Age Old Question

What happens when an unstoppable douche meets an immovable moron?

THIS:

Scene: Giant’s Parking lot post grocery purchase. Old fella (late 60s early 70s) can not operate his new Suburban for some reason. He has backed out of the parking space, angled in such a way that has obstructed the entire lane of traffic. He’s rifling through the glove compartment for the manual. Middle aged fella (mid-late 40s) pulls up, attempting to pass, becomes impatient, and comedy gold happens.

MAF: *blows horn after waiting an inordinately long time*
OF: *completely unruffled, continues to rifle through glove compartment* (He was so unaffected by the obnoxious horn blowing, I considered that he may have been deaf)
MAF: *gets out of car*
Mel: *loading groceries* Awwwww shit…kids get in the car *still looking HOARD*
MAF: Sir, are you just going to leave your car parked like that, so that nobody can pass?
OF: *NOTHING*
MAF: Sir…SIR! Are you just going to leave your car there?
OF: *annoyed at the inconvenience* WHAT?!
MAF: Do you plan to just leave this car there, so no one can get through?
OF: Do YOU know how to get this car in drive?
MAF: Sir…you don’t know how to drive your own car? You don’t know how to drive your own SUBURBAN?! Maybe you should have purchased another car.
OF: Maybe you should shut your mouth!
MAF: When you purchase a car, you should know how to drive it sir.
OF: If YOU don’t know how to fix the problem, you need to shut your mouth if you can’t help.
MAF: Sir, YOU are a dumbass!
OF: YA MAMA!
Mel: *dead*
Fin

Going Wireless?

If you’ve been a reader or a follower on Twitter  (You do follow me on Twitter, right? You should. I’m great there.) for more than three months, you would know that my weight is an oft-bemoaned topic.  I’ve always been chesty, but once I gained weight, my boobs got set on a hundred thousand trillion.  Not in the scary “Ahhhhh, warn the townspeople and grab your pitchforks!” way.  In the awesome, “I think I’ll give her a few extra slices of turkey after I’ve printed this label at the deli” way.  But with the boobs, come the bra; and with the bra, comes the wires and hooks.

All in a days work, right?  WRONG.  Those wires have declared jihad on my fleshy parts.  The boning on the side impales me in ways that should be saved for those who have committed high treason against Beyonce, and should one of the underwires ever break, you better hope you’re right with your Creator. Love handles under siege.  What part of the game is this?! A few months ago, when I spoke with one of my fellow sisters in boob, she declared an absolute nay no on the underwire bra.

It was as though she spoke a foreign language.  Every bra that I saw that didn’t have wires looked like my mother’s.  Nothing gave me the impression of security like those thin metal wires which both support and abandon me at will. Plus, the ones I saw look just a little too much like they would match with a couple of pairs of my granny’s bloomers.

So what say you ladies?  Wireless or landline?

Girl…What that KITCHEN smell like?

“Girl, if you want that man to stay around, you better cook something.”

You can look like a model with a career and ambition, but you’d better know how to make a mean lasagna, because looks, money and even the flyest of shoes can’t keep you warm at night.  You need to get you a man.  In support of this, ask any brother the importance of a home cooked meal, and they’ll tell you the same thing, “That’s what keeps a man coming back.”

I’m not an “independent-superwoman-who-doesn’t-need-a-man-to-validate-myself.”  (The fact that feminine independence is viewed as a quality both desired and deprecatory is it’s own topic altogether.)  I enjoy companionship.  When I meet a gentleman whose company I enjoy, I will ultimately cook for him.  When I was married, I loved cooking for my family.  My Sunday morning breakfasts are still the stuff of legend.  I get down on my Southern hospitality, and I love sending friends home with good times and full tummies.  However, knowing my first name and carrying a ‘Y’ chromosome does NOT equate a free ticket into my kitchen.

I will once again blame the media-hyped man shortage for this explosion.  Brothers from thither and yon are not only demanding that women get in the kitchen, but chastise any that don’t.  Fifty years ago, the onus was on men to prove that they were able to provide for a family.  If you’re in my age group and had old school parents, we can push that up to twenty years ago.  (When my oldest friend’s now-husband asked her father for permission to marry her, his response was, “I really like you, but, what do you do and how much do you make doing it?”)  Men went out to work, women stayed in house.  My own mother only worked outside of the home when we were in dire straits.  In those instances, part of a woman’s job description, as it were, was providing a home cooked meal.

Today, being a stay at home mom is a position held by a select few, and in this economy, even stay-at-home wives are taking on more work-at-home projects.  If I can accept that times have changed.  If I were to even consider chastising a man for asking a woman to marry him with the knowledge that she would have to work outside the home, I’d be strung up by lunch.  As such, I think you can accept that in 2010, when women can draft legislation, go to into space, fight for our country, research cures for diseases and become Secretary of State for one of the most powerful nations in the world, to label a woman a “failure” for not being able to cook a pot of gumbo is rather ridiculous.

I won’t understate the importance of cooking.  To prepare edible meals is crucial to self-sufficiency and survival.  Additionally, there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with preparing a meal for your king.  I will not go into what makes a man worthy of being or not being your king.  If he is who you selected as a mate, govern yourself accordingly and get down for your crown.  Cooking, and other thoughtful gestures extended toward the people in your circle are acts of love.  But a lot of folks are pulling out five star meals for the court jester.  Guys who have no intention of serious and respectful dating, much less a long standing relationship.  Simply put, if a good meal is what keeps a man coming back, what if I don’t WANT you to come back?

There are great guys who get the raw deal from women that only want to be taken out, without offering much in return.  If my words don’t apply, let it fly.  These days, people are performing illicit sex acts just to get groceries in the house.  This is for some of your brethren, who reek of Axe’s Bootycall & Bad Intentions, demanding sandwiches made from my $9.99/lb cajun turkey, $7.99 Swiss cheese and $3.99 bread, then suspiciously eyeballing my Claussen pickles and toaster oven; yet bringing nothing more to the table than their two cents and appetite.  Do. Not. Want.

Before you start handing out labels on how unsuitable “some of these females” are.  Check yourself.  What are YOU working with?  A LOT of you aren’t even coming through with fresh laundry, or any discernible cooking skills of your own, but want the sister girl Martha Stewart that can orally service you from the back with a crazy straw (c. The Champ).  Pop that U-ey and take it to Wendy’s fam.  I’m selective about who dines in my establishment.

Flirting, Friending and that Other ‘F’ Word

They say prostitution is the world’s oldest profession, but I think flirting is the world’s oldest diversion.  Flirting stems from attraction, whether it’s attraction to a person’s sense of humor, affable personality, or the very primal desire to ride it like a rodeo.  In it’s place, it can be fun.  (I’m hesitant to attach the word “harmless,” but we’ll address that later.)

Enter The Dragon.

By Dragon, I mean, The Internets.  Dare I say, it has revolutionized flirting, dating and relationships.  People from all walks of life and corners of the globe can interact in ways that were once impossible.  Of course, as with every new thing, there are high and low points.  Once taboo, meeting people from the internet is now the norm.  You’re “meeting” a person in a very sanitized, controlled environment. We quite often become very comfortable opening up to objective strangers.  So yes, on the internet, a person may well reveal the sensitive part of themselves they rarely share with friends.  However, you may not realize that they are rude to wait staff (sounds like a small thing; it is NOT).

Myriads of people are connecting romantically via the internet at an increasing rate.  The pull to do so is all but irresistible.  So we poked and threw sheep on Facebook (you should NOT be doing this anymore).  We send thinly veiled suggestive “@replies” on Twitter.  We comment on pictures and blogs.  We laugh our virtual asses off.  We roll on the floor while laughing said asses off.  We IM.  We text.  We call.  They take too long to reply to our text.  They don’t call back.  We go to their Facebook page and don’t say anything.  We stalk their pictures and blogs.  We’re not laughing anymore.  Our asses are safely in tact, and the smiley faces are replaced with makeshift side eyes.  You know the ones: O_o.  We wonder why the hell so and so always “likes” his/her statuses?  What’s to like about “I’m on my way to the grind?”  Oh snap son! They’re e-creeping.  Ultimately, onlookers get to witness the passive/aggressive coup de grâce:  “Well maybe you’re getting me confused with one of your other girls/dudes.”

In my years perusing these here internets, I have lost count on how many times I have actually witnessed that progression.  Particularly the final blow.  I can tell you that I was originally inspired to write this piece, after witnessing some variation of e-player accusations/hate crimes three times in one week, and it was only Wednesday.  Infatuation makes us crazy.  Not everyone knows how to flirt, and some people have either never been the object of flirting in real time, or it happens extremely rarely.  When that’s the case, those people simply do NOT know how to act.

I can speak from my own experience: there is NOTHING harmless about my flirting.  If I take my time to send a couple of flirtatious key strokes, that means I have at least entertained the possibility of a dry hump.  (Do people still dry hump?  I don’t know the rules. I’ve been in emotional seclusion.)  Reason, however, prevails.  There are a million reasons that you should not become physical with every person you flirt with.  I do it almost subconsciously at times, so if I were to engage every object of flirting, I would quite possibly be a veritable Ground Zero of ho shit.  With that said, I can flirt with you, and though I might entertain thoughts, I have no intention whatsoever on doing anything.  Lots of people are like that.  We’re trapped in offices all day and we need something fun to do.

But we’re grown folks, and sometimes sex DOES happen.  Not everyone is going the marriage, 2.5 kid, white picket fence route.  People aren’t even always going the shack-up route.  Some people really, are just trying to have sex.  Ideally, these people should hook up with others of their ilk. Since I love you like play cousins though, I’ll acknowledge this:  There are people who just like to be players.  Having “just sex” isn’t enough for them, and part of their hunt is getting a person to be attached to them, whether they plan on sustaining a relationship or not.  Mentally dog-ear those pages where they let their true intentions seep out.  (I promise you they will.  People ultimately want you to know who they are so they can absolve themselves of guilt if necessary:  But I told you…)

If you are looking for something more, or just getting yourself through the day, govern yourself accordingly.  I’ve seen far too many people create, or fall victim to, what I like to call “Fantasy Monsters.”  You create these virtual romantic situations, yet one person is too invested, the other is not invested enough, and neither of you are equipped to deal because your communication is nonexistent.  Simple words on a page become this fire breathing dragon that makes you stalk pages and wonder why Person X is tagged in not one, but two pictures.

At the end of the day, you are responsible for the people you let in your cipher.  Govern yourselves accordingly.  If you’re an emotional person and you ignore the signs and symptoms of a player, you must exist with the knowledge that you will ultimately be benched.  If you are a player and you ignore the signs and symptoms of a Stage IV clinger, you must exist with the knowledge that your spot can and quite probably will be blown up at any given moment.  It’s crazy in these internets.

Govern yourselves accordingly.