Man Haters
Now that I'm single I have once again joined the ranks of the man-haters, that venomous group of women who are ever ready to point out every short-coming of the male species. Every snide comment is related to the fact that, in reality, I just need to get laid. Oddly enough, those same male bashing comments came spewing out of my mouth when I was... well... active.
The truth of the matter is that I'm just a snide person. I make off-hand comments and observations about the human condition all of the time, regardless of my sexual activity. My point of view is that humans in general, male AND female, are prone to stupidity. I just love talking about it.
I even like to talk about my own stupidity. I mean, come on, I told the whole world about my attempts at self-electricution when I put my finger in the puddle of water surrounding a heating element in my waterbed! Yet nobody accused me of sexual frustration as I told this story of human stupidity, albeit my own stupidity. I frequently lambast women for their acts of stupidity. I actually have a possible book running through my mind that I would love to call STUPID GIRL. I am obsessed with dumb blonde jokes. They make me giggle every single time! That sure as hell doesn't mean I have any unsatisfied lesbian desires.
It means that I watch people and share with everyone else my amusement.
But the moment I broach the subject of man-stupidness, I become a man-hater. I can hear already the comments that it's the viciousness and the volume that makes me a man-hater. PLEASE! Men are just prone to more stupid crap than women.
Maybe I need to re-phrase that...
Okay, when I see female stupidity it is usually just sad and depressing. Women put themselves out there in vulnerable ways and become the victim. It's stupid and sad, but not so funny. Men, on the other hand, are going for the glory. They act brave and blindly plunge into feats that should be, and frequently are, deadly. Death isn't funny, really, it isn't, but these guys sure do a bang up job of catching our attention. And hey, isn't that what it's all about? Getting the girl to look? Granted, the guy can't go on a date with her, now that he's dead, but maybe, just maybe, she'll attend his funeral. He did, after all, die for her.
You're stupid, I laugh. But since I don't have a man at my side, or at least in my bed, I'm not allowed to poke fun at this other moron's stupidity. Sorry, that arrangement just doesn't work for me. But I don't hate men, really I don't! A very wise woman said "they taste just like chicken." I have to agree.
I can't guarantee a steady supply of sex-partners while trying to keep my dignity somewhat in tact. I can, however, guarantee that morons will cross my path every single day. It is from the moron population that I receive the greatest form of satisfaction: a reason to laugh.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Play To Win
If I were a poker player in the old west, I surely would have been shot.
I like to cheat.
I’m probably the most honest person you’ll ever meet, but I do love the joy of winning a game by any means possible. I don’t fudge on my taxes, don’t embellish my job resumé, nor lie about my weight on my driver’s license, yet sit me down for a game of Scrabble and you’ll be facing an uncontrollable cheat.
Last night I played Trivial Pursuit and guess which team won? Mine, of course. I could read the answers on the card as the question was being read. It was quite a feat to make it look like I came up with “Nathan Hale” all on my own, as if I knew what I was talking about. At least I knew who he was in American history, but there was not a chance in hell that I would have come up with that man’s name in response to the question with out the ability to read fine print across the table, upside-down. It is a skill. Likewise, I would never have come up with “West Virginia” as a state with streams adversely affected by coal mining if it were not for a quick glimpse of a long name starting with W. It looked longer than Wisconsin and I don’t recall Wyoming being a stream-laden state. I used power of deduction with that small clue. One of my teammates was much more blatant in her attempts. As the other team refilled their drinks while we were contemplating the answer, my teammate flipped the card over and just read the answer outright and then had me act like I was thinking it over and over and out of the blue came up with it. The boys looked so dismayed that the girls won. Poor things, they were trying to win on intelligence alone.
Why do I do it? I don’t know. I don’t take parlor games seriously. I think they are for fun and this just enhances it, at least for me. If somebody is a poor sport about it, well, I probably wouldn’t enjoy their company anyway. Just because I cheat doesn’t mean I always win, and actually that makes the whole situation even funnier. One night we were playing Pictionary. This game requires that one member of the team draw a picture to denote the word on the card for the other team members. Words are never allowed in the picture. You can guess that with my poor drawing skills I was writing the answer for my teammates. Sadly the other team was much quicker in their drawing and interpreting than my team was in reading and writing. We lost and lost big. But we had fun and isn’t that the point of playing a game?
Maybe if I were to play games for money, I would be more likely to abide by the rules. I certainly behave myself if I’m new to the group, but I will tell you I don’t have nearly as much fun.
So now you are warned. If you want to have a good time and can be a good sport, invite me to play a hand of cards or a round of board games. I assure you, I will find a way to cheat, even if it means slipping the vicious “Qu” tile to an opponent in Scrabble. It’s an addiction and I have no intentions of going through any 12 step reform. I would find a way to bastardize it down to 8 steps.
I like to cheat.
I’m probably the most honest person you’ll ever meet, but I do love the joy of winning a game by any means possible. I don’t fudge on my taxes, don’t embellish my job resumé, nor lie about my weight on my driver’s license, yet sit me down for a game of Scrabble and you’ll be facing an uncontrollable cheat.
Last night I played Trivial Pursuit and guess which team won? Mine, of course. I could read the answers on the card as the question was being read. It was quite a feat to make it look like I came up with “Nathan Hale” all on my own, as if I knew what I was talking about. At least I knew who he was in American history, but there was not a chance in hell that I would have come up with that man’s name in response to the question with out the ability to read fine print across the table, upside-down. It is a skill. Likewise, I would never have come up with “West Virginia” as a state with streams adversely affected by coal mining if it were not for a quick glimpse of a long name starting with W. It looked longer than Wisconsin and I don’t recall Wyoming being a stream-laden state. I used power of deduction with that small clue. One of my teammates was much more blatant in her attempts. As the other team refilled their drinks while we were contemplating the answer, my teammate flipped the card over and just read the answer outright and then had me act like I was thinking it over and over and out of the blue came up with it. The boys looked so dismayed that the girls won. Poor things, they were trying to win on intelligence alone.
Why do I do it? I don’t know. I don’t take parlor games seriously. I think they are for fun and this just enhances it, at least for me. If somebody is a poor sport about it, well, I probably wouldn’t enjoy their company anyway. Just because I cheat doesn’t mean I always win, and actually that makes the whole situation even funnier. One night we were playing Pictionary. This game requires that one member of the team draw a picture to denote the word on the card for the other team members. Words are never allowed in the picture. You can guess that with my poor drawing skills I was writing the answer for my teammates. Sadly the other team was much quicker in their drawing and interpreting than my team was in reading and writing. We lost and lost big. But we had fun and isn’t that the point of playing a game?
Maybe if I were to play games for money, I would be more likely to abide by the rules. I certainly behave myself if I’m new to the group, but I will tell you I don’t have nearly as much fun.
So now you are warned. If you want to have a good time and can be a good sport, invite me to play a hand of cards or a round of board games. I assure you, I will find a way to cheat, even if it means slipping the vicious “Qu” tile to an opponent in Scrabble. It’s an addiction and I have no intentions of going through any 12 step reform. I would find a way to bastardize it down to 8 steps.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Redneck July 4th
Being a girl, from the suburbs, in a county that outlaws fireworks, I never really FULLY understood the Bubba-factor that goes into the Fourth. Dear LAWD AWMIGHTY!!!!
Last year was so pleasant, a large group of friends gathered at a house where the back porch overlooked most of south St. Louis County. It was awsome - there were professional displays everywhere you looked and it went on for HOURS. I've never seen anything like it.
This year I was coerced by Mr. Wonderful to go to his family's get together - it's amazing, he said, you've never seen anything as spectacular. I tried to explain what I saw last year but his eyes just glazed over and he re-emphasized how COOL this one is. Oh okay.
So the evening begins with a great spread of food and kids setting off the smoke bombs and sparklers. It gets dark and the men and older boys start setting off the big fireworks - okay, but still doesn't beat last year. THEN, Mr Wonderful pulls out this pack of sparklers -150 or so that he's taped together - warns everybody to stay back because he only heard about doing this and isn't sure what it'll do. It goes bang. Let me rephrase that it goes BOOM! Big fucking BOMB type BOOM! He tee hees and giggles and gets patted on the back by the other guys. Us women are looking at eachother (including the ones related to these men and have endured this crap for eons) wondering what the big deal was. It was fire and it made big noise - grunt grunt grunt. They scramble to find more sparklers and tape. The second one was a failure, it just went up in flames with no big BOOM. They get in a huddle and discuss clearing the shelves of sparklers during after 4th sales so they can make them this weekend. Mr. Wonderful is instructed to bring lots of them next year.
So then it's time for the grand finalé. All women and children are instructed to go inside and watch from the window and the boys pull out the gas cans. Okay, now this ended up being pretty cool, but NEVER would somebody with estrogen flowing through her veins ever dream up such a thing.... The men had spent an hour earlier that day building this box (which involved a power saw, wood, nails, hammers, and a wire cage covering) and then put twelve bajillion bottle rockets in the cage covering. They pulled this "box" out to the end of the driveway, poured gasoline all over it, with a little trail back a ways so they could light it from a distance. It went off for about two minutes with bottle rockets shooting straight up and then fizzled out. THE WOMEN STARTED BOOING! I'm stunned, it was pretty, nobody got hurt. NOOOoooooo I was told, it's supposed to go on and on and on and on and shoot bottle rockets everywhere. So the men huddle again. Out comes the GASTANK from a motorcycle and they REGAS the box and relight it. OH MI GAWD!!!!!! Huge flames, bottle rockets EVERYWHERE, men running.
Oddly enough NO INJURIES and again, Mr Wonderful is the hero for putting out a fabulous display.
All I can say, it's a man thing and I don't understand.
Last year was so pleasant, a large group of friends gathered at a house where the back porch overlooked most of south St. Louis County. It was awsome - there were professional displays everywhere you looked and it went on for HOURS. I've never seen anything like it.
This year I was coerced by Mr. Wonderful to go to his family's get together - it's amazing, he said, you've never seen anything as spectacular. I tried to explain what I saw last year but his eyes just glazed over and he re-emphasized how COOL this one is. Oh okay.
So the evening begins with a great spread of food and kids setting off the smoke bombs and sparklers. It gets dark and the men and older boys start setting off the big fireworks - okay, but still doesn't beat last year. THEN, Mr Wonderful pulls out this pack of sparklers -150 or so that he's taped together - warns everybody to stay back because he only heard about doing this and isn't sure what it'll do. It goes bang. Let me rephrase that it goes BOOM! Big fucking BOMB type BOOM! He tee hees and giggles and gets patted on the back by the other guys. Us women are looking at eachother (including the ones related to these men and have endured this crap for eons) wondering what the big deal was. It was fire and it made big noise - grunt grunt grunt. They scramble to find more sparklers and tape. The second one was a failure, it just went up in flames with no big BOOM. They get in a huddle and discuss clearing the shelves of sparklers during after 4th sales so they can make them this weekend. Mr. Wonderful is instructed to bring lots of them next year.
So then it's time for the grand finalé. All women and children are instructed to go inside and watch from the window and the boys pull out the gas cans. Okay, now this ended up being pretty cool, but NEVER would somebody with estrogen flowing through her veins ever dream up such a thing.... The men had spent an hour earlier that day building this box (which involved a power saw, wood, nails, hammers, and a wire cage covering) and then put twelve bajillion bottle rockets in the cage covering. They pulled this "box" out to the end of the driveway, poured gasoline all over it, with a little trail back a ways so they could light it from a distance. It went off for about two minutes with bottle rockets shooting straight up and then fizzled out. THE WOMEN STARTED BOOING! I'm stunned, it was pretty, nobody got hurt. NOOOoooooo I was told, it's supposed to go on and on and on and on and shoot bottle rockets everywhere. So the men huddle again. Out comes the GASTANK from a motorcycle and they REGAS the box and relight it. OH MI GAWD!!!!!! Huge flames, bottle rockets EVERYWHERE, men running.
Oddly enough NO INJURIES and again, Mr Wonderful is the hero for putting out a fabulous display.
All I can say, it's a man thing and I don't understand.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
The Waterbed Incident
In my old house I slept on a waterbed in the basement of a cozy two bedroom "bungalow". One night as I was almost asleep one of the corners of the sheet came off. This is a normal thing that can only be described as a royal pain in the azz. So I turn on the light, stand up, lift the corner (a herculean feat) and tuck the corner in. My hand gets wet. So I lift the corner again to inspect WHY there was water and sure enough there was an itty bitty little leak. I've had leaks before - that happens when an eighty pound pit bull likes to sleep on your bed. So I open my nightstand and pull out the repair kit. The goo stuff is all dried out. Dammit. Well it was a litle leak so I say screw it and crawl back into bed with the corner untucked.
Following night - FORGOT TO BUY A NEW REPAIR KIT. Idiot, idiot, idiot - WHAT WAS I THINKING???? The problem was I WASN'T THINKING!
Next Morning - I'm getting dressed and notice that the carpet is a little damp. I look at the foot of my bed and sure enough there is water pooling inside the liner and it is dripping onto the floor.
That night - Nearly forget I need to buy a patch, but in the nick of time run to Walmart. Patch kit - $1.89!!!! Now y'all know that I had to pick up another $20 of stuff. And of course it was the last of the month, the most deadly time to be in a Walmart being check-day for half of the population. So it took me an hour to get out of there. When I finally managed to get home I do the quick three minute repair and go on with my routine for the night. But I failed to mop up and wet vac the pool that has formed around my mattress.
Next night - Pool still there, but like the other nights it's not touching my sheets which as soon as I discovered the pool several days ago had pulled off the corners. I sleep dry.
Following Morning - The wet spot on my carpet is growing and now there is a distict dripping sound. I lay down towels and scold myself for not pulling out the wetvac last night. I also poke around at the pool to see how deep it is - ZAP! Hmmmm, did I just get electricuted? TRY IT AGAIN - ZAP!!! Why I think I did! Of course this wasn't a hair frizzling event, more like putting your tongue on a battery. It entices you to do it again. Finally the mother in me steps in and puts a stop to the shenanigans. Wisely I put on rubber soled shoes and unplug the bed's waterheater. And then poke my finger in the water to make sure it's off.
Seriously
Following night - FORGOT TO BUY A NEW REPAIR KIT. Idiot, idiot, idiot - WHAT WAS I THINKING???? The problem was I WASN'T THINKING!
Next Morning - I'm getting dressed and notice that the carpet is a little damp. I look at the foot of my bed and sure enough there is water pooling inside the liner and it is dripping onto the floor.
That night - Nearly forget I need to buy a patch, but in the nick of time run to Walmart. Patch kit - $1.89!!!! Now y'all know that I had to pick up another $20 of stuff. And of course it was the last of the month, the most deadly time to be in a Walmart being check-day for half of the population. So it took me an hour to get out of there. When I finally managed to get home I do the quick three minute repair and go on with my routine for the night. But I failed to mop up and wet vac the pool that has formed around my mattress.
Next night - Pool still there, but like the other nights it's not touching my sheets which as soon as I discovered the pool several days ago had pulled off the corners. I sleep dry.
Following Morning - The wet spot on my carpet is growing and now there is a distict dripping sound. I lay down towels and scold myself for not pulling out the wetvac last night. I also poke around at the pool to see how deep it is - ZAP! Hmmmm, did I just get electricuted? TRY IT AGAIN - ZAP!!! Why I think I did! Of course this wasn't a hair frizzling event, more like putting your tongue on a battery. It entices you to do it again. Finally the mother in me steps in and puts a stop to the shenanigans. Wisely I put on rubber soled shoes and unplug the bed's waterheater. And then poke my finger in the water to make sure it's off.
Seriously
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Ways to horrify a man
Ways to horrify a man:
We were on our annual house boat trip, the gang, the obnoxious people you fear bringing "nice" people around. We were full swing into our drinking after a full day of even more drinking. My beaux at the time, a large body builder type threatened to toss loudmouth Pabitcha (her nickname for the past 8 years until this night) overboard. Naaaaah uhhhhh... she wasn't going to have any of that. And she yells a very graphic threat.
Now Beaux-At-The-Time, being new to the group and having previous contact with mostly "nice" people, didn't believe the threat. I covered my eyes, Booty backed up and Pabitcha's hubby, the fantastic master chef "Mickalicious", was just coming up the stairs when he saw the frakus and, knowing his wife, promptly turned around and went the other direction.
Beaux-At-The-Time, still oblivious to the serious nature of the situation, proceeded to lift Pabitcha at which point she made good on her threat and yanked out her tampon! She was promptly dropped to the ground as Beaux-At-The-Time stood in horror while she swung the cotton pony by the string above her head. Now it hadn't been in for very long, so there was no visible stainage, but she had been swimming so it was ladden with lake water and one of the other husbands, a nurse of all things, who should be used to bodily fluids, got splattered with what he referred to as "twat juice". Beaux-At-The-Time probably still suffers nightmares from the event and the male nurse surely had his eye properly flushed when he reached land.
Pabitcha has now been renamed RIPCORD.
We were on our annual house boat trip, the gang, the obnoxious people you fear bringing "nice" people around. We were full swing into our drinking after a full day of even more drinking. My beaux at the time, a large body builder type threatened to toss loudmouth Pabitcha (her nickname for the past 8 years until this night) overboard. Naaaaah uhhhhh... she wasn't going to have any of that. And she yells a very graphic threat.
Now Beaux-At-The-Time, being new to the group and having previous contact with mostly "nice" people, didn't believe the threat. I covered my eyes, Booty backed up and Pabitcha's hubby, the fantastic master chef "Mickalicious", was just coming up the stairs when he saw the frakus and, knowing his wife, promptly turned around and went the other direction.
Beaux-At-The-Time, still oblivious to the serious nature of the situation, proceeded to lift Pabitcha at which point she made good on her threat and yanked out her tampon! She was promptly dropped to the ground as Beaux-At-The-Time stood in horror while she swung the cotton pony by the string above her head. Now it hadn't been in for very long, so there was no visible stainage, but she had been swimming so it was ladden with lake water and one of the other husbands, a nurse of all things, who should be used to bodily fluids, got splattered with what he referred to as "twat juice". Beaux-At-The-Time probably still suffers nightmares from the event and the male nurse surely had his eye properly flushed when he reached land.
Pabitcha has now been renamed RIPCORD.
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