I love writing. I love the art of sitting down and thinking very deeply and carefully about how best you can express an idea, or a feeling, or an experience. The act of writing is very rational. It turns out after all that I am a rational being. It’s just that my hormones are totally out of control, so most of the time I can’t hear myself think. Fucking hormones. But now that my metabolism has deserted me (I knew there was something bad about turning 25), my hormones have slowed down a bit, and now I can think.
So perhaps you’ve heard that recently I’ve gotten hired to write a book. Seriously, if you haven’t heard, you must live under the rock under which I live. Once hired, I was given a deadline of 3 weeks to put together the first draft, and 2 additional weeks to edit it for print. So, that’s 3 + 2. Which = 5. That’s 5 weeks. 5 whole weeks to write a book. My first book. S’no big deal. It’s not like I’m an incredible perfectionist or anything.
But two of those weeks are for editing. So that’s really 3 weeks to write a book. What topic am I writing my book about? Making Friends. Laugh now. Not really my topic. How to Alienate People? How to Disengage Yourself From Society? The Budding Agoraphobic’s Guide to Working From Home? Much more my speed. So I’m doing the best I can with limited resources and a lot of imagination.
Inevitably, the enormous weight of the task I’d so eagerly and ignorantly taken on began to quickly wear on me which each passing of the second. And of course the stars have aligned to make this as difficult as they possibly can for me. The Universe, basically has sent me to my room to think about what I’ve done. Seriously. My roommate isn’t even here to distract me. This is the karmic punishment I get for being anti-social all my life. I have to write an essay on how to make friends. Did I mention I’m not even smoking right now? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write without cigarettes?!?!??
But I’ve been making good progress. If I haven’t learned to grit my teeth and get through it by now… (That came out a lot dirtier than I meant it to, but I have a point.) Until last week. Things were good. I had survived PRIDE week, and had gotten the book started. (Mostly by singing “Let’s Start At the Very Beginning” every time I got overwhelmed.) I’d handed in the first three chapters. I had a week to go, but I could do it. Then one of my cats had to be put down. Then, after I’d been babysitting at an amusement park fearing my imminent and violent death all day (and hadn’t eaten anything but raw sugar), I got a letter from my NEW editor telling me I was doing great, but I had to completely re-write my perspective. Oh, did I mention I was on my period?
What followed was a two-day long tantrum. There was crying. There was sobbing, actually. There may have been thrown objects. There was vodka. If you learn nothing else from me, remember: Vodka Helps. Needless to say, it was not cute. And unfortunately for the few friends I do have, Day Two included a party, and these poor bitches had to listen to me whine all day. (I showed a lot of cleavage to make up for it.)
How the hell am I not only supposed to write this damn book, but do it without being able to talk about myself? I don’t know how to not talk about myself. It’s how I communicate. Not only did I stomp my foot and refuse to not acknowledge my presence for one moment, but I literally doubted I would be able to do it. During this time, I couldn’t write, I couldn’t think, I wanted to quit. I wanted to quit real bad. I almost quit. I passed out instead.
Then I woke up, and I was all better. Fuck this noise, is basically what I said to myself that morning. The hormone tidal wave had passed, and I could think clearly again. So I looked at my first three chapters are realized that not only was the editor’s suggestion easy to make, but it made the book a lot better.
I lost a week to my period. So that’s two weeks. Two weeks to pull this bullshit together. Actually, right now I have 3 days. Three days and 6 chapters. 6 chapters / 3 days = 2 chapters a day. Oh. That’s not bad, actually. I can do that. See what happens when I am able to think!
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
Good Men with Bad Taste in Women
While chatting with my friend Alex, I came up with this week’s article idea. He says not to forget the gays. As if. The reason I love gay men so much (can I write one article without mentioning this? Yeeesh…) is because they have fabulous taste in women. The gays only approve the coolest chicks. That’s because to them, we’re not necessary, so they don’t need to keep us around. They choose to keep company with us. And the best of all the gays, drag queens and trannies, emulate us directly. And by us, I mean fabulous women.
You can tell a lot about a man by three things: Ladies, pay attention.
1. His handshake. If he shakes like a cold fish, he’ll fuck like one too.
2. The way he runs. Also a direct indicator of the way a man fucks. That’s why I spend so much time at the pond scoping out runners.
3. His taste in women.
A person’s choice in a mate is one of the most important and telling choices of their life. Some people say, “You can’t choose who you love.” Those people have clearly never been to therapy. Your choice in a mate reflects your self-esteem, your psychological make-up, and the world you want to create for yourself. Like for instance, I want to be black, so I’m going to make babies with a black man. (Someone get the smelling salts- my mom just fainted.) Then there will be little black Kates in the world.
My personal dating history is comically dismal. The only man I’ve attempted to partner with (sex partners don’t count) was a PhD from MIT. It was like holding a winning lottery ticket and then realizing you misread one of the numbers. I’m holding out for something better. Yes, my standards are high, but shouldn’t they be? To quote Cher in Clueless, “You see how picky I am about my shoes and they only go on my feet.”
Unfortunately, the dating pool is so shallow that I couldn’t drown in it if I was trapped face down under an elephant. Um, hi… aren’t there like 3 billion men in the world? WTF? I’m not the kind of woman who needs a man, but I’m a woman who has needs, and I’d prefer those needs to be met by someone I don’t need to send a doctor’s bill to and can carry on a conversation with that doesn’t include the constant response, “You’re so sexy.”
There is nothing worse than seeing a potentially great guy and finding out he has terrible taste in women. Terrible taste in women includes but is not limited to:
1. Subservient women: Women who will cook, clean, do your laundry, do your errands, wipe your bum and actually enjoy doing it. Also includes younger women and women who appear very young. Men who like this type of women have serious power issues. They also probably have a really small penis.
2. Women with low self-esteem: Chicks who will do just about anything to keep you. Women like this need a man to feel good about themselves, and these men need women to need them to feel good about themselves. Men who like this kind of woman tend to have an inflated ego because they themselves have poor self-esteem and sociopathic tendencies.
3. Women who giggle: Deep breath. Women who giggle make me lose. my. damn. mind. Seriously, I want to punch them. What the hell is so funny? Is that really all you have to offer? Hello, is anyone home? You know how some people say that Joyce’s Ulysses is like literary masturbation? Women who giggle are like relationship masturbation. They are an “empty vessel” if you will- human vaginas. Men who go for these types are so insecure in their own masculinity that they need to be with the emotional equivalent of a four-year old girl to feel like a man. They also tend to be very emotionally distant.
4. Manipulative Women: These are the types of women who are all sweetness at the beginning and then fake a pregnancy to get a ring. These women are craaaaazyyy. Men who stick with manipulative women are either too stupid to realize they’re being manipulated or are so indifferent to life beyond keg-stands that they don’t care.
5. Controlling Women: See also, manipulative women. Women who think they “own” their men and treat them like toddlers. These women castrate their mates, put the balls in their purses, and then force the castrated men to carry the purses. These men clearly enjoy being punished. See also: sadomasochism.
6. Sluts: See also: Women with low self-esteem.
We’ve lost a lot of good men who could have been great men to women like this. Can a man outgrow bad taste in women? Ha. I read somewhere that the problem with men is that they never change and the problem with women is that they constantly change. So it’s the strong women, the smart women, the superstar women who are left without partners. It takes a very extraordinary man to partner an extraordinary woman.
Take for instance, my friend Nicole. Nicole is stunning; she’s in grad school, self-sufficient, built like a brick house, dry as toast and funny as hell. She came to Boston thinking she’d find someone great, someone smart and cultured and mature. What did she get? A homeless man audibly admired her ass on the street last week. So we were talking about it- maybe Boston just doesn’t have any guys… uh yeah right. There are millions of single guys here in Boston. But the ones who aren’t taken or gay are teeming with syphilis. So my little rock star Nicole has nothing better to do on a Thursday night than hear me sing bad karaoke at a piano bar.
Listen up boys: y’all need to get your act together. There are soooo many amazing women in the world, which you know if you interrupted your constant mental stream of “boobies, boobies, boobies...” once in a while and paid attention. I mean, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you seriously happy with these sub-par women you’ve been dating, fucking, and hooking up with? If so, I’m going to need to speak to someone. What, are you intimidated? You don’t think you’re good enough for intelligent, ambitious, gorgeous women? Good! You should be. Because right now you bottom feeders aren’t good enough for great women. But let me tell you something, man up and step up your game. Be good enough.
Cause superstar women are amazing in bed.
You can tell a lot about a man by three things: Ladies, pay attention.
1. His handshake. If he shakes like a cold fish, he’ll fuck like one too.
2. The way he runs. Also a direct indicator of the way a man fucks. That’s why I spend so much time at the pond scoping out runners.
3. His taste in women.
A person’s choice in a mate is one of the most important and telling choices of their life. Some people say, “You can’t choose who you love.” Those people have clearly never been to therapy. Your choice in a mate reflects your self-esteem, your psychological make-up, and the world you want to create for yourself. Like for instance, I want to be black, so I’m going to make babies with a black man. (Someone get the smelling salts- my mom just fainted.) Then there will be little black Kates in the world.
My personal dating history is comically dismal. The only man I’ve attempted to partner with (sex partners don’t count) was a PhD from MIT. It was like holding a winning lottery ticket and then realizing you misread one of the numbers. I’m holding out for something better. Yes, my standards are high, but shouldn’t they be? To quote Cher in Clueless, “You see how picky I am about my shoes and they only go on my feet.”
Unfortunately, the dating pool is so shallow that I couldn’t drown in it if I was trapped face down under an elephant. Um, hi… aren’t there like 3 billion men in the world? WTF? I’m not the kind of woman who needs a man, but I’m a woman who has needs, and I’d prefer those needs to be met by someone I don’t need to send a doctor’s bill to and can carry on a conversation with that doesn’t include the constant response, “You’re so sexy.”
There is nothing worse than seeing a potentially great guy and finding out he has terrible taste in women. Terrible taste in women includes but is not limited to:
1. Subservient women: Women who will cook, clean, do your laundry, do your errands, wipe your bum and actually enjoy doing it. Also includes younger women and women who appear very young. Men who like this type of women have serious power issues. They also probably have a really small penis.
2. Women with low self-esteem: Chicks who will do just about anything to keep you. Women like this need a man to feel good about themselves, and these men need women to need them to feel good about themselves. Men who like this kind of woman tend to have an inflated ego because they themselves have poor self-esteem and sociopathic tendencies.
3. Women who giggle: Deep breath. Women who giggle make me lose. my. damn. mind. Seriously, I want to punch them. What the hell is so funny? Is that really all you have to offer? Hello, is anyone home? You know how some people say that Joyce’s Ulysses is like literary masturbation? Women who giggle are like relationship masturbation. They are an “empty vessel” if you will- human vaginas. Men who go for these types are so insecure in their own masculinity that they need to be with the emotional equivalent of a four-year old girl to feel like a man. They also tend to be very emotionally distant.
4. Manipulative Women: These are the types of women who are all sweetness at the beginning and then fake a pregnancy to get a ring. These women are craaaaazyyy. Men who stick with manipulative women are either too stupid to realize they’re being manipulated or are so indifferent to life beyond keg-stands that they don’t care.
5. Controlling Women: See also, manipulative women. Women who think they “own” their men and treat them like toddlers. These women castrate their mates, put the balls in their purses, and then force the castrated men to carry the purses. These men clearly enjoy being punished. See also: sadomasochism.
6. Sluts: See also: Women with low self-esteem.
We’ve lost a lot of good men who could have been great men to women like this. Can a man outgrow bad taste in women? Ha. I read somewhere that the problem with men is that they never change and the problem with women is that they constantly change. So it’s the strong women, the smart women, the superstar women who are left without partners. It takes a very extraordinary man to partner an extraordinary woman.
Take for instance, my friend Nicole. Nicole is stunning; she’s in grad school, self-sufficient, built like a brick house, dry as toast and funny as hell. She came to Boston thinking she’d find someone great, someone smart and cultured and mature. What did she get? A homeless man audibly admired her ass on the street last week. So we were talking about it- maybe Boston just doesn’t have any guys… uh yeah right. There are millions of single guys here in Boston. But the ones who aren’t taken or gay are teeming with syphilis. So my little rock star Nicole has nothing better to do on a Thursday night than hear me sing bad karaoke at a piano bar.
Listen up boys: y’all need to get your act together. There are soooo many amazing women in the world, which you know if you interrupted your constant mental stream of “boobies, boobies, boobies...” once in a while and paid attention. I mean, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you seriously happy with these sub-par women you’ve been dating, fucking, and hooking up with? If so, I’m going to need to speak to someone. What, are you intimidated? You don’t think you’re good enough for intelligent, ambitious, gorgeous women? Good! You should be. Because right now you bottom feeders aren’t good enough for great women. But let me tell you something, man up and step up your game. Be good enough.
Cause superstar women are amazing in bed.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Sorry, Charlie
As all of you should know by now (I’m sure you saw the sky-writing plane I hired) I have landed my very first book. It’s going to be published. A real book! And of course, since this is my life, it has to be done in about a month… as a final draft. So, I’ve got a lot of work to avoid doing.
The book is called “The College Guide to Making Friends,” and thank you thank you thank you to all of you who are participating in helping me find out exactly how do you make friends? I will be keeping you abreast of the book’s release, which I know for a fact will be in time for the fall semester. Other than that, at this point, everything is pretty much up in the air, including what the hell this book is going to say.
However, since this is kind of important, I have to put the blog on hold for a moment, even though last night’s debut of “Kendra” has given me enough to write about for a year. You all were getting too spoiled with a new article every day anyways. I’ll still do one big Friday article a week because I know you can’t live entirely with me, but for the next little while, at least, you’ll have to try.
I’ll tell you now what I told my ex-boyfriend after I got back from Europe and before I moved to Connecticut: After this, I promise I’ll never leave you again.
The book is called “The College Guide to Making Friends,” and thank you thank you thank you to all of you who are participating in helping me find out exactly how do you make friends? I will be keeping you abreast of the book’s release, which I know for a fact will be in time for the fall semester. Other than that, at this point, everything is pretty much up in the air, including what the hell this book is going to say.
However, since this is kind of important, I have to put the blog on hold for a moment, even though last night’s debut of “Kendra” has given me enough to write about for a year. You all were getting too spoiled with a new article every day anyways. I’ll still do one big Friday article a week because I know you can’t live entirely with me, but for the next little while, at least, you’ll have to try.
I’ll tell you now what I told my ex-boyfriend after I got back from Europe and before I moved to Connecticut: After this, I promise I’ll never leave you again.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Supermom
I had to be at work at 10am the other day. Half of you are saying, oh, that’s nice, you got a little extra time in the morning. The other half of you, who, like me, only work at night (or rarely, if at all), feel my pain. Even with three cups of coffee laced with espresso and speed, my brain does not turn on that early. I don’t know how I ever held down a day job (I’m sure my former bosses will agree). My brain doesn’t fully wake up until about four in the afternoon. And what ends up happening, if I don’t get the five hours I need to wake up slowly and quietly, and if I have to interact with people or do things during that time, I get a little hyper and/or extraordinarily cranky. I apologize to any of you who have ever had to deal with me before noon.
Now, thanks to extended periods of not having anything to do or anywhere to go, I have been able to realize that I need a LOT of peace and quiet. Some may call that selfish. Call it whatever you like (the term selfish when applied to any of my behavior is not a stretch by any means), but I refuse to live without my alone time. Not only do I need audible quiet (silence is heaven) but visual quiet as well. That means everything organized, nothing out of place. If I walk into an extremely disorganized space, my brain explodes and I can’t function. So I help people who somehow don’t understand how to organize- to make the world a better place.
On the day in question when I had to be at work at ten, I was working for a woman I call Supermom. This woman is married to her college sweetheart who comes from money, is super-involved with their kids and works from home doing some genius computer something, she’s traveled all over the world, has a gorgeous sprawling house in the suburbs and a summer house on the Cape, was valedictorian of her class, has a master’s degree from Wharton, worked her way up to being the VP of a MAJOR pharmaceutical company, has three of the sweetest, most intelligent, well-adjusted children you’ll ever meet, and decided to leave her job a year or two ago to spend more time with them. So she immediately started her own consulting company and became the president of the PTA.
I got to work on time that day for perhaps the first time ever, and went upstairs to her office. I haven’t seen her in a while or spent time at the house- I’ve had a project that I “work on” at home (for five hours at a time the night before I told her I’d have it completed). In the span of a few months, not only is she running her own consulting firm, acting as the president of the PTA and fulfilling her various charitable duties, she has joined another consulting firm and is also working freelance.
Supermom wakes up at 5am every morning. She gets on average I would say 4 or 5 hours of sleep a night if she’s lucky. She drinks Diet Coke the way the rest of us breathe air. At any given moment, she’s in the middle of ten things. She is unable to complete thoughts and formulate sentences at times. We can never find a time to meet up, because she has no free time. She’s constantly a half hour late to all appointments and I’m getting anxious just thinking about it. Being in her presence, in this environment, makes me a teensy bit tense. I was at the house for three hours, and I had to take a nap when I got home because I was so exhausted.
On paper, her list of achievements is very impressive- it sounds like she’s got it all. She is the American dream (or is that Paris Hilton…?). She works hard and she achieves. Is this really what everyone is trying to accomplish? Working eighteen hours a day at a job that has no personal significance, having a family that you don’t have any time or energy to spend with, being constantly emotionally and mentally exhausted, and having two homes and a lifestyle you can’t financially keep up with, except to work eighteen hours a day at a job you could have picked out of a hat?
You can keep your dream, America, and if you’d like to know what to do with it, I have a couple of suggestions. I am over $125,000 in debt from trying to play your game. I did the “work 18 hours a day and try to have it all” thing. I had a nervous breakdown. Twice.
If I was to ask Supermom if she's happy, I'm sure she'd tell me that she love her family and the sacrifice is worth it; right before she spontaneously combusts.
Now, thanks to extended periods of not having anything to do or anywhere to go, I have been able to realize that I need a LOT of peace and quiet. Some may call that selfish. Call it whatever you like (the term selfish when applied to any of my behavior is not a stretch by any means), but I refuse to live without my alone time. Not only do I need audible quiet (silence is heaven) but visual quiet as well. That means everything organized, nothing out of place. If I walk into an extremely disorganized space, my brain explodes and I can’t function. So I help people who somehow don’t understand how to organize- to make the world a better place.
On the day in question when I had to be at work at ten, I was working for a woman I call Supermom. This woman is married to her college sweetheart who comes from money, is super-involved with their kids and works from home doing some genius computer something, she’s traveled all over the world, has a gorgeous sprawling house in the suburbs and a summer house on the Cape, was valedictorian of her class, has a master’s degree from Wharton, worked her way up to being the VP of a MAJOR pharmaceutical company, has three of the sweetest, most intelligent, well-adjusted children you’ll ever meet, and decided to leave her job a year or two ago to spend more time with them. So she immediately started her own consulting company and became the president of the PTA.
I got to work on time that day for perhaps the first time ever, and went upstairs to her office. I haven’t seen her in a while or spent time at the house- I’ve had a project that I “work on” at home (for five hours at a time the night before I told her I’d have it completed). In the span of a few months, not only is she running her own consulting firm, acting as the president of the PTA and fulfilling her various charitable duties, she has joined another consulting firm and is also working freelance.
Supermom wakes up at 5am every morning. She gets on average I would say 4 or 5 hours of sleep a night if she’s lucky. She drinks Diet Coke the way the rest of us breathe air. At any given moment, she’s in the middle of ten things. She is unable to complete thoughts and formulate sentences at times. We can never find a time to meet up, because she has no free time. She’s constantly a half hour late to all appointments and I’m getting anxious just thinking about it. Being in her presence, in this environment, makes me a teensy bit tense. I was at the house for three hours, and I had to take a nap when I got home because I was so exhausted.
On paper, her list of achievements is very impressive- it sounds like she’s got it all. She is the American dream (or is that Paris Hilton…?). She works hard and she achieves. Is this really what everyone is trying to accomplish? Working eighteen hours a day at a job that has no personal significance, having a family that you don’t have any time or energy to spend with, being constantly emotionally and mentally exhausted, and having two homes and a lifestyle you can’t financially keep up with, except to work eighteen hours a day at a job you could have picked out of a hat?
You can keep your dream, America, and if you’d like to know what to do with it, I have a couple of suggestions. I am over $125,000 in debt from trying to play your game. I did the “work 18 hours a day and try to have it all” thing. I had a nervous breakdown. Twice.
If I was to ask Supermom if she's happy, I'm sure she'd tell me that she love her family and the sacrifice is worth it; right before she spontaneously combusts.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
The Doctor is In
I was told yesterday that I have no business giving relationship advice. I know; I’m as shocked as you are. This was not, mind you, from a dissatisfied customer, it was said to me by a wanna-be psychiatrist friend of mine (and by wanna-be, I mean diploma-in-hand and getting certified). This is also the same man who applauded me for NOT making a joke when someone made a comment about coming through the “back door.” So, I don’t know how much to trust his judgment.
He happens to be happily married, whatever that means. The idea of being “happily married” for me is like being chained to a radiator in an igloo. People in healthy relationships are like people who are naturally tall and skinny- nobody likes you very much, and nobody wants to hear what you have to say. At least, I don’t.
People want advice from people who have experience, i.e. have made a lot of mistakes. And in this way, I am uniquely qualified to give relationship advice (actually, in this way, I am qualified to give advice on pretty much everything). Besides, people wouldn’t ask for my advice if they didn’t want to hear it. It’s like when my boss asked my opinion on the “Miss California” debacle. You may not know what I’m going to say, but I’m sure you have a pretty good idea before you ask.
Besides, not everyone wants to hear, “you’ll work it out.” It takes a very brave, truth-seeking (or mayhaps the masochistic) person to ask for my advice about relationships. Because I’m not going to tell you to work it out. I’m concerned about your ultimate well-being, not your transient happiness. I’m not sure you can work it out, and I’m not sure you should even try. It depends on the relationship, but I’m probably going to tell you to break up. Chances are, I’ve been in a similar situation, because I’ve been through a lot of shitty relationships. So I know the territory. And I know how to get you out.
I salute you, brave people who ask for my relationship advice. But I recognize my limitations (occasionally). I cannot tell you how to have a healthy relationship, I can only tell you how not to have an unhealthy relationship. So, for your benefit, I’ve decided to team up with my happy and healthy doctor friend to write a book on relationships. Because you need options, and everyone sees things differently. So you’ll have his well-adjusted clinically approved opinion, and the benefit of my fucked up experience.
He suggests we title the book, “Total Opposites.”
He happens to be happily married, whatever that means. The idea of being “happily married” for me is like being chained to a radiator in an igloo. People in healthy relationships are like people who are naturally tall and skinny- nobody likes you very much, and nobody wants to hear what you have to say. At least, I don’t.
People want advice from people who have experience, i.e. have made a lot of mistakes. And in this way, I am uniquely qualified to give relationship advice (actually, in this way, I am qualified to give advice on pretty much everything). Besides, people wouldn’t ask for my advice if they didn’t want to hear it. It’s like when my boss asked my opinion on the “Miss California” debacle. You may not know what I’m going to say, but I’m sure you have a pretty good idea before you ask.
Besides, not everyone wants to hear, “you’ll work it out.” It takes a very brave, truth-seeking (or mayhaps the masochistic) person to ask for my advice about relationships. Because I’m not going to tell you to work it out. I’m concerned about your ultimate well-being, not your transient happiness. I’m not sure you can work it out, and I’m not sure you should even try. It depends on the relationship, but I’m probably going to tell you to break up. Chances are, I’ve been in a similar situation, because I’ve been through a lot of shitty relationships. So I know the territory. And I know how to get you out.
I salute you, brave people who ask for my relationship advice. But I recognize my limitations (occasionally). I cannot tell you how to have a healthy relationship, I can only tell you how not to have an unhealthy relationship. So, for your benefit, I’ve decided to team up with my happy and healthy doctor friend to write a book on relationships. Because you need options, and everyone sees things differently. So you’ll have his well-adjusted clinically approved opinion, and the benefit of my fucked up experience.
He suggests we title the book, “Total Opposites.”
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Importance of Straight Male Friends
I talk a lot about my love for the gay male population. Gay men are just about the best thing that ever happened to straight women. They’re intelligent, witty, have great taste in musicals, like to shop, dress well, and the more fabulous you are, the more they adore you. I want to live in a society where fabulosity is rewarded.
However, there is one small problem… The gays won’t sleep with us (well… sometimes some of the gays will sleep with some of us, but that is another article altogether). And since women, unfortunately, are not yet biologically wired to handle merely physical relationships, we must interact with the non-gays; aka the “guys.”
I was always one of the guys; until it became quite physically obvious that I was not. As a kid, all my friends were boys. I was not interested in playing “house” or “dolls” and I’m still not. It’s so difficult to find chicks that are cool, and I honestly prefer running around and getting dirty. But as soon as I got my boobies, I got kicked out of the “guy” club.
A male-female relationship always begs the question, Sex? With the gay males, you know exactly where you stand. Love, yes. Sex, no. Women tend to be generally ok with this kind of relationship (see also: marriage). But if I may paraphrase Carrie’s mother (Carrie the telekinetic, not Carrie the writer), “First the blood, then the boys…” They’re constantly sniffing around us, like dogs. “Sex? Sex? Sniff, sniff. Sex?” They stick their snouts in the most inappropriate places.
But if you’re lucky enough to move past the sniffing, straight guys are great to hang out with. Women seldom discover this because either they’re grossed out by the sniffing, or they’re scouting for potential mates. One of the reasons males and females have such a hard time understanding each other (besides that women don’t like being sniffed and men don’t like being scouted) is because once we all hit puberty we become very guarded in our interactions with one another. There is probably good reason for this because I’ve been told by a number of men that if we ever really knew what they talked about it would blow our minds. I’m pretty filthy and they won’t even tell me, so it can’t be good.
But every great once in a while, its great to set aside the question of Sex?, get a beer (or 8) and just be people. Once Sex? is out of the way, everyone can just relax and have a good time. Ladies, when you’re not measuring their flaws against some imaginary “ideal man” straight guys are pretty cool. And gentlemen, there are people trapped under these boobies. Everyone likes to be liked just for them. So can we all please just forget about sex every once in a while and hang out?
However, there is one small problem… The gays won’t sleep with us (well… sometimes some of the gays will sleep with some of us, but that is another article altogether). And since women, unfortunately, are not yet biologically wired to handle merely physical relationships, we must interact with the non-gays; aka the “guys.”
I was always one of the guys; until it became quite physically obvious that I was not. As a kid, all my friends were boys. I was not interested in playing “house” or “dolls” and I’m still not. It’s so difficult to find chicks that are cool, and I honestly prefer running around and getting dirty. But as soon as I got my boobies, I got kicked out of the “guy” club.
A male-female relationship always begs the question, Sex? With the gay males, you know exactly where you stand. Love, yes. Sex, no. Women tend to be generally ok with this kind of relationship (see also: marriage). But if I may paraphrase Carrie’s mother (Carrie the telekinetic, not Carrie the writer), “First the blood, then the boys…” They’re constantly sniffing around us, like dogs. “Sex? Sex? Sniff, sniff. Sex?” They stick their snouts in the most inappropriate places.
But if you’re lucky enough to move past the sniffing, straight guys are great to hang out with. Women seldom discover this because either they’re grossed out by the sniffing, or they’re scouting for potential mates. One of the reasons males and females have such a hard time understanding each other (besides that women don’t like being sniffed and men don’t like being scouted) is because once we all hit puberty we become very guarded in our interactions with one another. There is probably good reason for this because I’ve been told by a number of men that if we ever really knew what they talked about it would blow our minds. I’m pretty filthy and they won’t even tell me, so it can’t be good.
But every great once in a while, its great to set aside the question of Sex?, get a beer (or 8) and just be people. Once Sex? is out of the way, everyone can just relax and have a good time. Ladies, when you’re not measuring their flaws against some imaginary “ideal man” straight guys are pretty cool. And gentlemen, there are people trapped under these boobies. Everyone likes to be liked just for them. So can we all please just forget about sex every once in a while and hang out?
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Frugality is an Ugly Word
Frugal is pretty much one of my least favorite words. It’s not even pretty. Fruuu-gal. Bleh. It sounds like the name of an ugly Germanic Troll. In action, it’s even less beautiful. There is a lot to be said for simplicity, but frugality is like simplicity’s evil stepsister. Simplicity allows for function and beauty, but frugality is all about denial and subsistence.
I mean, I appreciate being poor, because when one day I actually do have money (and unicorns roam the earth) I won’t waste it. I won’t stuff my home with useless things, like 47 soccer balls or every DVD at Target, although I may occasionally splurge on an antique typewriter. It’s called lifestyle for a reason.
It’s nice to have nice things. Not that I’m living in the lap of luxury here by any means, but sometimes it’s all about the little things. I finally ran out of Clinique astringent. This is, as my friend Eli would say, a Greek tragedy. I think one of the reasons I never really had problems with my skin is because I’ve been using the Clinique skincare line religiously since I was 12. The stuff is magical. But I sooo do not have $25 for astringent right now (although amazingly I did have $25 for a pitcher of beer the other night… it’s about priorities people).
What I do have is a three year old half-empty bottle of witch hazel, left over from when my ex was convinced that we could make Clinique astringent at home for a fraction of the cost by merely reading the ingredients. He was wrong. By the way, frugal was one of his favorite words. Clearly, that match was not meant to last.
I’m all about DIY. I generally don’t buy anything I can make myself. But a superior product is a superior product. Does the witch hazel work better than Clinique? Hell no. Does it cost practically nothing? Sure does. That is Frugality’s ugly little joke on us.
However, desperate times call for desperate measures. So I’ll suck it up for now and make do. I just hope I’m not forced to make my own mouthwash next.
I mean, I appreciate being poor, because when one day I actually do have money (and unicorns roam the earth) I won’t waste it. I won’t stuff my home with useless things, like 47 soccer balls or every DVD at Target, although I may occasionally splurge on an antique typewriter. It’s called lifestyle for a reason.
It’s nice to have nice things. Not that I’m living in the lap of luxury here by any means, but sometimes it’s all about the little things. I finally ran out of Clinique astringent. This is, as my friend Eli would say, a Greek tragedy. I think one of the reasons I never really had problems with my skin is because I’ve been using the Clinique skincare line religiously since I was 12. The stuff is magical. But I sooo do not have $25 for astringent right now (although amazingly I did have $25 for a pitcher of beer the other night… it’s about priorities people).
What I do have is a three year old half-empty bottle of witch hazel, left over from when my ex was convinced that we could make Clinique astringent at home for a fraction of the cost by merely reading the ingredients. He was wrong. By the way, frugal was one of his favorite words. Clearly, that match was not meant to last.
I’m all about DIY. I generally don’t buy anything I can make myself. But a superior product is a superior product. Does the witch hazel work better than Clinique? Hell no. Does it cost practically nothing? Sure does. That is Frugality’s ugly little joke on us.
However, desperate times call for desperate measures. So I’ll suck it up for now and make do. I just hope I’m not forced to make my own mouthwash next.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Delesbianicious
I have created a new word. Delesbianicious. Let’s break it down for you.
De- from the Latin, meaning: yummy.
Lesbian- from the Greek, meaning: girl on girl action.
Icious- from the colloquial Mandarin, meaning: chock full of.
Delesbianicious: adj. Ghetto American English. Desirable hot lesbian action.
I created this new word after singing “Take Me or Leave Me,” with my new friend Ally at the piano bar. Because we were so good, I had to create a word for how good we were. We were delesbianicious.
The beautiful thing about this new word is that you don’t have be a lesbian to use it. You just have to appreciate hot lesbian action for the beautiful thing that it is. Because truly hot lesbian action is a rare thing and it is delesbianicious. Try to use it in a sentence today.
So there you are, Merriam and Webster. I’ve made my contribution. Chelsea Lately’s Lexicon can lick my nine.
De- from the Latin, meaning: yummy.
Lesbian- from the Greek, meaning: girl on girl action.
Icious- from the colloquial Mandarin, meaning: chock full of.
Delesbianicious: adj. Ghetto American English. Desirable hot lesbian action.
I created this new word after singing “Take Me or Leave Me,” with my new friend Ally at the piano bar. Because we were so good, I had to create a word for how good we were. We were delesbianicious.
The beautiful thing about this new word is that you don’t have be a lesbian to use it. You just have to appreciate hot lesbian action for the beautiful thing that it is. Because truly hot lesbian action is a rare thing and it is delesbianicious. Try to use it in a sentence today.
So there you are, Merriam and Webster. I’ve made my contribution. Chelsea Lately’s Lexicon can lick my nine.
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