If you have to ask for a woman’s opinion because you need a “female perspective,” know that the only thing that’s different from my standpoint is that I can look down and see my tits whenever I feel like it.
When compared with John’s view of the world, what makes my position more interesting/special/important than Charles’s?* Nothing. Sure, I’ve birthed humans, and yeah, I’ve been forced by society to wear makeup every day, cross my legs when I sit, wear a bra no matter what, deal with subtle and blatant sexism, wear pantyhose, thank men for holding doors open (even though they only did it so they could check out my rack as well as my ass), curb my sexual appetite so as not to appear unladylike, and be heartily accepting of the “boys will be boys” mentality…
Hold on. If I had a penis, I wouldn’t have to deal with all of that? People wouldn’t tell me that I was good at something for a girl? Maybe there IS something that separates my life experiences from those of men. …Maybe.
But I can stare at my tits all day if I want to. 🙂
Your move, gents.
* Yes, it’s Charles’s (with an apostrophe followed by an s). Don’t try to cross me on this.
If you have to be good at something, be a big fish in a small pond. Instead of trying to create a large impact, make a unique impact.
What’s the best kind of beer?
Basic garbage humans will sing the praises of Bud Light, 30-somethings get nostalgic when they see a Corona, poor and/or ugly people claim to like Coors Light, Europhiles are into Guinness, and every man on the brink of a midlife crisis is in love with one craft beer or another. Oh, and my mother drinks O’Doul’s because she says she enjoys the taste.
The point here is that people have different preferences, whether they’re weird (Corona), gross (Bud Light), or wrong (O’Doul’s). The same holds true for chocolate chip cookies. People prefer different types of chocolate chip cookies: weird (with pecans), gross (with dark chocolate chips), or wrong (crunchy cookies).
Trying to make a universally loved chocolate chip cookie is an exercise in futility. The mere fact that people have all of these silly preferences means that you can’t make everyone happy all the time.
You want a cookie? I’ll bake you a batch of soft, melt-in-your-mouth, sea salt caramel cookies. I’ll create some blueberry white chocolate oatmeal cookies. I’ll make some butterscotch cookies you’ll never forget.
I’m not saying that unique = awesome, but I will say that giving people something unexpected rather than just giving them your version of the “best” of something ordinary may just pay big dividends in the long run.
If you have to hate someone, I’ve always said that you should do it for a legitimate (but completely arbitrary) reason. The following examples are groups of people who do not get enough seething rage, discrimination, and hatred from society, though they probably deserve it:
- Stilettoism: hatred for women who lack the necessary ankle strength and/or balancing ability, but insist on wearing high heels anyway.
- Nicknameism: discriminating against those people who make their nicknames hard to spell. (Like, I get that your parents named you Mikaylah–and I hate them for that, but I hate you because you nicknamed yourself “Mikkiyee.”)
- Stretchism: disgust for people who stretch any time and every time they’re standing still. (Get your leg off the back of the couch, Anna, and stop bending over.)
- Unintentional BJ-ism: hating on people who, during business meetings, drink water from bottles that are, like, big sippy cups with the fat straws that you have to compress to suck. (No one can concentrate on strategic planning while Tim is performing oral on his water bottle. Especially when he hasn’t broken eye contact with Ron for twenty seconds.)
- Garbagehumanism: discriminating against people who listen to country music.
- Doggy bag at the table eater-ism: anger toward people who, before the meal, ask for half their dinner to be boxed as leftovers, and then open the box and start picking at it while the rest of us eat from our plates like normal people, Janet.
- Non sequiturism*: hating those people who have to jump into EVERY SINGLE CONVERSATION with some off-the-wall, ridiculous bullshit. (“Did you know that the Brazil nut is not, in fact, a nut?” Shut the fuck up, Chad!)
*Fun fact: my phone tried to autocorrect that to “non sequin urinalysis,” which obviously makes more sense. (I blame Chad.)
If you have to hang out with me (okay, that makes it sound like it’s a bad thing, but IRL, I’m actually not the bitch I purport myself to be in this blog), know that I get bored very, VERY easily.
Here’s this thing I’ve discovered about people as of late… when it comes to activity, there are the following types of people:
- Gets bored very easily and lacks the coping mechanisms to deal with it, and therefore seeks out any and all ways to escape the vacuous hellhole otherwise known as just sitting there with nothing to do. This is me. When I go into a situation (social or otherwise), I always try to find an out. Whether that’s finding the actual door to exit the place, figuring out how I can talk to the most interesting person in the room, or planning to get one more drink to force the fun, I find a way to make the situation less boring.
- Gets kinda bored sometimes, but can deal with it though various methods–thinking, being creative, going on Facebook, etc. Good for you people, really. While I’m tapping my foot at the doctor’s office while fantasizing about punching the nurse who I swear keeps moving my name to the bottom of the list, you people are posting endlessly fascinating little tidbits on your wall. (That’s what it’s called on Facebook, right? Sounds fucking thrilling.)
- Rarely gets bored because they take joy in solitude. They actually enjoy sitting at a coffee shop. Alone. And they ponder shit while they sit there. By themselves. Alone. And they like it. Because they’re strange.
- Is never bored because these weirdos clearly have the IQ of dirt and are actually entertained by the minutiae of everyday life. Like, they are jazzed to literally watch paint dry and/or drool on themselves and/or watch other people play golf.
So I’m bored now. Bye.
(Exit is this-a way.) —->
If you have to talk about soy, you can’t just say “soy.”
Soybeans, soy sauce, soy milk, soy nuts… All of these things need qualifiers. Why? Soy is a little bitch who isn’t taken seriously. “Soy” means “I am” in Spanish. Soy stuff just whines “but I AM beans” and “I AM milk,” even though we know that shit ain’t legit.
Soy mimics estrogen in the body, so it’s like taking a big ol’ dose of female hormones. Extensive research that I’m pretending actually happened supports the idea that consuming soy will make you a whiny little bitch, too.
Eat real food. Meat is meat, but soy burgers are sitting around trying to Stuart Smalley themselves so you’ll be fooled into thinking they’re actual food.
If you have to define people by a characteristic or a personality trait, make it something arbitrary–just for fun.
Historically, we’ve defined/segregated/excluded/persecuted groups of people based upon sex, color of skin, country of origin, religion, intelligence (think eugenics)… Currently, our national obsession is drawing lines among us due to sexual preference and/or proclivity. It’s kind of ridiculous.
I’m either super-duper naïve or super-duper whatever the opposite of naïve is, but why in the world do we have to draw lines? Why can’t we all just be people? Why does someone have to be a single-ish, semi-queer identifying–but totes gay on Thursday nights and asexual between 2 and 4 PM on weekends, Pacific Islander American, Christian Anarchist Scientific Kabbalah Monster? To me, you’re Jason with the quick wit who is the only one who has the guts to eat the last cookie. I couldn’t give a shit who you go home to at the end of the night, I don’t care exactly what shade of taupe/beige/brown/fuchsia your skin is, and as long as you’re not trying to get me to join a cult, I’m cool with you believing whatever you want to believe.
It’s time to start hating on groups of people for legitimate reasons.
- Is your ring finger longer than your index finger? You’re spending the rest of your life on an island with other freaks like yourself.
- Did you just look to see if you qualified for the finger thing? There’s a separate island for you. Buh-bye.
- Are you one of those people who “accidentally” tells me what happens on Scandal before I’ve had time to catch up on Netflix? The hairs on your head will be individually plucked until you renounce your stupidity.
- Notre Dame fan? You’ll be executed at dawn.
It’s just that simple, folks. Make sure your hate is based on real, important, non-ephemeral things. And get me some tweezers for Sarah’s hair-plucking.
If you have to own a pet, please remember that it is not a human. You shouldn’t take a day off work because Mr. Whiskers is feeling a little blue. You should never feel that it’s appropriate to ask if you can bring your dog to the company picnic. When people ask about your family, please recognize that, even though you adopted your orange tabby-poodle mix (taboodle? is that a thing?), it is not an actual relative.
There aren’t “cat people” and “dog people.” There are two distinct types of pet owners: a) people who like hair/fur/dander/stench all over everything, b) and people who own fish.
I see the sad people trudging down the icy sidewalks in the mornings, pooper scoopers in hand, while large dogs try to find a place to do their business. I’ve walked into homes and felt stinging pain in my eyes and nose as I realize they have a cat (or seven?) even before the fanged hairball rubs against my leg in an affront to my black pants.
I suppose I have a bit of trouble finding the joy in all of that. Does your house feel lonely? Get Amazon Echo. Like warm and fuzzy things? Buy an electric blanket… That way, when your blanket starts acting funny, you don’t have to take it to the vet; you can just throw it away and buy a new one instead of having a funeral for Fluffy!
Also, those of you who think you’re being slick by naming your cat Kevin so people will think you’re talking about a person… Stop. Just stop.
If you have to make a racist comment because you’re racist, please preface your racist statement with “I’m racist, so…” The whole “I’m not racist, but” thing has been used so much, I just assume people mean it in front of EVERY SINGLE THING they say.
I’m not racist, but… “Is it Wednesday?”
I’m not racist, but… “Can I borrow your scissors?”
I’m not racist, but… “Boy, this fried chicken is good!”
I’m not racist, but… “The Faraday constant is equal to approximately 96,500 coulombs.”
Seriously. Thought it was okay to laugh? Racist. …And I can say that because I’m not racist.
If you have to say hello to me in the morning (note: not recommended before 9 AM), don’t do it while walking by my cubicle. It’s enough for me to recognize that someone has directed a greeting at me, but to have to try to figure out who breezed by my cube… well, that’s just too much. I have precious little energy to spare in the wee hours of the morning, and for you to unceremoniously demand that I devote scarce resources of mental energy to voice recognition based on a one-syllable greeting is simply ludicrous and terribly, well, rude.