Grin And Wear It

Women generally have three sets of clothing.

We have our nice set of clothes that we wear for work or going out, we have our weekend clothes, the semi casual stuff for running errands or lazing around the house, and then, we have our secret set of clothes. These are the clothes we hide in the closet next to the tennis rackets, the free weights, and the cowboy boots we only wore one time when we went two-stepping back in the early 2000s. They’re thrown in a pile in the darkest recesses of the closet because we don’t want anybody knowing we dress like that.

They’re stained, they have holes, and they’re two sizes too big from being stretched out. They’re butt ugly, but we don’t get rid of them because we need a set of old clothes to put on when we feel like crap or have given up. You know what I’m talking about ladies… these are your “shame clothes”, the ones you don’t wanna get caught wearing in public, the ones you wear when you know you’ll be totally isolated from society, the ones you’ll put on when you’ve decided that the only redemption you’ll have is to shove your face into a pint of frozen yogurt or a bag of those disgusting Oreo’s (frankly, my refined tastes prefer something imported).

You wear these clothes when you’re fed up and don’t care. They make a statement and that statement says “I don’t give a shit about myself or the world anymore today.”

I know when I’m in that kinda mood, I make the worst fashion choices ever. I’m amazed at how horrible my perception is when in that state of mind. I’ve matched a maroon t-shirt with bright red sweatpants before… maroon and red? That’s a horrible color combination! I wouldn’t even wanna be buried in that color combination, that’s how horrible it is. Okay, I know most of you men are color blind and are having a hard time visualizing those two colors, so let me put it to you this way: wearing those two colors together, is like watching porn at your grandmother’s house.

We have secret underwear to match our secret clothes too; underwear that should’ve been thrown out months ago… no, years ago… but have not because the elastic has been nicely stretched out and no longer digs into our groins, and comfort supersedes sexy any goddamn day of the week! Every girl needs six or seven pairs of these gigantic swaths of  punani fabric.

Listen, I have the sexy, lacy kind of underwear too, I’m not a librarian… I mean, barbarian! I keep those up in the attic, preserved under glass, and I go up there from time to time, wipe away the cobwebs and gaze upon them longingly.

What about the guys? Let me tell you single ladies out there: the clothes the guy is wearing will tell you exactly what they’re maturity level is. If they’re wearing clothes that look like something a tenth grader could also wear, that’s the maturity level you can expect from that guy. If he’s wearing his favorite basketball player’s shirt with baggy shorts that come down to below his knees with a pair of dirty tennis shoes, the only thing this guy will ever do on Sundays is watch sports and eat shitty food that’ll give him the bed farts. He’ll never go to the mall with you, he’ll never take you to brunch by the lake… it’s only sports and shitty fried food all day long, and the only conversation you’ll be able to have with this guy, will be in monosyllabic sentences.

You ever look at a guys shoes? Well you should, because whatever kind of shoes a guy is wearing says everything about what he stands for (no pun intended).

Some guys will wear shoes until they’re so old, they’re no longer flexible, they’ve hardened. Those guys are cheap and will never buy you anything. I used to date a guy who had a pair of Sperry Topsiders, you remember those hideous shoes from the early 90s? His were so old and worn, they just sort of hardened into a mid-stride shape, so when he took them off, they remained slightly bent. They were fossilized. When the guy dies, a thousand years from now, anthropologists are going to dig him up and display his shoes in a museum. These were his only pair of shoes by the way. Ladies, pay attention, learn from my mistake: do not ever date a guy who only has one pair of shoes…

…because he’s an asshole.


Herstory Lesson

School is back in session and I couldn’t be happier and more annoyed at the same time. Talk about a dichotomy. Bipolar, if you will.

Look, there’s nothing wrong with Bipolarism. It reminds me of the two-toned popsicles you used to get from the ice cream truck. I happen to be a vanilla ice cream cone, thank God. As it happens, some of the most interesting people are bipolar and are considered borderline genius. I mean, I don’t know if that statement is actually true, I’m just using it to emphasize my point, or whatever. My point being, it’s perfectly okay to be a two-toned popsicle… just as long as you don’t mix them with vanilla ice cream cones. 

You see, it’s all about balance and compassion. Probably not balance. I mean, let’s face it, there’s nothing balanced about two-toned popsicles, but it’s definitely about compassion, which I practice daily.

I don’t have any stinkin’ kids (thank God) so you’re probably wondering how I know school started. Well, for two reasons. One is that all the shops, parks and ice cream shops are quiet and peaceful again, and two, my route to and from work is now packed with the idiots who insist on driving their goddamn ice cream cones to and from school rather than making them take the bus or walk!

These parents are cramming the roads with their Audi crossovers, making the time it takes for me to drive to work, twice as long. I barely have time to finish picking blueberry oatmeal out of my teeth before I have to rush out the door so I can navigate the extra traffic.

That’s how I know.

Now I won’t be regaling you with stories of how I got to school when I was younger. I mean, how boring right? 

Well for your information, I either walked or rode the bus!

That’s because my family was normal, okay? well… except for my dad, who, looking back, reminded me a lot of a popsicle. But everyone else was… well, we were… um, well my mom had her little idiosyncrasies but uh… I wouldn’t necessarily call her a popsicle… she was more like a momsicle.

hahahaha *snort*.… hahaha *snicker *snort… haha… ha…


Anyway, lemme just say that it’s not a good idea to drive your kids to and from school because they’ll miss out on a fun learning experience. Kids need to get exposure, to learn to toughen up a little bit, ya know? Let ‘em get tripped or shamed on the bus. It’s a wonderful introduction to how life’s gonna be once they have a job, or get married, for example.

I used to have the best time taking the bus to school. It was the better part of the entire school experience, frankly. The bus stop was right down the street from my house and my friends and I would meet there and socialize before we were carted off in a dangerously balanced long yellow vehicle with an agitated driver who didn’t necessarily like kids. Anyway after we boarded, we’d make our way all the way to the back because that’s where the long bench seat was located… you know the one I’m talking about, right?

No? Well you would if you weren’t being chartered to school like a fucking wizard, Harry Potter!

There’s a long bench seat at the very back of the bus, and we liked to sit there because along the route to school there was this one big dip in the road, and as the back end of the bus was coming out of the dip, it would bounce up really high, so we’d push ourselves off the seat simultaneously with the bus coming out of the dip on the upswing, which would propel us really high into the air. We’d have a contest to see who could get propelled the highest, and everyone on the bus would watch in awe because, well it was pretty awesome.

You can’t do stuff like that in your mommy’s car Billy! How the hell are you supposed to learn shit about physics if you’re strapped into an Audi looking cross-eyes at the screen of your iPhone?

Kids need to toughen up a little bit, stop being so protective. Let Billy walk to school and burn off some of that McDonalds crap you’re feeding him. Don’t tell me you’d rather have him be bullied on the schoolyard because he’s got moobs.

I love kids, they’re wonderful! Every time I come into contact with one, they leave the encounter knowing something they didn’t before. Let me give you an example: I was in the drug store the other day buying stuff I didn’t need so I could get one of their ridiculously long receipts to use as toilet paper for the week, when I noticed this adorable little six year old girl running down the aisle tightly clutching a Barbie Doll.

Clearly, she was looking for her mom, who’d left her alone in the toy aisle so she could continue shopping undisturbed, which I think is another great way to toughen up a kid! Leave ’em alone for a long period of time and when they get panicked and start crying, they’ll be forced to get resourceful and strategize; it builds character. 

Anyway, I knew this little girl was looking for her mommy so she could beg her to buy the Barbie doll. What little girl isn’t infatuated with Barbie? So I approached her and said “Little girl, I know you desperately want your mommy to buy you that Barbie doll right now, but in five years, you’re gonna hate the bitch because she’s skinnier than you and has bigger tits. Barbie represents a standard of beauty you’ll never achieve. Now put the doll back and let’s go look for your mommy.” 

We got into a little back and forth and… well, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a tug of war with a six year old before, but they’re a lot stronger than they look. I finally managed to wrestle the doll away from her and ran out of the store with it. The manager came running after me but I lost him ’cause I was too fast for him. Probably from all that walking to and from school!

I gave that little girl some real food for thought, you know what I mean? I was proud to be such a good example.

Freeze Frame

I went to my Botox appointment yesterday during my menial lunch hour, and of course the Botox lady was running late so I knew I’d be getting back to work late, further irritating my already irritable boss. It also meant she didn’t have enough time to numb my face properly, so when she came at me with the syringe, it felt like bees were stinging my face. I wanted to slap her but it was all for a good cause, so I really couldn’t. 

Yes, yes, yes… I get Botox and I’m not afraid to admit it. I don’t want that frown line that was developing between my eyes to deepen, which, by the way, was brought on by people… and their… habits. It’s an expensive process wiping away all emotion from one’s face using Botox, but there’s no better alternative; I’ve tried apathy, disdain and cynicism but none of those work as well.

You don’t get charged per visit for this treatment either, the way they charge you is per “unit”. A unit is basically a measurement the developers of Botox came up with of how much they should inject into your face. A unit sounds so reasonable, until you get the bill and see you needed a lot of fucking units.

There’s gotta be varying levels of freshness of this product too. This is only the second time I’ve had it administered, and the first time it took about three days to fully freeze my face, but this time, it only took a day and feels much stronger. I noticed my Botox lady opened up a brand new package of the stuff this time, so maybe they kind of ease you into it your first time and that way, you don’t get scared off because your face no longer moves the way it normally does. Anyway, no one even noticed I had anything done or that the upper portion of my face was no longer moving, which tells me that cynicism has been my go-to expression for longer than I thought.

It’s slightly ironic that I spent so much money getting this procedure done and I’m not even getting any action or have any prospects… but maybe that’s the whole idea; have your face frozen, get a guy! I’m not entirely convinced men would be as concerned about a woman’s facial features as they are about her other features though… like, for instance, her tits. Have you ever timed how long it took for a man you just met to move his eyes from looking directly into yours, downwards to your tits?

I have.


No, I won’t be doing any procedures to my tits. The thought of an icy steel blade cutting into that delicate flesh, severing nerves, and being adjusted into an unnatural position, just so I can live up to someone else’s idea of what they should look like… is not gonna happen. Not that I resemble a grandma or anything, sheesh! It’s just that they’re not as… well, let’s just say I’m not twenty anymore.

Why am I even justifying myself?

Jesus, when I think about this shit, I just get irritated and wonder why I want a man anyway if they’re so friggin’ shallow and rude. Then something happens, like the plumbing gets backed up, or no one’s around to take the trash out, or I need air in my tires… all things I am perfectly capable of doing on my own, but is so much better to have a man around to do them, and I go back to wanting one again. I guess men are good for some things. Plus, you know, the sex!

I wonder if the guy would even know I’m having a good time though, since my face always just reads “Cynic”?

What’s In A Name?


That word is so meaningful and profound. I love how it feels as it forms in my mouth. It’s like having an icy piece of peppermint candy dancing on my tongue, with all the sweetness of a love affair, but none of the bitterness. That’s because once you utter the word, any bitterness is immediately ejected out of you and onto the person with whom you’ve placed judgement.

I don’t know if there’s an idiot scale measuring how much of an idiot someone can be, but if there is, it’s irrelevant; just the word alone denotes how much of an idiot an idiot is, that’s the beauty of it! Sure, you could say “What a fucking idiot!” or “What a stupid idiot!” and it may feel good adding in those adjectives, but it’s not necessary. Idiot can stand alone and be completely effective.


I like to use it as much as possible, especially when I’m driving. But I’m not sure I want to hear someone else using it. I don’t know… I think it’s because calling someone an idiot should be a private exchange between you and the person you’ve deemed as such, like for instance, while driving. So when I hear someone else using it to describe someone, it almost feels like I caught them doing something dirty or illegal.

Like the other day: My landlady was telling me how much her electric bill was, in what I can only describe as complaining and hinting, and she went on to say one of her tenants (clearly not me), who has been away on vacation (clearly not me), had inadvertently left their freezer door ajar, so the constant running jacked up her bill. She said “I just happened to go into her unit and noticed she didn’t close the freezer door all the way, so it was running for over a week… the idiot!” (again, clearly not me) and I felt sort of, um… yucky, after she said it. 

I happen to like my landlady and we get along really well, so after hearing that, all I could think was “Wow, I wonder what she says about me?” and immediately after that “Wow, I wonder how many times she’s let herself into my place when I wasn’t there?” Then I started to think about whether this person deserved to be called an idiot. It wasn’t like they’d left the freezer door open on purpose, it was an accident anyone could make. I’ve done it a couple times myself. How many people do you know slowly close the refrigerator door and make sure it’s closed all the way every single time they use it… I mean, besides those weirdos with OCD?

People with OCD: DO NOT EMAIL ME

That is a rhetorical question by the way. I’m sure you’re not sitting there trying to think of someone you know who’d do that, right? ‘Cause that would make you an idiot. No one would. You’d open the fridge or freezer, grab what you needed and slam the door shut behind you with your foot or elbow like a normal person. You wouldn’t turn back to make sure it closed all the way, you’d be too busy with food on your mind!

I’m getting hungry just thinking about this whole fridge thing.

Now, would I be irritated as a landlady if this happened to me? Yeah, but I’d think of a more constructive way to deal with my frustration, like unplug their air conditioner during a heat wave and say it’s broken and going to take a couple days to fix… or something like that. I wouldn’t name-call if it wasn’t necessary.

I don’t know if people have referred to me as an idiot or not (probably) but I don’t wanna know. The only thing I want to concern myself with is: When I use that term to describe someone, and how much they deserved it. Everything else is just… idiotic.



Lip Service

Well I woke up with a friggin’ cold sore on the cupid’s bow of my upper lip this morning. I hate these things; they’re painful, they’re ugly, and they go through a terrible metamorphosis over a period of ten days or so: First, it starts out as a red bump, then it doubles in diameter and gets a head on it, then it pops, leaving a raw, open wound that scabs over, sheds, and scabs over again, two or three… or four times. Plus they’re itchy. I can already tell… this one’s gonna get so big, it’ll have its own heartbeat.

Wanna kiss me?

Jesus Christ, I already feel undesirable as it is… now this. I was planning on calling a male prostitute for a date tonight too, now that’s out the window. No, no, no… not to have sex or anything… I just want the companionship. Really, I swear. I know it sounds hard to believe… listen, I know my male readers will totally get it; they’d understand because they’d say the exact same thing… if they got caught doing it. At least I’m being honest from the get-go.  

It doesn’t really matter that I look like I’ve been punched in the mouth, I don’t have the money to hire a male prostitute anyway. I’ve been spending it on a totally different kind of therapy; the kind where you pay someone to listen to you talk about your problems. Doesn’t seem like such a great deal now that I’m comparing it with hiring a hot male prostitute to essentially do the same thing. Maybe I need to rethink my priorities.

I haven’t had a date in Idunnoknowhowlong (I do, but I’m not telling), and I haven’t been able to subject myself again to the humiliating online dating experience because I’m not a sucker for punishment.

“Hey there, you don’t know me, but since you’re shopping for a partner, here’s my picture for your consideration. It’s not an accurate representation of me in everyday life, that would be too fucking unacceptable because I wouldn’t be able to use filters or the right lighting or the best angle to try to disguise my true age every single fucking moment of the rest of our lives together. By the way, how old did you lie about on your profile?”

No thanks cowboy. I’d rather have spurs stuck in my eyeballs.

So my dating life this past week consisted of me going to the movies with a good guy friend of mine, and we ended up talking about aging and everything that’s going wrong with our slowly failing bodies. This is the topic du jour for the 50+ set, for those of you who are still wasting your youth. 

Anyway, I’m not much of a moviegoer. I think I go maybe three or four times a year, mostly because it’s completely overpriced for what you get. Hollywood just re-hashes and repackages the same old scripts and story lines and most of it is done poorly and not something I’d wanna spend almost twenty bucks doing. Hmm, I wonder how much time I could get with that male prostitute for twenty bucks?

We went to see Mission Impossible (sounds like my love life), and I’m really glad I went because I got to drool over Tom Cruise. I don’t care what kind of twisted life he leads over at the Church of Scientology with all those other wack jobs, he’s still hot at fifty-something and does his own stunts! When we sat in our seats I made sure to put my arm on the armrest of the empty seat next to me to establish my dominance in case someone came and sat down. The seats in the theater were the best part though; they reclined and the footrest came up. I was praying I wouldn’t inadvertently take a nap as I sat/lay in my chair. I didn’t have to worry, the movie was pure action-packed from the moment it started. 

When I realized I had to go pee halfway through, I was fraught with the decision to either hold it, or miss a few minutes of the movie. I decided not to take any chances, made a run for the bathroom and gave myself 90 seconds to get back to my seat before I would self-destruct. That’s a Mission Impossible reference for those of you who’ve never seen the movie franchise or television series, which would be ludicrous.

Hmm, I wonder how much Tom Cruise charges per hour?


Chew On This

I don’t like the fact that people tend to associate you with something they remember you doing once before. It’s like you do one little thing and that’s it, that’s all they remember you by, and it’s associated with you for the rest of your life. Like my neighbor always referring to me as the crazy naked woman he found in his pool that one night. It was hot, I thought he was out of town… I mean, Jeez, let it go already! There’s so much more to me than that anyway, like I know how to pick fruit from other neighbors’ trees without getting caught, for instance.

Listen, I used to wait tables a long time ago but does that still make me a server? No. I accidentally spilled a shit load of beers on a group of off-duty cops during happy hour one night but does that make me a klutz? No, it makes me a friggin’ genius… I can’t stand cops.

The other day, I got an unsolicited email offering me a job as a dishwasher. A dishwasher?! Are you serious? Like I don’t do enough dishes as it is, being a woman with no automatic dishwasher. Please. What’s really ironic is it came from a company called Compass Group Talent Acquisition (apparently it takes talent to do the dishes now). I nearly spit out my coffee when I read it! That’s just an expression by the way, I don’t drink coffee, it doesn’t agree with me. Neither does chocolate, which is truly, truly awful. I’ve had to eliminate two of the best tasting things on this planet out of my diet. I can still eat dick though. Actually, I wouldn’t characterize dick as best tasting… or even good tasting, for that matter. I’d rather have a chocolate bar, put it that way.

When I realized I could no longer eat chocolate, I contemplated my existence on this earth; what’s the point of living if you can’t eat chocolate?! Well, I can eat chocolate, but I’ll pay for it later with the Hershey squirts. Sorry, I didn’t mean to gross you out, but that’s what happens. I must have the weakest digestive system in the world: I can’t eat dairy or chocolate, I can’t drink caffeine or alcohol, and I don’t eat meat, it’s pathetic. Being vegetarian’s by choice though because one, I live near Los Angeles, and two, I truly believe it elevates me as a human being. You know, there are a lot of guys out there who think their beards and hair buns elevate them as more evolved, but that’s just appearance; I truly am more evolved.

A man bun is slightly repulsive.

Anyway, how do I survive this meager existence? I live my life vicariously through watching other people eat. No, I don’t peek through my neighbor’s kitchen window during dinner, I watch videos on YouTube of people eating copious amounts of food, like any other normal human being. It’s a thing. People film themselves porking out on large amounts of food for their online audience; they call it Mukbang. That’s Korean for “I don’t, know what the fuck?” I’m kidding. This phenomenon did start in Korea though. Look it up online, there’s a great definition on Wikipedia.

I can only dream of being half as piggish as these people are! It’s incredible the variety and amount of food they put away and I watch in fascination as they slurp, chomp and devour some delicious, and not so delicious looking food. Some of them are understandably chubby, but others are really petite, slender even, which tells me they’re barfing up their food afterwards… duh, no-brainer! It doesn’t matter to me though, it seriously gets me through the tough times, which is like, every single fucking day.

I may not watch Mukbang every day, but I know it’s always there for me, like a chocolate bar would be there for me when I was younger and could eat it with impunity.




You know what I love about summer? The lemons. Cheery, bright, yellow, juicy, sweet-sour, mouth-puckering lemons! It could be the quintessential fruit of the season if it weren’t for the friggin’ watermelon; that big, heavy round thing that resembles my belly at the moment. Nope, I’m not preggers… that, my friends, would be an immaculate conception… and terrible! Kids? Yuk. Rather, I’m experiencing a painful bout of IBS. I’ll spare you any details, just know that it’s really fucking uncomfortable… not to mention awkward being a slightly older woman who looks pregnant.

Bright yellow lemons remind me more of summer fun than a red watermelon, and having fun is what summer’s all about. One of my favorite fun things to do on a hot summer day is stop at some kid’s lemonade stand and have a refreshing beverage. I happen to like lemonade, okay? Besides, I once read that if you see a kid’s lemonade stand, stop and buy a lemonade from them to make them feel good, even if you’re not thirsty. That’s every altruistic, isn’t it? I totally agree, everyone should stop to buy a lemonade from the cute kids that went to the trouble of putting up a lemonade stand. They’re like young entrepreneurs.

Which is why I gave two of them some business advice this past week.

I went to a lemonade stand down the street from my house. It was being run by two very enthusiastic, slightly obnoxious little girls who were selling their lemonade for fifty cents, so I bought one. Then I went two streets over to another lemonade stand, which was being run by two smelly older boys, and bought their lemonade, which was seventy five cents. Both were awful, frankly.  

So I went back to the first lemonade stand and said to the girls “Listen, there’s another lemonade stand a couple blocks over that are bad mouthing you guys and your product.” the little girls gasped. I went on: “Yeah, they’re getting passing cars to blow off your stand and come to theirs. Not only that, they’re selling their lemonade for more money, and, to be honest, it tasted much better. If I were you, I’d add more sugar to your product and raise the price by seventy five cents. The added sugar will bring repeated business, trust me. Plus, they’ll bring their friends.”

The girls listened intently and nodded their heads. I told them they should thank me for the free advice, then I promptly went back to the other lemonade stand the boys were running. I said to them “Look, there’s another lemonade stand two blocks over that are bad mouthing you guys and your product.” The boys looked at me with disbelief. I continued: “Yep, they told me their lemonade was better than yours and they’re getting passing cars to blow off your stand and come to theirs, and to be honest, I thought theirs tasted better. If I were you, I’d make your product better and raise your price by fifty cents.” They asked me how and I suggested they add food coloring to make it pink because everybody loves pink lemonade since the yellow lemonade looks like pee. 

Last time I drove by, one was selling theirs for two fifty and the other, two seventy five and they both looked like they weren’t doing a lot of business, which wasn’t surprising; who the hell wants to pay that much for a goddamn lemonade?



Someone left a bean in the microwave; a single bean. It was sitting right on top of the glass dish, the one that spins around when the microwave is on. I left it in there and just watched it spin around, and as I did, I thought of my last narcissist, uh… boyfriend, and the last time I had sex, which was with him, and I realized the bean was serving as a metaphor for my lonely, pathetic life.

Picture a dried up, single bean. That’s me right now. I really wanted the bean to represent that asshole, not me, but I’ve tried every single angle and believe me, I just can’t get it to work any other way. I’m wondering if I’ll ever have sex again, because it’s bean a while, get it… bean/been? *snort, snicker* and I’m not meeting any new dudes. I’m worried that the last sexual encounter I will ever have is with that asshole and it will be my final memory of that God-given act of pleasure.

That would suck.

It’s not that the sex was bad, but you know how it is when you break up with someone; you know you’d never want to go back, so thinking about having sex with them grosses you out. I mean, if you’re normal, it grosses you out. Okay, maybe there are some of you who would go back and wanna have sex with your ex and it wouldn’t gross you out, even if you were disgusted with them as a person.

Which, in all honesty, should make you disgusted with yourself.

Speaking of disgusting, a massive heat wave is in the forecast for the next three days and I’m really not looking forward to it… just in case I have to qualify that. Who the hell ever says they can’t wait for it to be 110 degrees? Well, maybe the same person that would have sex with their ex…

I dread hot weather because the air conditioner in my car only works for about 5 minutes, then poops out, and I live in Freeway Hell-Angeles (that’s Angeles, as in Los Angeles, not Hell’s Angels, just in case you read it too fast), and it would cost more to fix the air conditioner than the car is worth, so I was trying to figure out a way to solve this problem. So I did what every other fucking great American in this country would do if they were in my shoes: An internet search.

Happy Independence Day!

No, I didn’t mean for the Fourth of July, so you can put out your sparkler, Tonto. What I mean is my independence should be celebrated since figured it out on my own. So in true American fashion, I made myself a White Trash Air Conditioner! What is that, you ask? Well first, ask yourself “What would MacGyver do?” but instead of MacGuyver, it would be MacGirlver. Then go watch a YouTube video and Bam!… you got yourself a way to cool down your mobile oven. 

I got a styrofoam cooler, a mini car fan with an a/c plug, and a pvc pipe elbow joint. I proceeded to cut two holes in the cooler, one for the fan and one for the elbow joint. I stuffed a bunch of ice packs inside the cooler, stuck the fan through the side hole of the cooler and the elbow joint in the top, then turned the fan on. 

It worked! But only if I kept the fan on low and the car stationary, otherwise, the lid would pop off from all the blowing air. So I just need to strap that puppy down (probably with some bungee cords) and it should be golden.

Should be.

If not, I’ll be a disgusting, sweaty ex. 


Hey Princess, Fuck Off

There are several indicators that show someone is high maintenance. To be helpful, I’ve created a list of those indicators for people to refer to:

1. They are a woman

2. They are needy

3. They require constant attention

4. They are a pain in the ass

4. They are a woman

Hmmm, I feel like there may have been a duplication in there somewhere… oh well. Anyway, I know I’m not gonna win any “Feminist of the Year” awards for this one, but maybe I’ll win an “I Don’t Give a Shit of the Year” award for speaking the truth… or uh, writing the truth… so yeah, maybe I’ll get an award for that. I know, I’m a woman, too! I know how to spot someone high maintenance specifically for that reason. We women have strong tendencies of becoming high maintenance and it’s all because of one person: Cinder-fucking-rella!

A fictional cartoon character from a fairytale influenced an entire nation of young minds which helped to create the High Maintenance Woman, can you believe that?

Cinderella was portrayed as this helpless victim who had something missing from her life (supposedly, a man) and she would not be whole until she found it (one). She had a mean family, she was poor, she only knew how to sweep a floor. She had style she had grace, Cinderella gave good face! Then one day she heard about a ball, and a man, dark, handsome and tall. She…

Okay, that’s enough of that.

Then she was brought into wealth by a prince and she was beautiful all of a sudden.

Walt Disney created this ideal of what he thought women should be: Helpless and unwanted until marriage saved us. That lead to further victimization of women by society and the media, and a lot of women didn’t fight back. We were fed this image as children and took it into our adulthood. We bought into the whole “One day my prince will come and save me and then I’ll live happily ever after!” What a crock! Disney was an asshole. Sure, he delighted millions of children around the world, but he was a misogynist, nazi-sympathizer… AND, portrayed women as slovenly ash-sweepers until a man comes into their lives, rendering them beautiful and loved.

Please. This is the guy who manifested his homosexual tendencies in a gay rodent called Mickey Mouse.

No, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a gay rodent. 

The Cinderella fairytale has created an entire social strata of high maintenance women that has perpetuated through the decades. We can’t do anything ourselves, we constantly need reassurance, attention and assistance… and when I say “we”, I mean the “royal we”. I, personally, am not high maintenance. I’m an independent, free-thinking, do-it-yourself woman!

Until it comes to plumbing.

I recently had an experience with one: This lady I don’t even know wanted to participate in an event a bunch of us were doing, but she wanted to make sure we knew she had limitations; she wouldn’t be able to participate in all aspects of the activity and wanted us to know how much of a problem it was going to be, which begs the question, why do you want to do it then? That’s what I mean about high maintenance. She didn’t really want to do the activity, she just wanted to draw attention to herself.

Please do us all a favor and go play on the freeway, as my mother used to say.

I’ve found the best way to handle high maintenance types is to ignore them and they’ll go away. They’ll soon find someone else they can suck into their drama and they’ll never bother you again. Now, if you’re already married to one, that presents a slightly trickier situation. You probably already do try to ignore her, but it doesn’t work, huh? She keeps yapping and yammering away, driving you crazy. I’m sorry Prince Charming, but you can’t complain about her now, you were the one who picked up the crystal shoe! Oh right, it’s called the glass slipper, isn’t it? Whatever… you’re the one who pursued this nightmare now you gotta deal with it.

Yeah, I know Prince Charming was in Sleeping Beauty, another stupid movie! Seems like men have fallen for the same trap us women were lured into. If you’re “royalty” with lots of assets and you married a beautiful woman solely based on her looks and how it would make you look, lured her into a life of leisure and wealth, and now you can barely keep up with her demands, you get what you deserve. If you’re really unlucky, you got married in one of the nine states that has community property. Actually, bad luck has nothing to do with it, I mean, let’s just call a spade, a spade: You were stupid and not thinking properly… or property *snicker* Be careful in the divorce, your assets might get “Frozen” *snort, snicker, snort*

I love happy endings!



I wanted to get rid of some pesky annoyances, but it didn’t work because I failed to put on the proper man boots.

I’ll explain.

I had an ant problem. They got in everywhere they possibly could, even in my pants, where they definitely don’t belong… kinda like sand, or Republicans. I’ve been avoiding calling pest control because I don’t like poison and care about the environment… to a certain extent. I mean, don’t ask me to give up my plastic shopping bags, take-out containers, and fossil fuel or anything.

So I’ve been trying to keep them at bay, unsuccessfully. It got to the point where I finally couldn’t take it anymore and had to dig in deep to fight the bastards with everything I could (which is probably how Planned Parenthood and women’s rights groups feel under the Trump administration), so I called The Exterminator to get an estimate.

I envisioned a giant, robotic beast of a man resembling Arnold Schwarzenegger showing up wearing khakis and big, black boots with a fire-thrower slung over his shoulder, but all I got was a millennial, aka “home-dweller”, with a beard, sunglasses, and inked-up, scrawny body (look up millennial in the dictionary, that’s the exact description). I guess it’s fine, it is just ants, after all, we’re not dealing with Armageddon or anything. 

Anyway, he talked me into spraying the ant poison, which really wasn’t that hard considering I was at the end of my soap-on-a-rope, so he said he’d come back the following day and spray the perimeter of my house.

Now this is where it gets weird: I gave explicit instructions on where not to spray, because of my two cats, so when I got home, I could immediately smell the stuff he used, and it was where I instructed him not to spray. Okay, I was very clear in my instruction when I texted him a reminder in the morning… or so I thought. But I guess there’s a discrepancy in the way a bright, attractive, young(ish) woman and a scrawny millennial dude communicate through texting; I use all my vowels, punctuation and emojis, and he doesn’t.

im sry i dnt mk mysf clr a*hole 😠

I was dumbfounded that he couldn’t even follow simple directions. As I was texting instruction on where he was to avoid spraying, I thought to myself, “Okay, he’s a man, so you gotta keep it really simple, don’t complicate things and it’ll be just fine.” You see, when you need to explain a job to a man, you have to put on your man boots; you have to think like a man would. That means you have to pare down any extraneous information; don’t make the language too flowery or cute, and allude to the possibility of sex afterwards if the work is done properly.  


Anyway, apparently this reasoning was not enough, because you have to figure in visuals too. Why do you think all those stupid manuals have pictures in them? Because they’re designed by men, and men like pictures… Playboy, Sports Illustrated, Cereal boxes… I had completely forgotten to draw a schematic, silly me!

Plus, if I were really thinking like a man, I would realize the first thing he would’ve noticed as he approached my gate would be the bungee cord I use to hold the gate closed, because his thought process would go something like this:

See bungee cord… *grunt*

Bungee cord good… mmmm….

Me go to bungee cord… unga bunga!

What? Why do I use a bungee cord to hold the gate closed? Does that question really add any value to this one-sided conversation? I don’t think so. Please, let’s move on…

The only place I didn’t want him to spray was my patio area, which is a garden, really, and I instructed him not to spray in the “garden”. But then the damn bungee cord fucked it all up! A man sees a bungee cord and immediately thinks of strapping something down, consequently getting excited. The section of his brain that controls reason goes offline and the amygdala, or “serpent brain” kicks in (really, that’s what it’s called, I didn’t make that shit up). That’s the section of the brain that is the most primitive, in case you didn’t know, and there is a direct correlation between the word “serpent” and a bungee cord producing excitement in men, like ants in the pants.

I’m even getting kinda hot writing those words together.

So instead of putting up signs with giant lettering and arrows pointing the guy in the right direction, which I seriously considered, I failed by leaving the bungee cord where it was, assuming he would figure it out by the text. I can’t even say for sure that large signs would’ve been sufficient, I probably would’ve needed to completely remove the bungee cord from view; you don’t want to leave any temptation or distractions for the simple mind to get swayed.

So I failed to fully think like a man, which is totally natural considering I do not have a serpent in my pants. 


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