My co-worker told me about a magical website filled with old photos, and where there are old photos to be had, there's always other ridiculously dated other thing: women not being allowed to do shit! I plopped upon this late 1930's article telling single women how to trick a man into loving them, and realized I somehow broke all these rules and still convinced a guy to deal with me on a permenant, live-in basis. (I'd say he has yet to discover how truly messy i am, but considering he insisted we switch closets this weekend to contain the thin layer of patterned materials covering the floor, I think he's onto it.)
Anyway, thank the lord we live in a time when women can take a mid-drank snooze and be carted home in a taxi, because otherwise I would have been the town spinster. Or, the town drunk. Maybe a bit of both. Good thing all these rules were made to be broken:
My work-at-home uniform consists of underwear, a baggy t-shirt and yesterday's eyeliner Svengooli-style, so if I actually kick it up enough notches that I'm wearing a leather product, anything with a heel, or let's be real here, pants, you may have to leisurely kill time reading fantasy football stats while overhearing the magic going down in forms of loud whining, "But...but I don't know what to wear!" pouting and proclamations of being ready approximately twenty minutes before I actually am. But, wouldn't you be glad you knew that from day one? That I opted out of presenting a perfection parade that culminates in your now-ruined Friday evening plans and some very important decisions based on booties or lace up heels, which, no, are not the same thing? I had to be taken home before my birthday party to change because my dress was inadvertently completely see-through, and spent the beginning of our first big date changing between two dresses because the one I had on was fugly, and it still all worked out. But, if you get yourself into a pickle, I strongly feel as though any girly indiscretion can be completely undone by ordering whiskey on the rocks, or at least I'll just keep telling myself that as a reliable excuse for liking Jack Daniels so much.
I'm actually quite certain that's exactly how I sit when plopped on a comfy cushion. Tell me, how are you supposed to engage your abs and sit up straight and not slouch when you're sitting on a cloud made of cotton and watching inexcusably horrible television? Do I not deserve to enjoy two long, pathetic hours of "Dance Moms" while irrevocably destroying the upper portion of my spine? I'm like, three bad days away from going at that one pound bar of chocolate in the fridge, and I don't even like chocolate and can barely lift a pound. Give me this one thing.
I had to re-read this three times, because it totally looked like this old school biotch was chillin' reading Twitter while her manly man painted her tiny, delicate nails. Now, a boyfriend who dabbles in the art of manicures would be so insanely helpful, because I can't deal with the dead-eye stares and the endless waiting of sitting across a woman while she's decorating the most nonsensical part of your body so you can move your fingers, and what, glimmer a man your way? But, back to this kid. Does he think your makeup is magic? Were we really this challenged without Wikipedia? Boy is in for a rude awakening when he starts sharing a teeny-tiny '40s style bathroom with his object of perfection and tries to fit hair goop, deodorant, a toothbrush and a broken half of a comb into an open wedge of space and can't because there are potions, creams, sprays and near-empty bottles everywhere. My bathroom has legit started doubling as a Bumble & Bumble product showroom, and considering the mathematics of my hair length vs. my boyfriend's, I feel no shame. No shame! A bathroom is not a place for minimalists, and if your gal is going to take the time to try and impress you, deal with the lipstick smudge on your PRECIOUS HANDKERCHIEF, YOU ANAL FREAKNUT.
Well, lucky for you, gods of the kept women worlds, my boyfriend doesn't even LIKE to dance! Good thing I can't stop talking, too. Can't stop, won't stop, can't make me stop, won't make me stop, hey I'm hungover!, can't make me stop, won't make me stop, my hands hurt, can't make me stop, won't make me stop...
OK, I'll give you this one.
Okay, so, fuck, I totally do this. But! I have questions about menus! I can't help it. These people are surrounded by the same food each and every day, so wouldn't you consider them to be high tide experts in things like appetizer choices and portion sizes and snackies on the menu that we'd never order but should totally try? Also, judging from my inability to take a plate from my desk to the kitchen or remember anything besides my SSN and bank routing number (somehow), anyone who works on a restaurant's waitstaff is a god before mere mortals solely for their ability to do both, and if they're cool? Why not hang? We once spent half a dinner at Gjelina talking to our waiter, and it wound up being one of the most fantastic meals of my entire life. Until we have robots serving us jelly blobs and desserts in the form of pill supplements, I will continue to be an amicable human being.
Oh, oh oh, how the times have changed.