I just realized I’ve given my refrigerator a PMS shelf. I think eggs are supposed to go there, but instead I’ve stocked it with fresh mozzarella cheese that I sprinkle salt on, extra sharp cheddar, peanut butter cups, and sea-salt caramel chocolate.
If Fridgidaire ever figures this out, they’ll probably market it and make the shelf pink with sparkles and shit on it. I can see it now — it’ll be labeled “mommy’s special shelf” or some such nonsense. Or, OR… They’ll label it “veggies” and the commercial will show a knowing mom winking at the camera as she takes out her secret stash of hormonal adjustment, because “Ha ha, kids never want the veggies, amirite, moms?! Stereotypes are fun!”
For fuck’s sake, y’all… That could HAPPEN! Oh, wait… No, it couldn’t. We can’t acknowledge menstruation, except in ads for feminine care. And those are totally reality-based, what with the devil-may-care white pants and joyous frolicking through fields.
There’s something incredibly depressing about cleaning your apartment and finding expired condoms.
Like the universe is saying, “Really? Condoms are good for years! You couldn’t find anyone to fuck you? Ha ha, you’re undesirable.”
(Oh, yeah, the universe can be a complete asshole.)
“No offense, I mean, I know everyone digs your sister, but, um…she’s without.”
— Patrick Verona, 10 Things I Hate About You
No, no, New Lad. You’re on the wrong page of the “How to Care for Your Singleton” manual. You’re in the Appendix of Antonyms, the things that give her anxiety attacks.
Please refer to page 3, subsection 8, the list titled “Quick Fixes,” and apply any of the following easy remedies: ice cream; Mexican food; ice cream shaped like Mexican food (see also the Choco Taco Corollary); a not-too-girlie girlie martini; a 15-minute hug with no sexual intention; or a book deal.
The other day I got high-fived for figuring out (in 2 minutes) how to turn on a man’s TV and sound system without assistance, despite the warning: “It’s really complicated, my parents and ex both needed me to do it for them.”
1. Fuck you.
2. What kinda dumbass triflin’ bitches have been up in here trying to operate your shit? They’re power buttons, not a goddamn space shuttle.
3. I lived with a nerd (term of endearment) for years — I dabble in your language, dickweed (NOT a term of endearment).
Something about the whole exchange felt condescending, like you’re impressed that a mere woman can figure out how to handle three big, manly remote controls. Ease back, Freud — I got this.
Or I’m just a bitch.
Part of the fun of this page is that I get to Google Pavlov’s experiments in relation to my clitoris. Even if the joke didn’t quite work, it still amuses me that I connected the two. In fact, I’m not sure what “Pavlovagina” would mean, exactly, but I think we can all agree it should mean something.
(If you wondered, this was the joke: “I’m reasonably sure this all has something to do with with going from an ex who couldn’t orgasm, even on her own, to ME. Now it’s like he’s one of Pavlov’s dogs and my clitoris is the bell. Like he gets a treat every time he sets it off.”)
It’s as if the universe gave me this “relationship” just to show me what a passive-aggressive asshole I can be, like I’m supposed to see everything I hate about myself.
Um… The more you know…?
I’m not this time, he is. But it’s irritating and flummoxing.
This is why, though I’m looking for *some* commonality, I really can’t date someone who’s JUST like me, personality-wise. Because I can be kind of a dick.
I’d like to take a moment and give props every grown-ass man who’s ever checked out my rack without grinning like a 10-year-old boy seeing boobies for the first time.
I didn’t even know it was possible, but apparently some of y’all are just that impressed, even just by cleavage. They’re boobs. Lots of us have ’em. (Hell, go to an amusement park or a beach — lots of YOU have ’em!) I know you like them, but goddamn with the gawping. I’m not your mom, they’re not a food source.
I don’t mind if you look, guys. I actually love that you look. But I can’t let you fuck me if my brain just decided that you’re 10. I have, like, six boundaries, and that’s a big one.
If you need to ogle, I’m fine with it, but for heaven’s sake, be cool about it! Or, more importantly, we’re adults, and we’ve had sex. You want to see them? You should know what it takes by now to get me topless. (Fun fact: it ain’t much.)
P.S. If I’m calling you juvenile? You can take that shit to the bank. I still laugh like Beavis every time anyone says “balls.” I know from immaturity.
I talk a good game but seriously can’t believe what a spineless twit I’m sometimes capable of being.
I can’t speak for all women, but for me, gentlemen:
Until you present me with your degree in gynecology, or until we become Cool Like That, please don’t tell me that anything about my menstrual cycle (or my body in general) “seems unusual.”
I’ve already said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why this is happening.” Could you NOT make the hormonally-challenged woman feel even worse?
P.S. You realize now that you’ve forced me to contemplate a Weird-Al-style song parody of Tom Jones’ “It’s Not Unusual” about my period. It just has to be done. The Men’s League is gonna get you for this one.