A while back, I went on a few dates with a guy who was really cool. He wore leather jackets and combat boots without looking like he was trying too hard. His hair was a perfectly-sculpted work of rockabilly art. When you really pressured him, he’d reluctantly tell you vague details about his band, which won a national television contest, toured with some major stars, and has its own Vevo channel. He didn’t like to talk about it because it was, like, not even a big deal or whatever. What I’m trying to say is, he was very, very cool.
He was so cool that I couldn’t function around him. When we’d go out to eat, I was elated that this obviously cool person was going on a date with little ole me, but as soon as anyone looked at us, I’d imagine what they were thinking and I’d mentally apologize. “I know! I know!”, I’d think. “He’s extremely cool and I just made a pterodactyl joke and choked on my own spit. IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE TO ME, EITHER.” It was an exhausting self-esteem roller coaster with way too many bad dinosaur jokes, so we soon went our separate ways. He’s working on another album in Nashville. I’m knitting a misshapen hat. We’re both happier now.
New Years Resolutions:
1) Don’t die.
2) Maybe shave your legs more often.
3) Continue to avoid reptiles.
4) Never ever return to a hair salon, barber shop, or any situation where scissors will come within a foot of your head.
That’s right– I’m never cutting my hair again, and I’ll tell you why. A couple weeks ago I was briefly the owner of a mullet. And not the fish kind.
More than once in high school, my mom woke up with the solution to a tricky algebra problem she’d been helping me with the night before. Somehow, while she was asleep, her brain was using FOIL and solving proofs and she’d wake up with the whole thing solved. It’s an incredibly handy talent for a kid who’s stressing out about her pre-calc class the next morning, but so far it doesn’t seem to be genetic.
This morning, however, I woke up with a Halloween-themed song in my head. For a second, I hoped I was a regular Paul McCartney, who woke up one morning with the tune to “Yesterday” fully realized. After singing it a couple times, though, I realized it already existed — all I’d done was change the lyrics, and they weren’t even that good. If my mom is a slightly-less-than-lucid Euclid in her sleep, I’m like a fifth-rate Weird Al-wannabe.
Anyway, this is the song I was singing on my way to decorate my building for Halloween this morning:
(Here’s the background music. Please excuse the jingle bells.)
It’s my most judgmental time of the year.
Your costume’s exploding
your boobs are both showing,
it’s why people leer!
It’s my most judgmental time of the year!
While it’s not a particularly good song, it made me realize that I’m sort of a prude at Halloween. I like to think I’m open-minded, but when one girl walked by wearing caution tape (and ONLY caution tape), I stopped being a thoughtful person and started being a bitter old lady about this holiday. You have the right to wear whatever you want, and that’s cool, but when you’re wearing a thin strip of plastic and it’s 34 degrees outside, I will happily stick up my nose and passive-aggressively bring up hypothermia.
After a Sexy Baby (A SEXY BABY COSTUME. Purchasing that should get you put on some kind of sex offender watch list.) walked past me, I started to wonder if there was anything safe from sexualization on Halloween.
I have a weird obsession with the U.S. President.
Not the current president, specifically. All of them. I love those guys. I’m the kind of gal who finds ways to talk about Calvin Coolidge at parties. (OK, seriously, why doesn’t anyone ever want to do that? Ask me about Silent Cal and Vaseline some time. You will not be disappointed. )
I want it to be clear that no one rocks the X chromosomes like I do, but there are some stereotypically female things that leave me confused. I obsess about my hair and squeal over shoes as much as the next cliche, but things like “applying lipliner” and “understanding emotions” are sort of beyond me. Because I missed some important female lesson at some point, I get all my relationship advice from Google.
Tuesday, I was asking Google how to flirt and every result was from Cosmopolitan, the magazine for fun, fearless females. If you’ve walked past a magazine rack in a grocery store and you have eyeballs, you know that Cosmo’s advice can be crazy. Not fun, you-never-know-what-your-girlfriend-will-do-next crazy. The your-girlfriend-is-going-to-stab-you-in-the-face-in-your-sleep kind of crazy. Nevertheless, there are girls out there who live and breathe Cosmo. If sex sells, a thousand different euphemisms for it plastered on a pink cover must sell a thousand times as well.