A “friend” told me I could get the guys at the Apple Store to fix my phone for free if I wore a low-cut shirt when I went in.
1. I think this #YesAllWomen thing is working, y’all!
2. I hate that I’m half convinced he’s right, and half concerned my cleavage isn’t impressive enough to get me free stuff.
3. I think Apple dudes are above that, though. We’re not talking Lewis and Booger here — I think nerds* are embracing their power a little more now that we all have tiny computers in our pockets. We’re pretty much at their mercy and they know it. Plus, the guys at the Genius Bar could see much more than cleavage on their phones and rub one out in the store’s bathroom during their 15-minute break if shit really got dire — they don’t need ME. So as far as leverage, I think tech support > my tits. (Mine personally. Maybe yours can be exchanged for goods and services, and if so, good on you!)
3. Much as I’d love to tell you I’m totally offended because I’m such a great feminist and I’m better than that and “OMG, THE SISTERHOOD…” If that worked? I’d let it work. Fuck it, I’m broke. I’m not shattering a glass ceiling with a shattered iPhone — “That’s just… the rules of feminism.” They’re gonna look at my boobs no matter what. I’m sure as shit not giving them my money, too, if I don’t have to.
What, you’ve never seen a hypocrite before?
* I use “nerd” in the most loving connotation. Ain’t nothin’ sexier than a man who’ll fix my hard drive and then let me fix his. I’m a nerd hag. The Genius Bar is my meat market.
So apparently being separated from your “spouse” for over a year does not mean you won’t worry just a little that they’re dead in a ditch when they don’t answer your text for more than 12 hours.
Ahem. OK, NOW y’all can call me unhealthy and codependent.
In my defense, I’d worry about close friends, too, but there’d be less “dead” in my concern. I have not yet followed up or called, so I’m still semi-rational. Tomorrow, though? If you hear reports of massive apeshit coming out of the East Coast? That’s me, sorry.
P.S. I’m also reasonably sure that if anything HAD happened, his family would call me. So that’s tamping down the Crazy.
The label on my “nighttime” moisturizer specifies that it “works well under makeup.”
Because clearly my bedmate would be so repulsed by my bare face that I should consider investing in a bedtime color palette? At least a light foundation, Jesus. I can’t let him see…my FACE. Horrors!
Or, a more likely subtext: “We know you’re a half-assed adult and don’t wash your face before bed half the time. So when you invariably screw up and end up using this product in the morning? Neutrogena has your back!”
Friend 1: “I feel like in the last few years I’m really ‘feeling’ my hormones.” Friend 2: “I spent the better part of this morning crying. I’m ovulating. I am my hormones’ bitch.” Me: “I always feel hormonal, too. It’s new, I didn’t used to. It’s fucking irritating. I might have to accept that I’m just insane. To that end, I want low-dose Zoloft in my drinking water.” Friend 1: “That would be amazing! In the Divergent series, one of the factions basically does that. They put some calming drug in the bread to keep the people calm and happy.” Me: “They do it in Serenity, too, in the air. Everyone dies, though, so results may vary, I guess.” Friend 2: “And some become crazy murder machines. I’m still 15 minutes away from finishing Divergent book one. I had to get past my anger at a character death I knew was coming. Internet spoilers. :(” Friend 1: “Stupid internet. What’s it good for?” Me: “Porn? Passive aggression? More porn?” Friend 2: “Time wasting? And yes, SO MUCH PORN.” Friend 1: “Porn is awesome.”
I’ve posted this before, but it’s just the perfect morning for it to come up on the iPod shuffle and remind me what’s what. Thanks, Universe.
“How can I deal with this, if he won’t get with this?
Am I gonna heal from this? He won’t admit to it.
Nothing to figure out; I gotta get him out.
It’s time the truth was out that he don’t give a shit about me.”