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 get a haircut, do not get bangs. If you already have bangs, do not have them trimmed. The amount of time between bang-cutting and regret in most US women varies between five minutes and two days. Please see process below:
- Bang-cutting ideation
- Bang-cutting plan
- Actual bang cutting
- Very short period of satisfaction
- Blaming self or others
- Googling “how to grow out bangs” and/or “bang extensions”
- Consumption of excessive amounts of red wine
- Just kidding about the acceptance thing
- Asking friends “Am I still pretty?”
- See #9
- Posting of one Instagram photo showing the cut
- Deletion of photo
- Rage directed at all women without bangs
- General malaise
- Diagnosis of hair dysmorphic disorder
- Hair spray and barrettes
- Long recovery period
- Cycle starts over at #3
You somehow fool yourself into thinking that forehead fringe will solve all of your problems, but the host of issues it brings will be a plague on you, your friends, and your family. Just say no.
If you have to work in an office, you’re going to have to interact with other people at some point during your day, and your first interaction will probably be way earlier than you’d like it to be. Despite keeping earphones in your ears until 9 AM and staring at the floor when you go to grab your coffee in the break room, horrible morning people will invariably break the wall of solitude you’ve attempted to maintain.
You’ll be subjected to one of the following scenarios:
- Women talking – Here’s what you need to know. Conversations involving more than two women always start with a complaint about something: men, kids, the weather, the temperature of the office, any manner of physical ailments (feminine or unisex, real or perceived), or potential injustices in the world. When one woman gloms onto an idea, the rest of the group piles on, and it turns into a rally cry about overcrowding in the shared kitchen refrigerator or some stupid thing like that.
- Men talking – The average man knows a total of seven things about sports. He will try to interject at least two of these nuggets into every man-conversation he has. Therefore, any attempt to follow men’s sports conversation is an exercise in futility because they all talk over each other, and they’re usually not even discussing the same sport. They’ll just keep getting louder and louder.
- Men and women talking – This doesn’t actually happen. A woman will say something about waiting in line to pour herself some coffee, and a man will mumble something about free throw percentages, then another woman will ask what he’s talking about, and then a man will say something about the World Series, and a woman will say something about how NFL players beat women, and then somebody from HR will walk by, and everyone will go silent.
So good luck. Avoid other humans when possible, but when you can’t, get coffee in the HR break room.
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 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 make fun of a class of people, please make sure you’re right about every single one of them.
As an example, let’s take a look at a recent incident in which, on a popular social media platform, an individual derided those who had never ordered a pizza… He commented something along the lines of that he couldn’t believe an actual adult human had never picked up a phone and ordered delivery… because obviously not having ever ordered pizza is the lament of the social pariah.
Okay, folks. As you may have already guessed, I have never ordered a pizza. I may have eaten pizza, but it did not arrive in my mouth due to my ordering of it from a restaurant. My reasons are threefold:
- I was allergic to milk (and therefore, cheese) until I was 24 years old. (I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in…) Therefore, I would have had no reason to order a pizza for well over half my life, but even so…
- I suffered a traumatic room service incident when I was 23. I was on my first honeymoon (shut up), and I wanted to order the conch chowder. That was all well and good, but as soon as the order-taking person answered the phone, I realized that I didn’t know how to pronounce the word conch. What was I to do? Should I say I want the chowder, and hope they realize I don’t want the clam chowder? Do I cough as I’m trying to say the word, and hope they say the word, and I can just say, “yeah, that’s it”? Nope. I hung up the phone and told my ex that he’d better order me my soup and a few more bottles of the resort-standard champagne. Which brings me to my next point…
- Boys are supposed to order the pizza. And the wine. And the everything. To be clear, I’m not a feminist. I’m a strong, iron-willed woman. I’ve been fiercely independent and self-reliant for most of my adult life. However, I need to be with a man who is strong enough and who knows me well enough to tell me what I want and who also has the wherewithal to give it to me. And that includes ordering the damn pizza. Just as long as it’s not (yuck) pepperoni.
Does this make sense? No. Should I be able to order a pizza? Yes.* What am I scared of, really? Okay, what if they ask me what kind of cheese I want on the pizza? I mean, what am I supposed to say? Pizza cheese… normal pizza cheese? What the hell is pizza cheese? What if they ask about what kind of sausage I want? I don’t know. The good kind? WHAT IF THEY ASK IF I WANT THE BLACK OLIVES ON THE RIGHT HALF OR THE LEFT HALF OF THE PIZZA? HOW IS THIS SUPPOSED TO GO?
In conclusion, and I’m not ashamed to admit it… I probably couldorder a pizza, but my silly, entitled ass feels like I shouldn’t have to do it myself.
* Disclaimer: I can “order” a pizza at Little Caesar’s by grunting and pointing at a box right behind Randy’s** head.
** All Little Caesar’s employees are named Randy.
If you have to deal with women, know that there are varying levels of what I’ll call #girlbrain.
Almost all women operate in 100% girlbrain mode, so you need to be really damn careful with what you say to them. Allow me to provide examples to elucidate my point…
- Guy says: “You look pretty today.” Girl thinks: If he’s saying I ‘look’ pretty, he must think I’m not actually pretty; I just appear pretty at the moment. And why do I only look pretty TODAY? Do I normally look bad? And wtf is ‘pretty’ anyway? I’m not sexy? I’m not hot? I’m just pretty??
- Guy texts: “Luv u” Girl thinks: Why didn’t he say ‘I love you’?? Can he not commit to owning his ‘luv’ by adding an ‘I’ to the beginning of that? Does he not actually LOVE me? Was he typing in a hurry BECAUSE THERE’S ANOTHER GIRL THERE?!?!?!!!
- Guy says: “[Female celebrity name] is attractive.” Girl thinks: He’s obsessed with Sandra Bullock. Why the fuck is he obsessed with Sandra Bullock? She’s brunette. I’m blonde! She has brown eyes. Mine are blue! She never shows her teeth when she smiles. I grin and show my teeth! Oh no! He thinks I’m ugly!
- Guy texts: “You’re fun.” Girl thinks: I’m fun?? Does he not take me seriously? Do I need to be more serious? Oh no… he thinks I’m stupid. No guy wants to be with a girl long-term who’s just ‘fun’ and nothing else. He thinks I don’t have any depth. OH NO! He caught me watching ‘Keeping Up With the Kardashians’! How can I recover from this?!?!
Gentlemen, let me tell you… Girls will give themselves complexes about this shit. Want to give a girl a compliment? You have to be unambiguous. More than that, you have to be insanely, specifically, ridiculously clear. Don’t mistake brevity for clarity, but at the same time, you have to know your girl.
A select few ladies can take things as they were obviously intended, like, 97.2% of the time… but sometimes… even the best of us slip. We hear that we’re “fun,” and we go into full-on girlbrain, drawing spurious conclusions and mildly flipping the fuck out for no reason whatsoever.
For the love of all things holy, gents, have a bit of patience. Tell her something she can’t misinterpret. I’m going to stop short of telling you exactly what to say–because every woman is a special snowflake (*eye roll*) and responds differently to certain words.
Oh yeah, and watch out for those 100% girlbrain broads. They cray (and they’re also 99.4% of the women out there, so good luck, I guess).
If you have to get advice, get it from a credible source. Want to know about the weather? Ask a meteorologist. Want advice on meat? Don’t get it from a vegan.
I was just watching a presentation on tv in which an impeccably dressed woman in heels used the term “marathon gaming sessions” to describe some aspect of some computer. I don’t buy it. That chick has never been on an energy drink and Twizzler-fueled bender, playing some MMORPG until 5 AM and passing out in a pile of Corn Nuts. It’s just not believable. Get some fat guy named Kevin whose Star Wars t-shirt is just a little too tight and who speaks in internet slang to tell me about the gaming-ness of this computer, and I’ll believe whatever he has to say. He comes off as a credible source.
Want to know why I’ve never read/seen Fifty Shades of Grey? …Well, first of all, I’m not a sad, desperate yoga mom. But also, have you seen how gosh darn fugly the author is?! She is not a source for sexy, credible, plausible-soundingbanging stories! Want a good story? I guarantee that a hot person will have better quality (and more believable) sex stories.
In summation… talk to a plumber about your pipes, see a doctor about your medical issues, and don’t read sex books by ugly women.