Say Something Funny...B*tch

‘You heard me’

February 24, 2012

I spend a lot of time throughout the week wondering what I’m going to write about come Thursday.  I wait and wait and wait and wait for one of y’all bitches—or, on a fortuitous week (for me, but definitely not for you)—several of you to sit on the Stool of Ventilation behind my desk and launch into a problem for which you’ll ask my advice.  Sometimes, I get down to the day-of and not one you have begged my ear with anything warranting a further delve.  And that’s a good thing.  I don’t want you to ever suffer, it’s just that it really helps me out when you do.  This week, however, there was no need for any of you to beg my ear—though several of you did for a few little things which were easily remedied.  As such, I’m taking the lead, and we’re gonna write a relatively positive and supportive column (who’re we kidding, I’m about to be a straight up bitch).  I spend a fuckton of time talking about the kinds of women I simply do not care for.  I have a few remarkably specific examples complete with names in mind right now, but subtly calling-out is not something I would ever intentionally do, as it’s passive-aggression of the worst kind and I’d rather just be an a-hole to your face so we’re clear on where we stand.  Instead, I’m gonna reco’nize my fellow dope Ladys who exemplify those I do, indeed, want to be friends with.  And if you’ve ever met me, you would know I’m not keen on being friends with too many of you.  I’m serious.  Allllll booked up; not accepting applications for friendship at this time.  By the end, you’ll see why, and you’ll see why those few who have the honor of being among my friends are enviable.  And certainly not because I‘m special, but because they’re all pretty remarkably special in and of themselves, without my input.  Lemme tell you which kinds make up my short list: 

The kind of Lady who would never say ‘wanna go shopping?’ because shopping is not only annoying, but a very specific practice not to be done in the company of others because input from others isn’t necessary as these bitches have minds of their own, and the question “what do you think about this?” is as stupid and meaningless as a Yelp review—why do you care what I think?; you’re wearing it, not me. The kind of Lady who wouldn’t know a diet if it hit her in the face because we’re not 25-years-old anymore and we know we’ll never look like a single person we see walking down the street, let alone any model on any runway, and—Ladys, hear me on this:  A legit Lady would rather have no friends at all than one who can’t shut the fuck about what she is or isn’t eating “right now.”  It’s one of the bigger turn-offs and life is too fucking short to give a shit; no spin class in the world is gonna matter when you turn 32 and your metabolism shifts and smacks you fuck in the face—you’ll be happy to fit into your fat jeans, forget about your damn skinny ones. The kind of Lady whose parents have absolutely no domain over their financial well-being because at some point she understands that an enormous portion of her self-respect comes from her self-reliance, sink or swim.  A mother and father who pay your bills is the equivalent of actually living with your parents and when you meet a guy who matters, that will most certainly matter to him.  The kind who can not only drink me under the table—which is a fete in itself—but who shows up with a bottle of booze without being asked because you don’t roll anywhere empty handed whether you’re drinking or not, and if you’re not drinking, please don’t come. The kind who doesn’t say hi when she doesn’t want to and who doesn’t care that I didn’t when I don’t. The kind of Lady who is ready to disagree unapologetically and doesn’t insist or care that I do or don’t concede. The kind who doesn’t own any of the same clothes that I do, because I’m my own person, and you’re yours.  The kind of Lady who isn’t all booked up every single night of the week with a social calendar or her job because sleep and personal time are equally as important as the number of zeros in her paycheck.  The kind of Lady who speaks to everyone with respect no matter what the situation, and no matter what the opponent, because hitting below the belt is unacceptable and one of the more massive red-flags of Lady friendship that one can wave.  The kind of Lady who shutters at a man wanting to buy her things.  The kind who thinks a man buying her an unsolicited gift, or taking her shopping, is contrived and weird and just…tooclose.  A Man can come home with flowers any ole time he wants, but gifts are altogether different—they’re unnecessary loaded gestures, and it goes along with parental monetary control:  Buy your own shit.  If you can’t afford it, you do not need it.  Most importantly, I have a love for the kind of Lady who absolutely does pass judgment because whether we like it or not, life is one huge judgment call and if you’d like to live in a world where people don’t pass judgment, then you should certainly live with your parents because it’s their job to love you anyway.  But it’s not my job to love you anyway.  It’s, rather, my job to make sure you’re the kind of person I want to be aligned with, and if that ever comes into question, I want to know I can call you out, or—on the flip side—that I’m surrounded by Ladys who’ll make it clear to me that when I fuck up, it’s not aiite.  We’re adults.  If you are going to reserve judgment for me, then I have to wonder what else you reserve judgment for.

Speaking of judgment, it doesn’t take a brilly judge of creative genius to agree I’ve gotten my point across here.  And no point at all, really, just a shout to my Boos—all of whom assemble in one room, once a month, to play the shit outta some Catchphrase and enjoy the shit outta some booze.  Imma go now; I’ve got a fancy dinner with a not-so-fancy bitch on tap for the night, and I need to carb up on account of all the vodka I’ll be drinking in a minute.  I have no tennis this weekend which is annoying, and not just because my tennis partner is snowboarding and may possibly break something and render herself unable to play, but because I’m babysitting her bunny, Jae’Qwonn, and he is a furry hot mess.  But, this furry hot mess brought a handle of Kettle with him, so I’ll drink through the pain and be fine.  Speaking of, I’ve gotta get to it.  Take advantage of your weekend, Ladys.  Do it up, do it right, do me proud.  And if not, I’ll be here in a couple of weeks to address whatever clusterfuck of a shitstorm you’ve gotten yourselves into.  Make some good choices out there, and if you don’t, Mama loves you anyway.  For the most part.