There’s a Chris Rock bit where he talks about men talking too damn much and ruining a woman’s desire to fuck them — “You say the wrong thing, them panties are comin’ up mighty fast. A woman wants to fuck you? Shut up, let it happen.”
(I’m QUITE sure this also happens when women talk too much to men — I have most assuredly DONE it, I know my own.)
But I went out tonight to see a friend’s band play at my local townie bar, and immediately wanted to bang one of the singers — hot, glasses, tattoos, super muscle-y arms that could throw me all around… UNF.
But then dude started talking. And during the course of his performance, he said someone had “killed hisself,” and he also dabbled in some light “jokey” homophobia AND as a bonus, mocked his friend for saying something kinda intellectual-like — you know how we hate all that book learnin’.
Also, he swore so much that even *I* was like, “GodDAMN, man. You wanna fuckin’ dial that back?”
So. Alas, tonight was not the night I lured an unsuspecting male back to my lair. But hope springs eternal!
I don’t think I ever roll my eyes harder than when a man on OkCupid comes at me with “Hello beautiful” (<– Lack of punctuation his, not mine.)
First, I HAVE a name. It’s in my profile. Twice.
Also, I’m 41, so please don’t make me quote Meghan Trainor: “Call me beautiful, so original, tellin’ me I’m not like other girls…”
I’m cute, dude. It’s OK, I know my lane. “Beautiful” seems to be some sort of résumé keyword men* say to average-looking chicks, assuming we all want to hear it and it’ll fast-track them into our draw’s.
BTW, it hadn’t occurred to me that “not like other girls” was a line until I heard this song. In hindsight, it makes sense—I am a special little lady snowflake…just like everybody else. My deep-seated desperation to feel unique is probably evident, so of course men would use it to infiltrate.
P.S. If I ever write a book, I’m calling it “Little Lady Snowflake.”
Dispatches From the Department of Why I Don’t Have Children:
I almost never iron my clothes, so I don’t own an ironing board. This morning my shirt was a bit wrinkled…possibly because I keep clean clothes in a pile on the other side of my bed where a man should be, because I am too lazy to hang them up.
So I ironed the shirt using the living room carpet as an ironing board.
I was wearing underwear and my deodorant shirt — a beer-branded fitted tee I wear while doing my hair and makeup so any rogue deodorant marks get on THAT shirt rather than the shirt I wear to work.
I was also running late for work, and listening to a song about S&M at full volume.
Do they have a Kidz Bop “S&M?” I guess I could compromise. FOR THE CHILDREN.
I just heard “Livin’ on a Prayer” on my Internet radio at work, and even though actually dancing on my desk is frowned upon, there was some serious gyrating and hair tossing in my head, and my desk chair got the ride of its life.