I’ve been a bit MIA here for a few reasons, none of which I’ll go into because frankly, they’re just not that interesting. I’ve mainly been sitting around, waiting for something to be entertaining enough to write about. Thanks to a Facebook posting of a crunchy liberal friend-of-a-friend, I think I’ve got a topic. More on that shit in a minute.
First, a few things.
My ever-present (apparently treatment resistant) depression aside, I did manage to drag my fat ass out of the apartment last weekend and drive to a county north of The Big City where I spent my Sunday volunteering with a shelter full of kittehs. It was divine. Two were adopted by nice families while I was there, and I got to love on several of them without getting my face scratched off. While part of me will freely admit that I’d rather have slept til 2 that day, eaten a quick lunch and then gone back to sleep until 6 pm (yes, effectively sleeping away an entire day, and virtually assuring myself that I might not fare so badly in prison after all) I feel like I did some good. Of course, I came home and dodged Butters, who wondered where I’d been. I made a beeline for the bathroom, locked myself in and scrubbed down so she wouldn’t know I was unfaithful.
Second, you should visit this blog: Bitches Gotta Eat. (bitchesgottaeat.blogspot.com) I came across it by suggestion and have not been able to stop reading it, nor have I been able to stop dry-wheeze laughing in my office during business hours, either. The woman who writes it is, I strongly suspect, my soul mate. We really should have apartments next to each other, where we could talk about our boyfriend-less lives, discuss our darling cats, say the word “fuck” over and over, lament our horrible online dating experiences and marvel at our deceptively slender ankles.
Her blog? Is offensive as shit. Which is why my tacky ass gravitates toward it. She is truly a national treasure.
Anyway, so today on Facebook (which is how 87% of my stories always start out) a friend-of-a-friend (henceforth known as FOF) posted an article scribed by a writer dude in Chicago detailing the 7 things he finds sexy about women now that he has turned 30. The FOF is what you might call my polar opposite. God made me, and then God made this dude and laughed to Himself about His raw talent for creating two bitches totally different from one another.
FOF is one of those guys who would refer to himself as a feminist. (I have a vagina and wouldn’t refer to myself as a feminist.) Currently, he’s into workshops where guys and girls get together and stare into each other’s eyes for 5 minutes at a time or some such touchy-feely shit. He’s into non-alpha-guy sports (read: not NFL or NBA, but kayaking and ashtanga yoga), and is probably freakishly regular due to the amount of fiber he takes in from food like kale shakes and conflict-free granola or some such bullshit. He is one crunchy motherfucker. He’s probably saving for a Prius and undoubtedly hates Republicans. See where I’m going with this?
So he posts the article (which can be found here: http://www.chicagonow.com/lists-that-actually-matter/2012/04/7-things-i-find-attractive-in-women-now-that-im-30/) I responded, in no uncertain terms, that he would, essentially, hate my ass. He “liked” that comment.
So here’s the list.
At number 1 on the list of things this hipster shit-stain finds himself drawn to is, “She says no to soda.”
Um. I started drinking Tab when I was 4, motherfucker. Saccharin was one of my main food groups as a kid (which, oddly, would explain a lot, especially that tail-like appendage I’ve been growing since ‘82 ). So, what…you spring a chubby from seeing a chick chugging a mocha fucka soy caramelita crappacino with whipped cream on top? Thanks, Bucky, but if it’s health-conscious (read: thin) chicks that steam your corn then I think the chick sipping a Diet Coke might come out victorious. But not to you, of course. No, no. Guess you’re fully on the Michelle Obama “No! That’s Bad!” junk food train, huh? Congrats, sheep. Why aren’t you just grateful that she’s not sucking down Everclear? I could see where that’d be a turn-off. What about a Capri Sun? That’s not soda…so that’s not gross or off-putting to you? Sunny D? Maybe perhaps you should be more specific. I mean, does your girlfriend just drink watered down green tea and Smart Water? I bet she’s exciting.
(Oh wait. I should say early that this wet fart of a man is admittedly single. I wonder why. Read on.)
#2. She has a library card.
I don’t have one. Haven’t had one since I was about 9 and I would make my mother take me to the children’s section of our local library (then located in a dank, windowless basement of a building downtown) where I’d check out Mr. Men and Little Miss books, because my freakishly developed brain required intellectually stimulating material like that to absorb.
Frankly, if I want a book, I buy a used copy off of Amazon or ebay for $4 or so. I like writing notes in the margins, underlining important passages and maybe even passing the book off to a friend when I’m done. Guess that makes me a dumbass. And, as he asserts, not very community oriented. Considering my local library down the street shares a parking lot with a Condom Sense and a liquor store, I doubt I’m missing much.
#3. Her dog obeys her.
Because, as he explains, a person’s animal is a reflection of themselves.
Hrmmpfh. Gotta be a motherfucking dog, huh? My cat is beautiful, looks great in pink, is obsessed with Hello Kitty, is preternaturally lazy, can be staggeringly funny, looks like a total fat ass and enjoys sleeping 18 hours a day. Yup. Pretty much a perfect reflection of me. Unlike a dog, however, Butters has an agenda all her own, and it doesn’t coincide with me asking her to do something. So if that’s evidence that she’s ill behaved, then so be it. Dude’s probably one of those hot-house lilies who can’t handle cat dander or something, so of course he’s a dog person.
#4. Refrigerator is responsible.
*smacks face* Of course! You’re one of those despicable turds who looks into my grocery cart, then at me, then back at my cart, then back at me so you can squint your disapproval at my 3 cases of Diet 7-Up, cat litter, bottle of ranch dressing and pot of spreadable cheese. I know you. And I hate you. I want to strangle you with your own scarf.
Oddly, my fridge is not that offensive. My freezer would be, if you could tell what was in it, and if you weren’t first distracted by the Hot Pocket that just fell onto and broke your toe. No, the real offender is my pantry. It is literally cram packed with shit. And not necessarily junk food. Just….stuff. Cat food. Plastic straws. Packets to dump on meat in a slow cooker. 6,700 different Keurig pods. A half bag of stale tortilla chips from a year ago. Unopened bottles of salad dressing. Ziploc baggies. Lard. (I meant to make homemade refried beans one time and never got around to it. Don’t you judge me. I guarantee you that shit would come in handy in a zombie apocalypse.) I could see where it could turn off neatniks and perfectionist vegans, for sure. The good news? I don’t like neatniks or perfectionist vegans, so. We are pretty much anathema to each other.
#5. Productive hobby.
Author admits he wanted girls to be into tanning and kick-boxing when he was in college — “anything to make her hotter.” Now he wants her to do something sustainable and exciting and not “shopping or television based.” What about sleeping? I’m really good at that. You’re going to lose a lot of me not being interested in my TV-based hobbies. What about surfing the internet for 16 hours a day? No? I like reading and talking to my cat. Still nothing? Well damn.
#6. Laid back and elegantly simple.
(hangs head) Oh, my, my, my. I mean, I partially consider myself laid back (like when I’m sleeping. I don’t get worked up about shit when I’m snoozing). But then when I was driving to work this morning, and found myself gripping the steering wheel, riding the ass of the Ford S-10 in front of me (who was driving the speed limit in the fast lane during rush hour without a fucking care in the world) and hollering at him to get his “goddamned, shit-ass, mouth-breathing, knee-toucher ass out of my fucking way” I realized that perhaps traveling in a car with me isn’t the most relaxing experience out there.
Elegantly simple? I turned what should have been a separate dining room in my apartment into a makeup room. With…just makeup. Drawers and drawers of makeup. I know men would like to believe that all it takes to have skin that looks like this is a teacup full of products, but those (straight) men are ridiculous for believing such fuckery. Glowy skin like this does not happen on its own. Layers of makeup that don’t look like layers of makeup are totally necessary. Do I look good in broken-in jeans and a t-shirt? Don’t own jeans, so….NO. Every night Paolo asks me what I’m wearing and then quickly answers his own question with, “Let me guess. Elastic-waist shorts. A bra. Cotton undies. A t-shirt.” That is my version of elegantly simple.
#7. Embraces information.
I read FoxNews.com daily, but I bet what this pretentious turd is talking about is someone who scours The New York Times or The HuffPo, and listens intently to NPR. I would listen to NPR, but it would interfere with Rush’s radio program, so.
I occasionally skip over to CNN or PMSNBC to see what they’re barking about, and regardless of my source, I always take what I hear with a grain of salt; otherwise, I would turn into my mother who literally believes anything in writing.
I’m no dummy, but I don’t think he’d get a lot out of arguing the beauty of a flat tax with me.
#8. Your ex-boyfriends are guys I can respect.
Yikey shit. Considering that I *started* this entire blog because my then-ex boyfriend was as horrible as an asshole full of raw shrimp, I think I would probably also fail this category as well. Everyone always asks me why I ever dated Parker, and I never have a good answer. Apparently, this powder puff gets a case of the cold feet if you roll out an undesirable boyfriend, since it causes him to question your, I don’t know, sanity or decision making or some shit. Perhaps he should be more concerned not with girls with crappy boyfriends in her past but ones who are friends with all their exes but also have herpes. Prioritize, my brother.
So that’s that. I’ve yet again been shown how I am –now in many ways! – unattractive to men (albeit emasculated pantywaists I wouldn’t want anyway).
I should just point out that I myself prefer relatively smart men, including ones who can MOTHERFUCKING COUNT. His article is titled, “The 7 things I find attractive in women now that I’m 30” and then goes on to list 8.
He probably went to double-check the list but his hipster beard got in the way and threw off his numbers.