It’s Pride month, and I’m so happy when people within and outside a community support each other… but good heavens. When you say that you accept someone “as they are,” it sounds like you’re buying as-is merchandise at a department store. One’s sexual/gender identity (regardless of what it is and/or its difference from your own!) is not a flaw. It’s not something that you have to either accept or not accept as a part of a whole person. That’s like saying that you accept a person despite the fact that they regularly donate to charity. Can you imagine? ‘Oh, you have eleemosynary leanings? I guess I can accept you as you are… you as-is, display model blender on the shelf at Macy’s.’ Whatever. Accept someone based on how long their fingernails are. It’s exactly as arbitrary.
If you have to go to Back to School Night, be prepared to be sized up, looked up and down, scrutinized, and otherwise compared to all the other people there. And by “other people,” I mean moms. There are some serious mom-comparisons (or momparisons, if you will) that will be happening. And I’m the one who will be doing it. And I’m not sorry.
As all the parents filed into the cafeteria (cafetorium? there’s, like, a stage in here), I realized that each and every mom fit cleanly into one or two or three pretty distinct categories:
- Yoga moms – ugh. We see you, lady whose husband makes all the money while you sit around drinking champagne the entire day and then go off to screw the pool boy. Side note: she has never done yoga, but the yoga pants she wears everywhere cost $500. *eye roll*
- Career moms – because not everyone can just wear yoga pants all day, you freaks. And not everyone has a husband who makes enough to support himself, let alone a family.
- Young moms – like, omg, is that the kid’s sister?
- Old moms – and I mean like GRANDMA-old moms. Grandma moms make everyone uncomfortable. Including themselves. They always look uncomfortable. Probably because they’re old. And they probably just broke a hip trying to sit on the tiny elementary school chairs.
- Moms who are trying to recapture their youth – nice pink hair, Sandra. Really.
- Moms who’ve had work done – and I don’t just mean Botox®. We’re talking poison in the face, plastic in the lips, silicone in the chest, tummies tucked, and probably some other gross stuff I super-duper don’t want to think about.
- Tired moms – did you literally just roll out of bed? Those are some great, uh, leggings you’re wearing with that faded Disney sweatshirt.
- Moms who’ve given up – some of them are just really tired (see above), probably, but they aren’t trying to even look like they care.
- Moms whose career is momming (a.k.a. SUPERMOMS) – and they’re serious about it. Not just homeschool moms. These ladies are the ones who invite you to a Mary Kay LuLa Pampered Jewelry Candle Sex Toy party, all in the name of losing money they don’t have on products that everyone already has. Because momming. They mom, like, hella hard. And they spam the hell out of their own Facebook pages in an effort to get you to buy Pyramid Scheme™ brand makeup that is made from, like, ground unicorn horns or something.
- Single moms who are trying way too hard to find a man – um, Debbie, you’re making everyone uncomfortable. I mean, really uncomfortable. Like, stop. SERIOUSLY DEBBIE STOP HITTING ON THE PRINCIPAL HOLY SHIT
In conclusion, if you find yourself at one of these things, and you see the lady in the dress who is squinting at everyone and laughing uncontrollably… that’s me, trying to maintain my sanity by sorting you into some tidy little buckets.
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 talk about how you got “friendzoned” by a girl, realize that you’re speaking about something that doesn’t exist–and it makes you sound like a desperate, sad whiner who has probably never been with a girl anyway.
Gents, I hate to break it to you, but girls have made the irrevocable decision of whether or not they would EVER EVEN CONSIDER sleeping with you within approximately 32 seconds of meeting you for the first time. Literally. Introduce yourself, wait a minute, and then ask her if she’d ever even possibly think about sleeping with you.* She’ll either say “hell no” or she’ll blush. There’s your answer. You’re welcome.
If you claim there’s such a thing as the “friendzone,” then you’re assuming that thing is an aberration from the norm… namely, you are assuming that most girls want to sleep with you.
Allow me to offer the dissenting and most likely uncomfortable opinion: almost no girls want you. If you happen to find one who does, THAT’S the aberration. When this rare occurrence happens, say you’ve been “bangzoned.” Makes a lot more sense, and I bet you’ll find more people will want to celebrate with you about that compared with the low attendance you’ll find at your little friendzone pity party.
* Omg, please let me know if you try this. I want to know every detail about what happens, including how much you cried when she kicked you in the balls.
If you have to leave your house, try dressing in a way that shows that you respect yourself and that you are cognizant of your body size and shape. I’m not saying you need to blow a few grand at Saks in order to go to CVS for some cold medicine, but you know… when you’re going to a restaurant (you know, one of the ones without a drive-thru) or to the office, dress for the body you have.
If you have a shirt that fit you 50 pounds ago or one that you think will fit you in 50 pounds:
- Stop measuring time in pounds, you weirdo
- Don’t effing wear the shirt
If you’re a large person, wear large clothes. If you’re a small person, wear small clothes. If you’re an XXL, wear XXL clothes. AND PLEASE NOTE THAT BUYING A PAIR OF SIZE 6 PANTS DOES NOT MAKE YOU A SIZE 6.
If you have to ask the question of whether or not you and I can be friends, I’ve composed a few basic questions you can ask yourself (and score) before bothering me with your inane request for friendship.
- Do you have an iPhone? If no, don’t bother me. I have neither the patience nor the time for you and your Android bullshit.
- Friends or Seinfeld? The correct answer is yes.
- Do you drink wine? Okay, you don’t have to know the difference between a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Pinot Noir, but you do have to be open to drinking it. Or else.
- Where would you rather hang out–the beach or a driving range? Either or both are perfectly acceptable, actually.
- Do you use your turn signal in a roundabout? If you do, go hang out with the Android people who were eliminated by question #1.
These are just the basics–the fundamental building blocks upon which any good friendship is based.
If you have to go to an event–any event–a party, a wedding, a conference, a whatever, know that whether or not you will have a good time is predicated solely on whether or not I (or someone like me) attend. Think that sounds conceited? It’s not. Read on…
You know you’d rather bail and just stay home than be around all of those people, but you RSVP-ed, so there’s no getting out of it.
So you go. It starts out the way all of these things always start–the great segregation, if you will: moms with babies in one area, the rest of the moms (who really only showed up in order to bitch about their husbands and/or the other women in attendance), family dads, dads who are planning to get shitfaced, and (if you’re lucky) the fun group.
The fun group sometimes takes a little bit to come together (and occasionally it consists of only one person), so keep an eye out. Don’t worry, though; you’ll know it when you see it. These are the people who start playing beer pong, or strike up a game of kickball, or jump off the diving board, or head out to the dance floor when no one else is there. It’s the guy who picks the first karaoke song or grabs a basketball or starts a tic-tac-toe game with you in the middle of a boring meeting. It’s the girl who asks the server where the fun spots are or gets all the kids together for a game of red rover or eats the peanut butter cup in a weird way just to see if there is, in fact, a wrong way to eat a Reese’s.
There aren’t many of us “fun people,” but everyone wants to join in once we get started. We’re recreational catalysts. We cause fun to happen (and admittedly, sometimes we have to force it). This begs the question, then: why are grownups so afraid to have fun, and/or why will people generally not initiate something fun?
Maybe they’re afraid that they’ll look silly. Maybe they’re afraid that no one will join them. Well, guess what? I’ll have fun and I won’t care if I look silly. I guess that’s just job security for all of us in the fun group. 😉
If you have to lose some weight or whatever and you decide to go to the gym and diet, you should probably tell everyone about it.
- post #runbrags on Twitter (e.g., “OMG I just totally runned five miles and I’m all sweaty and awesome.”)
- write long-winded narratives on Facebook about your struggle and how you’re clearly better than everyone else
- post paleo recipes on Instagram, even though you don’t have a damn clue what “paleo” means
- go gluten-free because obviously gluten makes your glutes big, and who wants flabby glutes, amirite?!
- buy shirts with idiotic sayings like “Try to Keep Up ❤ omg wtf lol”
- wear those stupid shirts with yoga pants to the grocery store so everyone can see that you’re a super-duper athlete
Or you could just shut the fuck up, stop eating an entire pizza at one sitting, and go to the gym.
Yeah. Do that.
If you have to be all snobby because you live in what might be termed a “big city,” know that the mere fact that you do doesn’t make you a better person than me.
I’m from a small town–not tiny, but small enough that we all kind of knew of one another. I’ve also traveled–to big cities, to even smaller towns, and to other countries. Though I take virtually any opportunity to hate on my stupid small-town roots, I know that we didn’t have it all wrong. You city folk need to take a look at the cost of big city living…
- Public transportation. Really? That’s disgusting. People being carted around like cattle–in the same space, breathing the same air, smelling all of the… eyww.
- Real estate. Um, so, I’m like really happy for you that you have a house with the same number of square feet as mine, but you paid eight times as much for it and your condo fees are twice my mortgage payment. Good for you, I guess?
- People. Did I mention that people are disgusting?
- Parking. In what universe does it seem right that I should pay $150 to park my car somewhere for two days?!
- Zip code pricing. I suppose I should be pleased and honored to pay 20% more for my latte if I buy it at a non-drive-thru Starbucks in your bustling downtown area.
- Walking vs. your stupid taxis. No, I don’t want to walk twelve blocks in these heels–nor do I want to pay some guy in a taxi $38 to drive me twelve blocks.
So shut up. I live in an area with a low cost of living that just happens to be a suburb of a (by anyone’s estimation) large city. I pay lower property taxes than you do, I have just as many (if not more) dining options than you do because I have what’s called a “car,” and–oh yeah–did you know that little pots along the sidewalk aren’t where trees typically grow?
You’re not better than me. You’re just busier and more jaded than me. Oh, and you make a lot more money than I do. Good for you, city dweller. Don’t choke on your smog.
If you have to drink alcoholic beverages, ladies, please be aware of your drunk personality. Drunken women can be separated into three categories: introspective disasters, paranoid idiots, and woo girls.
Woo girls are the worst.
An Introspective Disaster will begin weeping inconsolably after her second drink. Occasionally, she won’t know why she’s crying, but it’s usually about some guy. The crying is sometimes tolerable, but the incessant yapping about her life and how tragic it all is will make you rethink ever drinking with this chick again. Get someone to take her home so she can curl up in a Snuggie and drink some hot cocoa while watching Jerry Maguire.
A Paranoid Idiot, after just a couple of drinks, will get worked up instead of relaxing. She’ll tell you that every girl in the bar looks better than she does. When a guy looks at her, she’ll check her purse to make sure she has her mace. She KNOWS FOR A FACT that the bartender was judging her because she got the house vodka in her drink. Everything’s a conspiracy… And that song that guy just played on the jukebox? IT’S A TRAP.
Woo Girls. There’s one in every group of girls who go out. (Don’t know who it is in your group? That’s because you blacked out while dancing on the bar last weekend–and why did your throat hurt so badly the next day? You woo’d. You’re that girl.) Woo Girls will ALWAYS take a shot. They’ll accept the martini from the creepy guy at the end of the bar. They’re always up for anything involving alcohol. They don’t eat food while they drink and they pre-game harder than you know how to party. And they woo (woo hoo!!!!!). They woo for people they see, songs that are played, drinks… They woo at the bar, on the dance floor, in the bathroom… They’re intolerable. They’re ridiculous. And they won’t remember any of it tomorrow.