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 be single, don’t ever be alone. Not even for a second. When you’re lonely, your standards for a mate start to fall, and that’s how you find yourself in a terrible long-term relationship with someone who’s not worthy of you. Here is an outline of your descent:
- You just got out of a relationship. Your standards: must be sexy, over 6’2″, have a degree, make decent money, clean-cut…
- It’s been a couple weeks since you’ve been out on a date. Your standards: must be objectively attractive, must be taller than me, must have a job, must be polite and considerate…
- Can’t really remember last date. Your standards: height doesn’t matter, has to be at least looking for a job (really, you’re letting most things slide–just as long as he’s not a bearded ginger…)
- So alone and lonely. Your standards no longer exist. Bearded gingers, home-brewers, voluntary baldies, first-floor apartment dwellers, and guys on probation are now on your radar.
Grab a friend and go to a movie. Go to that mixer you are pretty sure you’re going to hate. Get brunch at that trendy spot. Don’t allow your loneliness to push your standards down to “a breathing human who pays attention to me sometimes.”
If you have to post schmoopy things online about (or to) your significant other, stop. There’s a 100% chance that none of us want to see it.
Single people don’t appreciate you rubbing their noses in it, and people in relationships REALLY don’t like your perceived oneupsmanship. We get it, Amanda. You love John. You LOOOOOOVE John. We know. We KNOOOOOOW.*
And you people with family photos as profile pictures? Ugh. It’s bad enough that you posted ALL 37 LOVELY SHOTS of you, your adoring husband, your sweet children, and your squishy wittle puppy, but now we have to be reminded of how beautiful you all look together in a posed studio shot EVERY SINGLE TIME you post something? Barf.
Why do I hate this so much? …Honestly? I hate to admit it, but it’s because that will never be my life. I’ve come to accept that no one will ever post lovey-dovey things about me online, that I’ll never be in a significant other’s profile picture, and that I will never be on the receiving end of any sort of public declaration of love via social media. No one will ever do the modern-day equivalent of shouting my name from a mountaintop. I get it! BUT JENNY WILL JUST KEEP ON POSTING THAT SHE AND MATT ARE LIKE TOTES HAPPY OMG 4EVAR LOVE BARF BARF LITERAL VOMIT.
*and also I’m kind of looking forward to what’s going to happen when Amanda finds out that John is gay
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.
Your technology isn’t “disruptive,” your little life workarounds aren’t “hacks,” and–holy shit–you aren’t coming up with “disruptive hacks.”
It’s not a breakfast hack to mix sausage and eggs together. It doesn’t matter if you put the mixture in a muffin pan. That ain’t new, it ain’t particularly innovative, and my grandma has been making breakfast casserole for years. YEARS. And don’t make a three minute video of you putting strawberries and kiwi on top of some cream cheese and act like your ass has just managed to solve the problem we all seem to have when we can’t figure out how the hell we can shove more sugar and calories down our throats.
The mere fact that you’ve cut the bottom off of a 20 oz. water bottle and are now using it as a funnel does not mean that you’ve done a “LIFE HACK ZOMG WATER BOTTLE!!!!1!” and we should all watch your video on YouTube. (The only thing you’ve hacked, you simpleton, is your finger while trying to use a pocketknife to cut the damn bottle.)
“#disruptoutlook” is an inappropriate hashtag to use when you’ve made the SHOCKING discovery that you can use rules to direct emails that contain the subject line “Girl Scout cookies” directly into your Trash folder. …Congratulations. You’ve just pointed out something the rest of humankind has been doing for hundreds of thousands of years.
Somebody else has already come up with the idea to put a plastic bag around the E. coli-covered remote control in the hotel room, so just relax–and maybe Google your amazing revelations before proclaiming yourself a genius.
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 go–by yourself–to a hardware store or a home improvement warehouse superstore or some sort of Depot of Home things, make sure you have the requisite penile organ to escape the experience with your sanity and your pride intact.
I’m a girl. (Okay, I’m a woman, but I am totally a girl. You know what I mean.) Going to a hardware store shouldn’t be a traumatic experience, but it always is for me. I can’t help that I appear terrified and lost. I mean, the place has, like, 200 foot ceilings, the smuggest-looking employees in the world, and 25 different places where a particular item could or should be.
Completely Hypothetical Example: I need a new twisty knob thing for my shower that turns the water on. I’m actually walking around the store with the broken one in my left hand. Is it in Bath, Plumbing, or Hardware?! Why are all the dipshit employees named Jason and why are they looking at me with the same look of condescension I give women who wear capri pants? How is it that I’ve walked down the same aisle three times? Why is a customer asking me if I need help? Where are all the orange-vested Jasons? Where do I pay for this thing? Why is the parking lot so big? WHERE DID I PARK MY CAR?!
I figured out why the parking lot is so big. I literally needed that five minutes driving across the lot to decompress before I got back out on the road.
So damn you, Jason. Also, the other Jason. And all your little Jason friends.
If you have to work in an office for 8+ hours a day, there are certain things you should and should not do in order to maintain a happy and healthy work environment.
- Clean up your messes. No one wants to clean your used coffee mug you put in the sink. Have you seen you? You’re disgusting. No one wants to be exposed to your saliva.
- Keep your voice at an appropriate volume while speaking on the phone. Be quiet enough so people can’t hear every word, but just loud enough so people feel somewhat sneaky when they eavesdrop.
- Hang up enough crap on the walls of your cubicle/office that it looks like someone works there, but not so much clutter that one can’t determine the color of said walls.
- Start another pot of coffee when you finish the one that’s there. …It’s called human decency.
- Heat broccoli in the break room microwave. When the smell of broccoli meets the scent of copiers, it smells like inky, stinky feet. Eat your broccoli cold or keep it out of the office.
- Print every single one of your emails (in color!) to a public printer and then leave them there for hours and then reprint them and then get all mad when I put them in the shred bin. Holy crap, Devin. Show some respect for yourself and others and the printer and trees and the earth and my sanity.
- Talk about childbirth or your gall bladder or your sex life or any of the wonders of your many and varied bodily functions. Not only does no one want to have a conversation with you about it, no one wants to inadvertently overhear any of that shit, either. Not at work, not at home, and not on your personal time. Actually, your so-called “friends” don’t even like you. They tired long ago of hearing about what keeps you regular, Tammy. Keep it to yourself.
- Eat apples at your desk. Ostensibly the most disgusting thing in the world is the crunch-and-slop sound you make when you’re chawing on an apple.
- Use the Reply to All button (unless you’ve earned your certification). Upon completion of the required courses, you can put the letters NAF (Not A Fuckwad) after your name on your business cards! …Imagine… Barry Jones, NAF. (Just kidding. We all know Barry and Lisa can’t resist replying to all 87 times about his damn zucchini bread. Every year.)
If you have to go to the beach with another person with whom you are involved (either romantically or somewhat less so), know that I’m watching. I’m watching and I’m judging and I’m sorting you into one of the following two groups…
Beach Couple A: These people couldn’t be pried off each other with whatever tool you use to pry people off each other. They lay on a blanket, holding hands. They go out into the water together. They embrace when the water gets up to mid-chest level. They’re having conversations you’ll never hear. (Did I just see tongue? I definitely saw… Wow. I didn’t know people’s mouths could open that far. Damn, that’s pretty sexy. They’re really… I wonder if they’re going to… Huh.) They don’t even know you’re there. They walk along the shore, hand in hand, and are oblivious to you, the world, and THE BIG DEAD FISH THAT’S RIGHT BY THE DUDE’S FOOT OHMYGOODNESS WHY CAN’T HE SEE IT EWWWW…
Beach Couple #2: You think they showed up in the same car because they have carried the collective equivalent of two people’s beach junk to the same spot. They walk along the shore, but he’s five steps ahead of her (note that if he was behind her, that’s a totes different story because he’s admiring her assssets). They may go into the water at the same time, but no physical contact takes place. They talk, but it’s pretty much only about the weather. Additionally (wtf), the dude is very aware of every woman within his field of vision. Maybe they’re brother and sister?
Yes, the couples are A and #2, but that’s largely because I had some beer. I’m not going to go back and fix it now because I honestly think it’s funny. That may also be due to the beer. Whatever.
So it’s completely reasonable to assume that Couple A has just gotten together, are on their honeymoon, or are out on a super-hot (and/or super-drunk) date. Also, Couple #2 is probably either out on the worst and/or most awkward first date ever or they’ve been married for a really long time and kinda sorta (okay, totally) hate each other.
A sub-par Couple A can become Couple #2 after a period of time (and believe me, the other meaning of the term “#2” is not lost here), but a couple that’s #2 ain’t gonna become A.
Okay, here comes a difficult admission for me (again, thanks, beer), but sometimes there are completely ugly couples who qualify for Couple A status. (NOTE: That’s great and all, but don’t, like, reproduce or anything. That’s gross.) For some reason, ugly people pair up and, like, go outside. And they get on each other. And we all shudder and cry and hide the eyes of our children because holy hell, why did these people think that the rest of us should see them in the bright, unforgiving light of day?!
Attractive people (and attractive couples) vs. uggos (and pairs of uggos). More on this to come.
If you have to comment on my facial expression when I’m not smiling, don’t make the mistake of assuming anything about my current mood/attitude/level of health.
It has come to my attention that when I’m working/thinking/busy, I don’t always have an ear-to-ear grin plastered on my face. When this occurs and you can’t keep from opening your damn mouth and offering commentary, do us both a favor by not saying any of the following:
- “What’s wrong?”
- “You look terrible.”
- “Are you sick?”
- “Uh oh… What happened?”
- “Wake up!”
Hey Janice, I’m relatively certain that you can walk by my office without words dribbling out of your mouth, so why don’t you give it a shot? Thanks.