY” deal

7:00am – nanny arrives (thank GOD)

7:15am – “pump my bosoms” and eat something – usually simultaneously

8:30am – or sometimes 9:00am – I arrive at my office

9:15am – usually discover snot, sick, yogurt or peanut butter on my suit

9:30am – 5:00pm – various meetings, lunches, pointless paper bullshit, fun client meetings and other money making duties – will typically drive about 60miles throughout the day – smile on face – pump my bosoms at 10:00am and 2:00pm – usually in a toilet stall or in my car in a parking lot

6:00pm – battle traffic home unless there is a client drinkies (here’s hoping) at a downtown wine bar

6:15 – get smothered by kisses from 2yr old, bowled over by hairy dog, receive download from nanny (learn of everyone’s poops, including graphic descriptions, and timeouts of the day, among other things)

6:45pm – complete reading an average of 6 bedtime stories, brush dolly’s hair, change a few diapers, feed dog, unpack bosom pumping bag, pump bosoms, get dinner going

8:00pm – sit down to dinner with husband. Inhale two glasses of wine (compulsory) – watch news

9:00pm – start the two hour process of going to bed – finish emails, put laundry away, pump my bosoms, husband feeds infant son

10:30pm – get into bed, attempt to read 2 pages of book (usually same 2 pages I read the night prior as I can’t remember what the book is about). Husband feeds infant son.

3:30am – get up to pump my bosoms – email TheVar about how I should write a story about how little fucking time I have…….and every single day I marvel at how lucky I am to have such a wonderful life. I’m not kidding.

Guest Post: Sick & Wrong? Possibly. Happy? Most Definitely

24 Sep

Today’s guest post comes to us from Jane, a TTTM reader and blogger of Jane’s Infinite Wisdom. To be honest, we don’t know much about Jane other than she has balls of steel. Jane submitted her post to give us a little glimpse into the life less ordinary. Thanks, Jane!

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll never get married. You’re one of those people destined for eccentricity, yelling at kids to get off your lawn!”

I don’t remember what I said to my best friend to illicit that response but I do remember it stung enough to be able to recall it nearly 20 years later.

image courtesy of http://engagements.ca

I think I tried to get married just to spite her. I spent most of my 20’s locked in a relationship even though it didn’t feel right and I lived my life as though I was already a suburban mundane despite the fact that he and I didn’t live together, or near one another for that matter, most of the time. Once the proposal happened and the wedding planning began in earnest though, I freaked out. I ended the relationship over the silliest possible reason and walked away with a sigh of relief. Had texting been available back then, I likely would have been one of *those* people. Fortunately, my moral standing was somewhat upheld in that I was forced to do it by telephone.

Continue reading

The Dry Spell

1 Jun

This is the kind of shit the 30’s are made of—alcohol, the lack of, cautionary tales, and the list goes on. We chose to post this today because as of June 1st, 2010 Ryan M. has been sober for 4 years. Congratulations, Ryan, and we wish you many more years of sobriety. If you like this post, you can check out more of Ryan M’s musings over at Diamond Studded Cougar.

So I don’t drink.

At the age of 30, I gave myself the gift of sobriety so that I could live my life with open eyes and maturity. There would be no filter of alcohol on my eThe Dry Spellxperiences.

That’s a beautiful statement, and it would be great if it went down like that. But no, I quit drinking 4 years ago because I started drinking vodka in supermarket bathrooms and was barfing all the time. A note for the youngsters: a good booze habit makes your esophagus feel like you just ate a bag of flour. This, coincidentally, is something I tried to do one time when I was hammered.

Also, I was married, had a job and a house. I didn’t want to become some cautionary tale to my extended family: “Turns out Ryan pooped on his boss’s desk, then went home and burned the house down after trying to make a grilled cheese in the dryer.”

As of June 1, 2006, I haven’t had a drink.

Oh, and I got a divorce last year.

The split had nothing to do with the years of drinking. The ex and I are still friends, it just didn’t work out. I’m in a small apartment and am constantly running out of money.

In other words…form a line, single ladies! You just hit the jackpot because a broke divorced dude who is a recovering alcoholic is on the market!

Now, I’ve dated a few women since my separation and divorce. The non-drinking thing hasn’t been an issue with them. Sure, there have been some ladies I tried to get to know who kept asking me “So, you REALLY don’t drink?” when what they meant was “So, you REALLY are a snoozefest?”

That’s okay. ‘Cause I’m a fuckin’ HOOT. I do comedy. I can go out to bars and clubs. I quit alcohol cold turkey, so I’m not always at a meeting.

Still, when I realized that I’d have to go on dates without access to booze (or as I call it, “Charm Potion” or “Drinkable Sensuality”), I panicked a bit. You mean, at 34 years old, I have to get to know people without glorious drunken optimism?

It’s the kind of happy, deluded state of mind where you see warning signs in a potential mate, disregard them, have some more shots and then French in the parking lot. That stuff is kind of fun, and it’s a bit of a drag to not be able to make horrible decisions with another person that you can later blame on being hammered, depending on how things go.

Maybe the alcohol had less to do with my mistakes than I thought. Maybe I just feel awkward because just four years ago, I had no idea that I’d be single now. But that’s what’s happening and I don’t want my next relationship to be about barf and flour.

So I don’t drink.

–Ryan M.

Image courtesy of Ryan King.

Exit- Stage 30

22 May
A 30-something turns 40.

I turned 30 right after the pandemonium of Y2K. I’m turning 40 with much less apocryphal fanfare. On Jan. 1, 2001 I watched the sun come up on a pair of backcountry skis on a mountaintop far from the predicted anarchy of Y2K. I’ll turn 40 eating macky cheese with my 2-year-old.

Leaving your 30s behind means you’re probably already divorced once. If you’re going to have kids, you have them by now, and when you start working out the math and thinking about a high school graduation in your walker, you start thinking seriously about not scratching the procreation itch anymore.

The 30s are when you settle into some career. I had four careers behind me when I turned 30. I settled into the one I liked best and like any good American consumer, I now jot down the mortgage numbers and ride my Harley when I can. Vacations to sunny beaches and bow hunting to keep the Eye of the Tiger alive (that reference will probably be lost on you 30somethings, but it was the soundtrack for Gen X football games and athletic events. Get used to it 30-somethings, the cultural world will pass you by).

If you’re lucky, your clothes still fit from 29. If you’re even luckier, you can still find that hot not yet 30 something to slake you sexual thirst. Nothing keeps you feeling young like sleeping with the young. In my 30s I took one of the top mountain bikers in the country to her Stanford graduation. Guy at the door taking tickets said “What do you teach professor?” I laughed at the squirt. “I’m her date, call me grandpa.

We men are lucky that way. If you stay fit and you figured out something to do with yourself that pays, young women find you distinguished. If you’re broke, you probably always will be and women have figured that out to. So you better get used to Internet pornography or hookers. Or Match.com and trolling for the “curvy” ones.

In your 30s you still dream of romance. By 40 you’re thinking practically about good orgasms and someone that doesn’t inspire an overwhelming urge to come and go.

You’ve had the romance gene beaten out of you by years of realizing that if you’re really good to someone, they’ll take you for granted. If you’re aloof, members of the opposite sex can’t wait to try to fix you. Everyone loves the bad boy or bad girl, and few of us have the maturity to hang on to someone who treats us well day in and day out. By 40 you stop blaming everyone else and accept that about yourself as well as others.

Midway through my 30s, while still single, my teenage nephew told me “Uncle, you used to be the cool guy with the hot girlfriends. Now you’re just turning into the weird uncle who never got married.” When you get this kind of wisdom from a teenager, of course you take it to heart.

So I got married, had a kid, and found out my now ex wife was crazy after she emptied the banks accounts, swiped my daughter and alleged that I had threatened to dress up like Santa and kill her Mormon family in Utah. I lost most of the accumulated wealth of my single years to attorneys and psychologists, and came out the other side with joint custody of my daughter and the promise of lawyers and hearing for the next 16 years.

In hindsight, I should have hired a hot stripper to be a surrogate mom for me. I would have saved a lot of money overall, and I recommend this to any of you feeling like the biological clock is ticking. Rent a partner for baby production.

Or at the least make sure whoever you procreate with undergoes a thorough psychological exam. I didn’t find out my wife needed psychological help until midway through the divorce. Not the right time. You will not be able to provide the family you dream for your children if your partner was conceived in the Ninth Circle of Dante’s Inferno. Hire a stripper instead. Women have it easy. You can buy a sperm popsicle and the problem’s solved. We men have to rent an oven, too.

So what does 40 feel like? Forty feels like nothing. Turning 30 was hard. My youth was going to be gone forever with that birthday filled with so much significance. The end of calling myself a kid. Time to grow up. Have a family. Settle into a job.

At 40, I’m trying to stay in shape to continue to enjoy the fairer sex. Raise my daughter well. Keep stuffing the bank account whenever I can so some day I can sit on a sailboat in the Caribbean and smoke cigars while watching the empty Coronas pile up on the deck.

I don’t mind the gray hair creeping in. I know that six pack abs won’t get me as far as a six figure income. I don’t really care that my wardrobe is hopelessly out of date. Stylish shoes look goofy, modern music sucks, and I’ve seen hip hugger jeans come and go twice in my life, so seeing a butt crack on a bar stool doesn’t thrill my fashion sense, thong or not. Tramp stamps have become passe’ (though there was the one girl who had a compass pointing unerringly, well, you get the picture) and pierced whatever’s are as common as New Kids on the Block t-shirts used to be.

The only social pressure you have at 40 is people expecting you to act your age. I took a little sailboat out and got heckled by a bunch of high school kids last summer. I told them to blow me and would have  mooned them if I could have managed it in the tiny boat. To hell with acting your age! Enjoy being alive. Every day above ground is a good day.

By 40 you’ve buried friends, relatives and seen the husks all around you of people who just gave up. Watched too many settle into mediocrity. You’ve known people who took their own lives because they were in so much pain. To survive this life you find joy where you can. Whether it’s in the wilderness or wondering if you just threw your back out with that 20something who was oh so enthusiastic.

Enjoy your 30s. They’ll be over before you know it. I felt like I turned 30 yesterday. We’re all dancing with the devil with one foot in the grave anyway. Show the bastard that you can still do the boogaloo.

-P

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