“What Not to Wear” — THAT. Don’t wear THAT. 

Aunt: “You look good, your outfit looks like an Ann Taylor ad.”

Me, aloud: “Thanks!”

Me, mentally: “Your outfit looks like ‘I have questions.'”

Praise be to any/all deities for providing me so many years of What Not to Wear, and other external influences to counteract an apparently genetic inclination to hide one’s body in giant clothes, or wear sweatpants to family parties.

P.S. I am a petty and small person. 

I’m not laid-back…unless you lay me back. Hey-o!

A man sent me an intro message on OkCupid that said, “I can tell from your profile that you’re very laid back, which I like in a woman.”

Um… no, I’m totally not.

The insanely thorough profile doesn’t really scream “Cool Girl,” does it? How’d you arrive at that? Show your work.

Also, when you say you like “laid-back” women, I’m reading that you like women who won’t bug you too much, because “BITCHES, man, amirite?”

NOPE. I don’t care about things some men seem to assume all women do. I won’t try to make you watch The Notebook or come to my yoga class or go shopping with me. (I’d actually prefer you didn’t.) But you’ll definitely know when something’s important to me. An ex of mine said I “hint with a hammer” — subtlety isn’t really my deal.

I also drink too much coffee and take a crack-based drug for ADD, so I’m almost always jittery. Plus I have massive trust issues, and assume fight stance quick when I think someone’s testing them — my brain basically turns into River Tam toward the end of Serenity, beating the shit out of the Reavers.

I am high-the-fuck-strung, sir.

Again, George Carlin says it better: “I’m not ‘laid-back,’ and I’m certainly not ‘mellow.’ I associate those qualities with the comatose. The solar system wasn’t formed because matter was laid-back; life didn’t arise from the oceans and humans descend from the trees because DNA was mellow. It happened because of something called ENERGY.”

Oh, no, “O”…

Based on my limited experience, it’s not usually his heart that’s cheating, is it, O Magazine?

I’ve never had a cheating man ask me to stroke his heart. They don’t text at 3 a.m. looking for deep, penetrating…heart-to-heart conversation.

But I guess “his cheating dick” was kinda inappropes for the supermarket checkout.

(Again, limited experience. My heart has cheated, I’m sure others’ have, too.)

The politics of sexual slang

Google News: Keepin’ it classy since…well, about an hour ago, apparently:
Screen Shot 2016-09-14 at 3.11.10 PM.png

But I question Powell’s word choice. I know he’s probably not up on the latest locker room slang, but I’ve literally never heard anyone say they were “dicking” someone. I’ve said I was “dicking around,” meaning procrastinating or wasting time. But when it comes (heh) to sex, you’re fucking someone. Screwing. Banging. Nailing.

Here, wait… George Carlin can cover it more thoroughly: “Fuck, screw, lay, diddle, push, plow, hump, cut, bang, poke, batter, wham, beef injection, vitamin F, knock up, put out, dip your wick, hide the salami, laying pipe, polishing your rocket, squattin’ on the hawg, getting your pole varnished, a quickie, a nooner, a matinee, pop your cookies, bust your nuts, get your rocks off, bananas and cream, piece of ass, nookie, poontang.”

The State of the Stupid Address

Last night I checked out the profile of a man who lives in Hella Far, NJ, but didn’t say anything, ’cause…Hella Far. Plus I just wasn’t interested.

But OkCupid shows you who’s viewed your profile, so today he looked at mine, then sent this message: “You seem very cool, but you are quite far away…ideas??”

Well, um… My idea was to not talk to you. That seemed like a solid solution. But OK, cool — BRB, have to go change geography or build a teleporter.