Apparently I Can’t Have Standards, Am I The Only One, So I Have A Car…Sorta, And Other Stuff And Other Thangs

Standard

About 5 or 6 years ago, I worked at a consignment store that was infested with young girl employees.  I was mostly either amused or annoyed with the youngsters I was surrounded by.  Only one girl stands out in my memory as making me feel exceedingly murdery.  Some of her finer moments included showing me and everyone else her infected tongue piercing and telling everyone, in excruciating detail, all about her vaginal yeast infection.  She also made a comment about the necessity of using a flat-iron on her hair if she ever wore it down, other wise it would be all ugly and frizzy…like mine.  Anyway, one day I was talking to some of the girls about men and relationships and such.  I was actually quite amused by the amount of shock and awe they had for the fact that I not only hadn’t been in a relationship for years, I wasn’t particularly concerned with changing my single status.  Then the twit joined the conversation.  I was explaining to another girl some of the things I felt a man had to posses or be interested in for me to consider him a potential candidate.  The twit heard my list and grew all wide-eyed and said, “But don’t you think that’s kinda silly?”  I blinked at her before responding, “Um…you mean having standards?  That’s silly?”  “Well, I mean, for someone like you.”  More blinking.  “Someone like me?”  “Yeah, you know, big girls.  Everyone knows men prefer skinny girls, so big girls should just be happy if any guy likes them, you know?”  At this point, I couldn’t even blink.  I simply gawked at the baffling creature before me.  “Are you saying fat chicks should take what they can get?  Like, fat chicks can’t be picky?”  “Well, yeah.  If you ever want a man, you have to, like, just take whatever guy likes you.”  I wrestled with the urge to choke the shit out of her dumb ass, then spent a few minutes formulating an answer that did not involve death threats and/or a constant stream of swear words.  When I was mostly calm-ish, I said, “I don’t care if they weigh 800 pounds, all women should have standards.  I have hated myself for as long as I can remember, and even I think I deserve to have standards.  So men only like skinny girls?  Fat chicks need to settle or end up alone?  Awesome, alone is fine by me.  See, the problem is, too many women think you have to have a man to be complete, and that’s complete and utter bullshit.  You don’t need a man.  You don’t need kids or a minivan and a white picket fence.  Just because society tries to sell us that crap, doesn’t mean we need to buy it.”  Too late, I realized I had lost her somewhere around the time I said something about 800 pound women.  She stared at me in horror and said, “800 pounds?  Men won’t even look at women over 200 pounds!  After 200 pounds they don’t deserve a man anyway, cause they’re just gross.”  At this point I walked away.  An orange prison jumpsuit would not be flattering on a fat chick like me.

Am I the only one who finds those posts on FB that are all self-loathing or self-pitying and, if I fell all like ‘omg that’s me’ or ‘omg that’s how I feel’, I save the picture or whatever, and then…I DON’T SHARE IT!  Crazy, right?  I do not put those sort of posts on my page in order to elicit pity or gain attention.  Why do people do that?  Why do you want everyone on FB all in your head and your heart?  FB is not a confessional, nor is it a psychological counseling service.  Have a statement to make?  Great.  Hilarious memes to share?  Awesome.  Political snark to offload?  Have at it.  Ridiculous cat videos to spread around like some unstoppable plague?  Dandy.  Fishing for pity and attention with random comments about how ugly you are or how no one really cares about you?  Phone a friend or get a damn therapist or whatever.  And, swear to all that is holy, do not post this whiny bullshit then refuse to elaborate or to acknowledge questions and concerns.  You obviously put that shit on your page for attention or reassurance, so knock off the games y’all.  Seriously, this shit drives me batshit.  If I am having issues, I pick up the phone and call a friend.  Or I just give in and let myself cry a little, suck it up, and move on.  Sheesh.

So I totally have a car now…kinda.  See, the car is sitting in the driveway, looking all cute with the Bob the Minion sticker I gave her, and the pink fuzzy wuzzy steering wheel cover I got for her.  And I can’t drive the car.  See, I have to wait for the title cause the tags are expired, which I can’t fix until I can get the title and put the car in my name and get new tags for it.  So there it sits…going nowhere.  Siiiigh.

Randomosity:

 

I never elaborated on my list of prerequisites for men, and I know you are just dying to know!  So here ya go:

  1. has to actually read real books
  2. must like or, at the very least respect my obsession for, all things zombie and horror
  3. needs to acknowledge the fact that I do not have pets, I have furry children
  4. cannot be too clingy
  5.  must be willing to accept my avoidance of all things social, preferably knowing when to force me to socialize and when to back the hell off
  6. never expect me to be all domesticated and shit
  7.  do not expect me to be into dresses and make-up and jewelry and other vomitously unappealing things many women actually seem to not hate
  8. never ever say things like bae or fleek and make damn sure to use the correct your/you’re and they’re/their/there and the like.

So that’s my list.  Mostly.  I do reserve the right to add to it at anytime of course.  I don’t understand the obsession HGTV house hunters seem to have with thing like granite counter tops and entertaining space and updated kitchens and all the other crap they go on and on and on about.  Me?  I’d be all “Does everything work?” “Yes” “Yay!” and then I’d start my plans for the most I’d need to discourage unwanted social interaction.  I had to be social yesterday, which is always an unpleasant sort of thing.  But it was my family, so slightly less awkward and unpleasant than usual.  We had a big potluck lunch, then we had a graveside service for Uncle Earl.  My awesome cousin Maurice sang a beautiful song he wrote for Earl and I found out that the song You Are My Sunshine is depressing as hell once you hear all the lyrics.  My cousin made me read the blog post I wrote about Earl IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.  Amazingly, I didn’t do as horrendous as I usually do when I have to speak in front of a group, though I still hated it.  But Erin asked, and, well, it’s Erin and she rocks so I just couldn’t say “Abso-fucking-lutely no way in hell and you’re a meanie douche-head for even asking me” like I would have to most people who dared suggest such a horrific activity.  I’m really bummed that I missed Elise’s college graduation.  Why do pale women ever choose to wear the obnoxiously bright red lipstick?  I just spent most of an episode of Tiny House Hunters gawking at this chicks lipstick and wondering why no one stopped her from wearing it.  I want a tiny house.

Farewell for now, Chow Chow!

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