Tag Archives: women

Don’t Matter If You’re Black Or White – Just Pick One

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No, this isn’t a tribute to Michael Jackson.  Hi, you must be new here.  Pleasure to meet you; although I hate the word “pleasure” and refuse to use it accept over internet introductions.

As mentioned, last Thursday was my much unanticipated and begrudged birthday.  Although I didn’t exactly get what I wanted – which was another year of my life back, to be wildly successful, and to have a never ending supply of buffalo wings and Edys peach pie ice cream [which much to my utter horror I have discovered is a limited edition] – the world did suffer a loss of tragic proportions with the passing of it’s King of Pop and Fair-Feathered Farrah.  I like to think I got even.  But don’t think I’m without compassion for the rest of you.

michael_jacksonyoung-1Dear World,

You seem to be freaking out a bit. Do you need to borrow some of my mom’s Xanacs?  Cus they’ve certainly come in handy during the past ten few years of my life.  And I could definitely hook you up with some. I know where she hoards hides them.

Just asking ‘cus I care,

Blunt.

P.S. Sorry I had a birthday. 

Speaking of Michael Jackson, my parents were at my house when “the news” surfaced.  My mom, a long time supporter of Michael, was beside herself. She didn’t quite collapse in the same fashion as Elizabeth Taylor, but nonetheless, she was stunned.

Me: I just got like 8 texts saying that Michael Jackson died.

Mom: JACKSON?  What?  That can’t be right. 

Me:  No, I just checked the computer, he’s definitely dead.

Mom:  You’ve got to be kidding me?  HOW?  When?  WHERE?!? 

Me:  MOM. 

Mom:  Mmmm… that’s sooooo sad.  So talented.  Nobody could entertain like him.  Well, Elvis.  Except him.  Michael and Elvis.  Ugh….and he died too early too. 

Dad:  But he was so weird.

Mom:  He was a tortured soul, Denny.

Dad:  He molested little boys.

Mom:  He was really messed up.  And he had an awful childhood.  Besides, you don’t know that for sure.

Dad:  Sherri, they found boys’ underware all over his house.

Mom:  Well, that’s true.  I forgot about that.

Me: So did you make me a pie or what?

P.S.  Michael,  I’d like to just say that I’m sorry for that Halloween blog I wrote last year, where I used a close up of your face and said something to the effect of “count your blessings.”  I’m not sure exactly what it said, but it was definitely out of my normal good character and sound judgement.  So just for that, I did fashion a tribute of sorts.  And this is how I shall choose to remember you, always.

michael-jackson-greatest-performances

That’s My Daughter? She Sure Is Stone Ugly

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That would be an exact quote from my loving, very proud, first-time father the moment I was born into this world.  I thought for years this was due to the fact that he had never seen a newborn in all it’s alien likeness before; however, my mom set the record straight when she told me I was indeed, super ugly.

I share this heart-warming tale about my birth with you because today would be the anniversary of that very day.  But I hate birthdays.  And they despise me.  They never call. They never write.  All they do is sneak around and steal another year of my life away, while gently whispering in my ear all that I’ve failed to accomplish.  As if I haven’t been robbed enough times in my life.

 

kids-birthday-partySpeaking of robberies, you do know that from 2006-2007 I was robbed six times, right?  Your ears did not deceive you.  Six.

I say all this, to say, that I got locked outside in the blazing sun yesterday, during a heat advisory with 100 + degree weather. Oh, and I was half nekkid. You don’t see the correlation?  I’m getting there.

So I have the kind of mother who begged me to put on a baseball cap and “look as ugly as possible” when I was driving home after dark.  I have the kind of dad who got a boy expelled after spitting in my face in the second grade. So my parents were a bit over-protective.  After I got the hole in my head, everything took a turn for the worse.   But then after the drug dealer robbery and the stalking that followed…  ENTER: all-time world record for protectiveness. Just hold your horses, cus I’m about to blow your mind as I weave all these storylines together in a way that only a masterful literary genius, such as myself, possibly could.

patio-doorSo what does this have to do with me almost dying of heat exhaustion and /or embarrassment yesterday? Well, it was sunny out. I opened my sliding door and stepped out onto my porch, where I sat for about an hour, trying to become a bronze goddess and think of excuses why I can’t go jogging with my friend.  I vowed to go with her everyday, except I didn’t go once last week, and instead ate all of the ice cream I got at the Edys 5/$10 sale.  We went a day ago, and there wasn’t ONE solitary car at the bike path.  I said, “Dana, does this tell you that maybe we shouldn’t run during a heat advisory? She said, “We’ll burn more calories this way.”

So after an hour, I suddenly realize: “Holy crapballs, I’m about to die.” The heat index was 115 + humidity yesterday. I stand up, drenched in sweat, and as I reach for the handle on my sliding door, I feel friction.  Huh.  That’s odd.  Usually it SLIDES right open.  It’s a sliding door.  I try again, and remember that it can only lock from the inside…  OH, SNAP I’m having an optical illusion… I AM dying!

No, no. One of the wooden bars that my father had installed on every door and window as “extra security” to keep potential robbers out had somehow fallen down from being propped up, landed exactly in the correct groove, and locked me out.  I know you’re thinking I have a spare key around there somewhere, ha? Oddly, after six robberies, you don’t hide spare keys under easily-accessible mats or fake rocks anymore.  I know you’re thinking I had a garage door opener in my car, right? Well, since I finally cleaned it out after 2 years, it was actually parked inside.

So I spent the next 2 hours, nearly passing out from heat [there’s no shade on my porch] and confined to a scolding hot cement slab.  Why? 1. I was wearing swimsuit bottoms and quasi see-through tank top.  2. I had no shoes on. As I stood there half dead, with my bottle of tanning oil, and empty water cup, all I could think was: “Thank God, now I have an excuse not to go jogging.”

Dad, You Look Like A Pencil With A Frizzy Top

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My father, a self-proclaimed hippie and alcoholic until the day hemet my gorgeous mother, wore a brown leisure suit and platform shoes to his wedding.  I forgive him for this offense, only because my mother wore a black, sparkly pantsuit.

I’m amazed my father had any sense at all when it came to raising a child.  When he was 7, his mother woke him up in the middle of the night and they left town to escape his alcoholic father.  His mother worked nights as a surgical nurse and they moved every two years.  He grew up without a male influence, aside from his cousin who introduced him to drugs at age 11.

my-parentsI was born in a trailer park.  Does that mean I get to cry a river and say that I’ve had it a little worse than the rest of you?  No? But do I get to blame at least a few of my issues on that fact?  When my parents were married, my dad was making $6/hr, yet they managed to save 50% of his income a month, while my mom stayed at home with the kids.  This is could be where my Suze Ormond frugalness stems from, the kind which allows me  to be perfectly satisfied driving a ’99 Saturn with a hole in the hood, that floods every time it rains. Especially last night.

Eventually, my dad started his own business and they saved enough money to purchase a charming, completely run-down and nearly un-livable home in the country. For years, my dad awoke at 5am, and after working all day would come home to do paperwork for the business and spend every spare moment learning how to remodel that house.  That’s right, learning – from actual books. Incomprehensible, I know. But as busy as he was, trying to make a life for us, he always had time for any absurd request I might have.

Dad,

Thanks for sitting in my room every single night, while I rehashed my entire school day, complete with tearful confessions of snobby girls, mean boys, and despicable rumors.  And thanks for continuing to sit in my room every night, even when those confessions turned into eye-rolling  and the words: “I’m fine. Goodnight.”   Thanks for never missing dinner and showing up to every event in my life even though I was excrutiatingly embarrassed of your presence.  Thanks for staying up til 3am to help me grasp Chemistry, which by the way, was a battle we should have surrendered long ago.  Thank you for not using your past as an excuse, but as motivation to be better. 

Thanks for teaching me that even though people may take advantage of your kindness, you should give it anyway.  Thanks for building me that sweet swing set, which was the envy of all my friends and equipped with a sandbox litterbox for the cats.  Thanks for working so hard so that I could have a mom waiting for me after school every day.  Thanks for being so awesome that my friends wanted to come over just to hang out with you.  Thanks for being an example of how a man should love his wife.  Thanks for dropping everything to come put air in my tires, or some other mundane task that I always seem to screw up no matter how many times you’ve shown me.  Thanks for helping me crawl out of every mess I’ve made.  And there have been some big ones.  I mean, big.  But most of all, thanks for making me feel like I was the most amazing thing in the world even when I was terribly awkward and unfortunate looking.   I’ve been spared from so much because of the self-esteem that came from your unconditional support and love.  I’ve never felt like I needed anyone, or anything, to fulfill me. I’ve always thought I could do anything.  But really, it would have saved us both alot of stress if I hadn’t actually tried to. 

I almost feel like it’s been an unfair advantage, having you around.  But truth be told, you do look like a pencil with a frizzy top.

fathers-day1

Dear ESSENCE Magazine,

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You’ve been appearing in my mailbox for going on 4 months now.  I called you, and like a red-headed stepchild you said you had nothing to do with it, which I think might just be a bold-faced lie from the pits of hell.  You told me to send an email to cancel the subscription I never ordered, and yet, I still find you waiting for me each month.  Now, one of us just isn’t being honest with ourselves.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy reading up on Queen Latifah’s “love your body” tips, or Jennifer Hudson’s illegitimate pregancy, or Kelly Rowland’s advice on what to wear to work.  But I already love my body, as a result of my non-daddy issues. And considering I write for reality TV, I knew about Jennifer Hudson’s pregnancy before she did.  And I wear the same thing to work as I wore to bed.  And most unfortunately, I cannot use any of the hair care products that you suggest, which is a travesty in itself, because I’m a whore for hair supplies and have it stockpiled under my vanity like I’m anticipating the Y2K of personal hygiene products.

working-out

I’m calling a truce.

I’m not sure how or why you became obsessed with me, but it has to stop.  I’m really not that cool.  Actually, I’m rather feisty.  Some might call it rude, but that is a bit preposterous.  If friendship is what you’re looking for, then I will only disappoint you.  The only thing I have to offer is painful honesty, which nobody seems to appreciate.  I never answer my phone. It takes an average of a month [possibly more depending on the weather, current levels of laziness, and if my microwave is broken or not] to listen to your voicemail.  If you mark it as urgent, there is a minimum turnaround time of two weeks.  Even if we become friends, you’ll have to live on pins and needles or I might use you for a cheap laugh on my blog.  Are you willing to become a new category?  I mean, is this what you truly want? Can you handle living in a constant state of: WTF?!

I’m quite sure that if you removed the beer goggles and weren’t so blinded by your unwarranted affection for me, you would discover that you need more.  More than I can give you.

Please stop stalking me,

Blunt.

P.S. My microwave broke again tonight… so, just something to think about.

Dear Midwest, Without You I’d Be Famous

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You know your hair is too long when you have to start using conditioner meant for a horse.  Gees, people.  I’m just saying.  But on a side note, it works rather nicely.  So I’ve heard.

horse-shampoo

People always ask me, actually they harshly criticize and often yell at me, for the fact that I’ve never moved out of this God-forsaken craphole of a town. For those of you who don’t know, I live in a suburb outside of Chicago, where nearly everyone is a loser with zero motivation or aspirations in life.  So when I put it that way, I guess I can see their point.

Friend:  But you could be a big time writer in New York and travel the world.

Me: I’ve already traveled everywhere I want to go in the world.  And New York has too many rats.  And snobs.  And pricey food that comes on a giant platter but is the size of what I can only consider, a midget snack of sorts.


Friend:  But you could move to L.A. and write for tv shows and movies.

Me: I’m brunette, no one would take me seriously in L.A.  Besides, I can’t deal with the fakeness.  I would call everyone out and then they would hate me.  And then I’d run home to my lonely, roach-infested apartment, where I’d cry big, fat elephant tears and eat myself ugly. 

Friend: But you could move to the downtown and work for the Tribune.

Me:  I hate the news.  It’s depressing.  Plus, I probably wouldn’t get by with throwing in sarcastic comments when I was writing about the Korean missile crisis.  That job would blow chunks.  Give me a break, I’d never move to any of those places.  Seattle.  Now there’s a place I wouldn’t mind moving.

Friend:  You know that Grey’s Anatomy isn’t actually filmed in Seattle right?  So you wouldn’t be meeting McDreamy, or McSteamy, or any of the Mc’s?

So could all these people be partially right? Perhaps.  Is it true I want to continue my writing career on a larger scale? Mmm hmm.  Is it possible for me to accomplish all my dreams living here?  Heal no.  So what on earth could possibly keep me sandwiched here in the middle of the country, suffocating for air, slowly dying from lack of culture and white-trashy influences, you ask? 

Is it the ice-cold winters, which seem to get longer with every passing year, that make me contemplate roasting my own dog [or I guess my neighbor’s cus I don’t have one] over a rotisserie just so that I won’t have to leave my house for food?  Not exactly.  It’s much more complex than that.  But when isn’t it?

The other day, I was bronzing myself on the back porch, as the landscapers were mowing my yard.  I arose from my position to make sure I was decent as they were mowing right in front of me.  The last thing I need is a sweaty, landscaper-stalker.  But on a serious note, could they possibly point that grass blower thingy in another direction?   Then as I was gazing at all my patches of dead grass, a thunderbolt of realization occurred to me.  Um, why can I see those?  Where is the tangled pile of hose that has been laying in my backyard and covering the dead grass since I moved in?  Wait a minute. THESE PERVERTS STOLE MY HOSE! @#$!  And now they’re blowing grass at me.  What the?

As it turns out, my father had slithered outside at some point and drilled a bracket into the side of my house and wrapped the hose nicely around it.  BONUS: he was smart enough not to install one of those plastic roller pieces of crap that break after two seconds, which would result in a lifetime of frustration and ultimately, the death of more grass.  EXTRA BONUS:  He planted grass seed.

Folks, I’m sorry, but with quality service like this, the Midwest has a hold on me. 


Dear Universe,

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Why dost thou continue to sabotage me? Here I always thought you were on my side.  For the first time in my miserable, out-of-shape existence, I’m trying to do something about it.  This week, I turned a new leaf. Whitestrips, here I come.  Jogging, here I come.  Well… I’m not really sure what whitestrips had to do with the whole being-out-of-shape thing, but they certainly have a way of making me feel more fit.

Come Monday, I wanted to jog, but SOMEONE decided to make Monday a holiday full of tasty treats, lounging in the sun, and irresistible bbq delights didn’t they?!  Oh please, don’t even think about looking over your shoulder.  What did you expect me to do, dishonor the veterans?

Come Tuesday, it was my mother’s birthday and even though she hates birthdays, I was forced by guilt, only child syndrome, and the powers that be to make her pies and other delectible things.  And who’s fault is that? I’ll tell you one thing – not mine.

Come Wednesday, I wanted to go jogging, but you rained, which forced me to stay inside and do nothing but lay in bed and watch Tyra Show reruns all day. Since I couldn’t jog, I decided to make it vegetable night so I could at least save on a few calories.  Again, the amount of effort that I’m exuding here is incredible.  But then you ever so gently whispered sweet nothings in my ear regarding the delectible things that were inhabiting my fridge from the day before. All I can say is that I was brought up to believe that you don’t waste food, okay?  So I had a giant bowl of ice cream.  No biggie.  An hour later, I decided that if I just ate the rest of the box then I wouldn’t be tempted for the remainder of the week.  Again, brilliant.

…Then about ten o’clock, I decided that I could really go for a bacon-grilled cheese sandwich with a side of pasta.

Look what you freakin did!?

Come Thursday, I rounded up my support system, actually drank some water, and went to the bike path.  But after I reached half way around the track, I got a stabbing pain in my stomach.  The pain was followed by dizziness, which led to nausea, which led to me collapsing in the middle of the path.  An old man came by and said, “Are you okay DOLL?”  When my support system, who had long since jogged away without me, realized I was lying in the grass, I discovered I had a migraine.

Oh, well isn’t that just cute. What’s it gonna be tomorrow, ha?  A bio-nuclear attack?  My liver suddenly explodes and I become a horrific, but interesting scientific rarity?  My car gets hijacked and I’m left for dead in a nearby ditch?  What?

Kenny Chronicles: I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

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I haven’t said the word “sausage” for going on 15 years.  It’s a personal protest, don’t worry about it.  Unless I’m struggling to order a pizza, this usually doesn’t present a problem.  Of course, there was that time I worked at Chuck E. Cheese all four years of high school, where pizza and little kids accidentally peeing in the tube slide were the only topics of conversation. Eventually, I got it down to a fine science, where I would simply nod and point to the menu on the wall behind me and say, “Ok, so, you want this one then?”

Now that I reminisce, that truly was a dream job.  Aside from being permanently sick, due to filthy, germ-coated everything, I squandered my days away by misspelling kids’ names on chocolate birthday cakes so I could eat them, while flirting with the game table hottie.  Things couldn’t get much better. Why I ever left remains one of the biggest mysteries of my life.

Speaking of breakfast food, let’s talk about Kenny.

18So Kenny and I are hanging out and discussing everything that is important in life.  As usual, at some point, the conversation takes a random turn down a long, winding road and we end up in a place that I’ve never been before.  Nor do I ever want to go again. It’s some sort of a lonely wheat field, or abandoned Waffle House – there’s no way of knowing.  And the following conversation takes place:

Kenny:  I mean, he was like this guy that just smelled like maple syrup.

Me:  Someone can’t smell like maple syrup.

Kenny:  Oh, someone can.  And they did.

Me: That’s ridiculous.  You know that’s ridiculous right?

Kenny:  It’s ridiculously true.

Me: But that makes no sense.  Did he just get back from IHOP or something?

Kenny:  [shaking his head with a very defeated look on his face] No…he just smelt like it permanently.  What’s worse is people who smell like maple syrup and pee.

Me: Who smells like pee? No one smells like pee.  Did he work in a nursery?

Kenny:  I’m not exactly sure.  But he smelt like breakfast.

Me: …..

Kenny:  I just… I hate people who smell like breakfast.

Me:  Maple syrup smells delicious.  I wish everyone smelt like maple syrup.  This kid used to sit behind me after lunch and he reaked of ketchup.

Kenny:  [laughs] What?  Ketchup? Why?

Me:  Cus all he ate was fries at lunch.  Well see, now you understand why I can’t eat condiments.

Kenny:  Well, maple syrup is just completely ruined for me. [Sigh] I used to love that stuff.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How We Met

How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

A Conversation at Starbucks

A Metrosexual in a Yankees hat

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

Here’s The Thing About Men

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So I had a crush.  A big one.  I remember, it was third grade… and it was bad.

To keep things easy and confidential we’ll call him Norm.  Not to imply, by any means, that this young lad was normal… because he was not. This is also not to imply that he was anything special… because he was not.  Norm was just, Norm.  And I liked him.

One crisp, autumn afternoon, during a cut throat game of tag, Norm snuck up behind me and pulled my hair.  Actually, Norm is a horrible name.  Let’s call him Johnny.  So Johnny pulled my hair. Of course, my auto-retaliation response to such an attack was to thrust him face-first into a spinning merry-go-round.  Years later, I would realize that in third grade, when a boy throws a grasshopper at you or pulls your hair, they are not a threat to your very safety. They might just want to take you on a date to the sandbox.

My apologies, Norm.

Needless to say, this incident was a dual-sided foreshadowing.  It was a glimpse, if you will, of the plethora of not-so-normal chaps that I would find myself becoming unexplainably attracted to in the future.  Also, it would be the first in a very lengthy succession of realizations of this kind.  When I say “of this kind” I mean, precisely, those of the opposite sex.

Me:  Johnny hates me, I can just tell.  UGH, I like him so muuuuuuuuuuch.

Friend:  Why do you think he hates you?

Me: He pulled my hair and threw dirt at me.

Friend:  So, he pulled your hair AND threw dirt?  Well, he likes you then.

Me: Huh?  What kind of shoddy way of flirting is that?

Friend: I know for a fact that he does, cus he told Sammy he liked you.  So now you have to tell him you like him.  Or better yet, write him a note.

Me: Mmm.  I don’t know.  Sounds kind of risky.  I mean, I still think you’re waaaay off on this whole flirting thing.

Friend:  Trust me.

Me: Well, what if I go to tell him and then I chicken out?  Or my lips go numb? Or I lose the ability to speak?  Or I suddenly have a seizure? Or if I write the note, what if I go to hand it to him and the teacher intercepts it?  Or what if he gets it and doesn’t like me? Or what if he shows it to all the other boys and I become the laughing stock of the world?  Or what if …

And right there, a lifetime of over-analyzation began.

I guess I’ve been as confused by men over the years as they have been by me.  And let me tell you, I’m pretty confusing.  I make absolutely zero sense. I might go as far as to say that I make negative sense. If you’ve read this blog for more than one day, you need no further explanation on that point.   The problem with women is not finding what we want, the issue is knowing what we want in the first place.  And as soon as we think we know… DING, DING, DING…try again you poor ignorant soul!

OTHER POSTS YOU’RE GONNA LUUURVE:

What Women Really Want

Why I Hate Women: Oh Let Me Count The Ways

So You’re Telling Me That You’re Not MARRIED?!

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

Why I Hate Women: Oh Let Me Count The Ways

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As usual, I couldn’t sleep. I ended up watching a classic movie called Penny Serenade.  You know, black & white. Cary Grant. Some prude who never takes off her apron and always buttons her shirt to the top.

I have two words for this movie: lame.

I realize that classic movies are supposed to be the height of Hollywood glamor and awesomeness, but man, they suck. Hardcore. Total snoozefest. I’d rather watch a Matthew McConaughey chick flick. But you know what? I think I’ll keep it on my shelf so people can still think of me as one of those people who appreciates old movies.  As a matter of fact, I’ll set it right next to my antique copy of War & Peace that I’m not even going to pretend that I’ve ever cracked open, which looks great right next to my vintage camera that I’ve never used.

This conversation naturally makes me think of other things that I dislike: women.

When I think back on it, women really haven’t changed all that much since elementary school, when I’d come home and burst out into the ugly cry over something a mean girl did.  I was hoping that when I got past college, they would stabilize.  Nope.  Still crazy. Although the reasons behind the craziness may have changed with time, they are still, very much, crazy.  Hating other women for no good reason. Asking their boyfriends the world’s most stupid questions. Flipping out on poor unsuspecting men.  Bursting with ravenous jealousy. I can’t even count how many women I’ve been told that hate me, that have never actually talked to me.

Let’s look at a few demonstrations of female behavior over the past twenty years of my life.p_792662

[4th GRADE: the betrayals begin]

Me:  Hey Annie, wanna come over tonight and we can organize our sticker collections? [Yes, we really had them]

Annie:  Um, actually, I’m going to Becky’s house after school.  Oh, I don’t think I told you that we had a talk and she wants to be “secret best friends” with JUST me.  Isn’t that mean?

Me: Psssh!  YEA!  I thought we were all best friends?

Annie:  Yea, but she wants to leave you out.

Me:  Well you told her that was a stupid, crappy idea, right?

Annie:  Well, actually…um…. we ARE secret best friends now. Just her and I.

Me:  UM, so I see that our three-way best friend NECKLACES mean nothing to you! Huh? You lying, backstabbing, dirty little tramp!

[10th GRADE: the unwarranted hatred and jealousy begin]

Friend:  [leaning in so close to me that I’m forced inside my locker] Amber doesn’t like you!

Me: What? Wait. Who the heck is Amber?

Friend:  The girl who hangs out with Margie.

Me:   I don’t even know her.

Friend:  But she’s totally spreading rumors about you!

Me:  What?  Rumors? But why?

Friend: Well, she likes Andy.  But Andy likes you.

Me:  Ok. But how can I help THAT?  Besides, I wouldn’t date Andy in a million bagillion years.

Friend:  Well. She’s pissed. And she’s telling everyone you’re a spoiled beotch!

Me: Spoiled? That isn’t even kinda true. I work at Chuck E. Cheese and drive a 1964 Dodge?

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[25 YEARS OLD: the false rumors and accusations begin]

Me:  You know who I really like?  Sandy.  She’s so nice.

Co-worker:  OH, that’s weird. Cus Sandy is not a fan of you.

Me:  Not a fan?

Co-worker:  I overheard her talking to someone, but I can’t say who.  Anyway, she said that the boss favors you cus you got Employee of the Month again.

Me:   But I out-performed everyone in the department?  They would be breaking their own rules by not giving it to me.

Co-worker:   Well I don’t know.  That’s just what I overheard.

Me: What am I supposed to do?  Suck at everything so Sandy will like me?

Co-worker:  I’d try to stay on her good side if I were you.  She’s telling everyone that you’re cheating on your boyfriend.

Me:  WTF?  I don’t even have a boyfriend.

As we can see, there is no rhyme, reason or logic going on here. And I’m not saying I hate all women. Just the ones who are ridiculous.

I have some fabulous lady friends.

OTHER PARTS TO THIS SERIES:

Why I Hate Women Part 7 of 8,964: Mind Warp Trivia

Why I Hate Women: Part 6 of 7,893

Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much?

 

 

 

 

 

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

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brit-boyWhat exactly is it with the Recycle Bin on my desktop?  And why is it that every time I go to empty it, I accidentally delete it?  And why is it that when I go to search for it in my computer, it says ‘no results found?’   And why is my computer trying so hard to protect the location of my recycle bin?  Makes me think there’s something shady going on behind my back. ..All of this recycle bin talk makes me think of daddy issues. I’m not exactly sure  how my brain draws correlations like this, but lucky for you it does… or this entire blog would be about the quest to locate my recycle bin.  And even I couldn’t be mildly entertained by that.

I  think it’s a fair assumption to say that all signs point to the fact I was probably supposed to be a boy. In fact, I don’t know how I ever ended up wearing makeup or having a non-butch haircut, but miracles do happen.  It all started when my parents moved to the middle of nowhere and the only kid my age was a boy named Christian.  For more on that experience, go here.  So I grew up doing boyish things, which I think had alot to do with the fact that my dad tried to make me into a boy by subtly sabotaging my girlishness and preying upon my weaknesses.

Dad:  Hey, wanna help me stack hay in the barn…. it’ll be real fun?

Me: Um.  Not really…(Just about anything with my dad is fun when I was 7… but even then I knew that would totally blow chunks)

Dad: Afterward we’ll go get pizza and ice cream.

Me:  Hand over the pitchfork.

[The next day…]

playing-schoolDad:  Hey, can you give mom and I a hand in transporting all these stones to the flower garden?

Me:  Well…actually, I had big plans to ride my bike in about five minutes.

Dad:  You can get some office supplies next time we go to the store.

Me:  Hmm…that’s tempting, but I don’t know…

Dad:  AND I’ll play school with you later.  You can quiz me with spelling words on the chalkboard.

Me:  Sigh.  You know that’s an offer I can’t refuse.  Where’s the gloves?

Some might say this was a mild form of child abuse. But I knew deep down I was just yet another girl with daddy issues, living the life of a victim.  As I got older, I branched out into friendships with women, which I quickly realized were not nearly as carefree and easy going as my friendship had been with dear, sweet, uncomplicated Christian.  It didn’t take me long to realize that “daddy issues” may possibly mean a whole lot more than being coerced into helping tear down a wall, or tiling a bathroom floor (my parents did a lot of remodeling okay?)  This trying time in my life led to the statistic that 80% of my friends are now male.

With further analization I actually discovered that I didn’t have daddy issues in the same sense that most girls did.  My dad wasn’t in the slammer, he was eating dinner with us every night.  He didn’t lock himself in the den with a scowl on his face and refuse to play ‘childish games.’  He didn’t cut me down or give me a body image complex, in fact he was pretty fabulous.  One day, it finally occurred to me. I was suffering from the absence of daddy issues.

But honestly, I don’t think there is enough attention given to the absence of daddy issues…  It can cause some pretty big problems when it comes to dating:

Me:  What are you talking about?!?  So what you’re saying is, you don’t know how to replace my transmission with your eyes closed?

….You can’t build a doghouse out of an orange peel?

….Are you telling me that you have never built a gazebo from a scratch using only a pocketknife?

….You mean, you can’t explain to me for the fifteenth time how the electoral college works? This just isn’t going to work.

And so my life would continue, forever in shocking disappointment. All thanks to my dad.

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