|TRUE OR FALSE: THESE RED STILETTOS ARE UNCOMFORTABLE ... |
BUT THEY'RE HOT, SO I WILL WEAR THEM
If you answered "true," you are a woman. Or a transvestite.
Either way, good answer!
Contrary to what you might assume from reading this blog, I don't hate men, I love them. OK, "love" might be a bit strong. I like men. Except when they say stupid things, which unfortunately happens fairly often if you share a home with them and expect them to help you clean it.
Take this example of an excuse that was spouted by a fellow I once lived with. Oh don't worry, there've been several and most of them can't read, so the odds of him seeing this and thinking, "That bitch! She's talking about ME!" are slim. Unless I supplied his initials, which are "J-O-H-N S-M-I-..." Hahahaha! I kill me!
But seriously, this otherwise lovely fellow I once knew in the biblical sense often tried to avoid housework by reminding me of how enthusiastically he "used to" help out when it was all new and fun. He would say, and I quote: "Don't you remember when I used to clean that stove like it was my baby?"
Yeah, here's the thing about "used to": IT'S GONE!
As in I "used to" be a virgin.
I "used to" be 29.
I "used to" live in my parents' basement rent-free and had money coming out my VAGINA!
Guys, please. You're going to have to do a lot better than this to get out of helping us. Try: "Jesus Christ, I've just had both arms sawed off in a drive-by maiming!" That would work for me, and for most women I know.
Then there are the cloddish observations men make. Such as commenting on a woman's weight gain, correctly guessing a woman's age when asked or, perhaps most egregious of all, offering unasked-for opinions on a woman's attire. Such as this one, when a male co-worker asked a female co-worker about her incredibly sexy shoes.
"Those can't be comfortable," he said.
"No, not really," she said.
"Then why do you wear them?"
Fortuitously, I . . . the woman who wears the least sensible shoes in the entire building, maybe even on the entire city block . . . happened to walk by at this very moment, and my female co-worker enlisted me to help make her point.
"I love your shoes, Marie," she said. "Are they comfortable?"
"Oh hell no!" I said.
"Then why are you wearing them?" she asked.
For one moment, I just looked at her like she was crazy, and then we both burst out laughing while our male co-worker looked on in nervous confusion.
I could go on, but really there's no need. I think I have made my point . . . and also I am starting to wonder if in fact I do like men after all.