One Day at a Time
Monday, May 07, 2007
When Bitches Attack
I had a close encounter with a real bitch last week. I met this girl at a bar downtown (I will not mention this bar by name because I really like it there and I don’t want it getting any kind of bad press), we talked, we danced, I got her number, I called. Apparently at the bar, it came up in conversation that she’s 21 and which makes our hanging out weird since I’m a whopping 25 years of age making me 4 years her senior. Why do I mention this seemingly small detail you ask? Well, apparently when you’re a 21 year-old-college-sorority girl attending one of the more snobbishly-reputed universities in the greater Boston area, that four-year difference gives you the right to be a real bitch.
To preface this discussion, leading up to the events below, we had a couple short little messages back and forth and determined that we were going to go out the following night, and this call was merely supposed to be a confirming exchange.
So the conversation starts, and we’re kind of feeling each other out, not really sure where the discourse might take us, but at one point early in tête-à-tête the she asks me where I’m from. So I’m thinking, well this is cool, she’s trying to figure out some stuff about me. I say that I’m from the desert oasis known to a person in the know as the Valley of the Sun (aka Phoenix, Az). Her response: “Like that is so funny because my parents moved there like three years ago and so I’ve been going there for like the last three summers…it’s like the dirtiest, slimmiest place I’ve ever been.” Commence ten second awkward moment of silence…10, 9, 8…. Now I have to give her credit for being honest to an almost total stranger about their place of birth and secondary source pride (the first source being rate of fingernail growth), and the one place in the country I can honestly call home, but really folks, if you’re trying to make any kind of impression other than dreadful, then you don’t insult someone within the first five minutes of conversation by calling there beloved motherland a place that only an orc would take a vacation to. Strike one-being mean and nasty about beloved home.
I try not to hold the whole calling-the-natural-habitat-a-dirty-name thing against her. I figure she’s young, maybe a little nervous about talking to an obviously mature, socially couth, and culturally developed man of 25, and I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. The conversation shifts towards what we’re going to do the next night. So she says to me, “So what are we gonna do tomorrow night, I don’t really know what 25-year-olds do for fun. I mean, you’re like just coming out of the MTV generation.” Hmm, now I don’t know if this girl is messing with me or if she’s just really stupid. First of all, if you’re gonna reference an MTV generation of any era, you need to specify which one you’re talking about. For example, are we talking pre-Real World, post-Real World/pre-Road Rules, post Road Rules/pre-Real World Road Rules Challenge, post-Real World Road Rules Challenge/pre-Laguna Beach…I don’t really know anymore since I’m so elderly that I don’t even know if those classifications make sense, but the point is, if you’re gonna try to make a joke, at least make it something elegant and interesting that actually only carbon dates the person in question and not you at the same time. Strike two-trying to be funny and smart but coming off dim-witted and condescending.
Now I’m getting a little steamed and really displeased with myself because not only did I acquire this thing’s numerals, but also committed to an entire night out with her. I needed a way out and I’m not the kind of person that’s going to just come out and say, “Look, I can’t go out with you because that would be a waste of valuable energy that could be better spent on my coloring books.” No, I will sacrifice my integrity to be nice. Thinking, thinking, don’t know what to do. Then it hits me like a load of sweet maple syrup on multi-grain-chocolate-chip pancakes; she’s a prissy little daddy’s girl who belongs to a sorority, I’m a jock, I like sports, maybe I should talk about them. So I ask her what sports she likes, she doesn’t [hi-yo!]. Does her family like any sports?…no [score another for the good guys!]. Then the kicker, she asks me why I like sports so much, and I tell her that I was an athlete up through college, and she says, “You seem like you’d be a meathead.” Strike three-direct attack against one of the foundational personas of my inner character! You’re done lady.
I’ll save you from my ranting on the remaining conversation:
Her: So where are we going tomorrow?
Me: Yeah, I need to talk to you about that, I’m actually heading to a bar way out of your way to watch a cover band (the best one in Boston – The Swingin’ Johnsons) for a friend’s going away, I really need to be there.
Her: So you’re ditching me for a cover band?
Me: No, I’m inviting you to watch the band with me and my friends.
Her: So you want me to drive to your place and then go watch a band at a bar with you and your friends?
Me: Yes.
Her: Well if I’m at a bar I may want to drink.
Me: Well you can sleep on my couch if you want.
Her: Hmmm, I don’t think so, but I still want to hang out soon and I’m busy all weekend.
Me: Well how about next week, I’ll call you this weekend, it was nice talking to you, later.
Her: Goodni-[Click]
¶ 4:40 PM 0 comments
I had a close encounter with a real bitch last week. I met this girl at a bar downtown (I will not mention this bar by name because I really like it there and I don’t want it getting any kind of bad press), we talked, we danced, I got her number, I called. Apparently at the bar, it came up in conversation that she’s 21 and which makes our hanging out weird since I’m a whopping 25 years of age making me 4 years her senior. Why do I mention this seemingly small detail you ask? Well, apparently when you’re a 21 year-old-college-sorority girl attending one of the more snobbishly-reputed universities in the greater Boston area, that four-year difference gives you the right to be a real bitch.
To preface this discussion, leading up to the events below, we had a couple short little messages back and forth and determined that we were going to go out the following night, and this call was merely supposed to be a confirming exchange.
So the conversation starts, and we’re kind of feeling each other out, not really sure where the discourse might take us, but at one point early in tête-à-tête the she asks me where I’m from. So I’m thinking, well this is cool, she’s trying to figure out some stuff about me. I say that I’m from the desert oasis known to a person in the know as the Valley of the Sun (aka Phoenix, Az). Her response: “Like that is so funny because my parents moved there like three years ago and so I’ve been going there for like the last three summers…it’s like the dirtiest, slimmiest place I’ve ever been.” Commence ten second awkward moment of silence…10, 9, 8…. Now I have to give her credit for being honest to an almost total stranger about their place of birth and secondary source pride (the first source being rate of fingernail growth), and the one place in the country I can honestly call home, but really folks, if you’re trying to make any kind of impression other than dreadful, then you don’t insult someone within the first five minutes of conversation by calling there beloved motherland a place that only an orc would take a vacation to. Strike one-being mean and nasty about beloved home.
I try not to hold the whole calling-the-natural-habitat-a-dirty-name thing against her. I figure she’s young, maybe a little nervous about talking to an obviously mature, socially couth, and culturally developed man of 25, and I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. The conversation shifts towards what we’re going to do the next night. So she says to me, “So what are we gonna do tomorrow night, I don’t really know what 25-year-olds do for fun. I mean, you’re like just coming out of the MTV generation.” Hmm, now I don’t know if this girl is messing with me or if she’s just really stupid. First of all, if you’re gonna reference an MTV generation of any era, you need to specify which one you’re talking about. For example, are we talking pre-Real World, post-Real World/pre-Road Rules, post Road Rules/pre-Real World Road Rules Challenge, post-Real World Road Rules Challenge/pre-Laguna Beach…I don’t really know anymore since I’m so elderly that I don’t even know if those classifications make sense, but the point is, if you’re gonna try to make a joke, at least make it something elegant and interesting that actually only carbon dates the person in question and not you at the same time. Strike two-trying to be funny and smart but coming off dim-witted and condescending.
Now I’m getting a little steamed and really displeased with myself because not only did I acquire this thing’s numerals, but also committed to an entire night out with her. I needed a way out and I’m not the kind of person that’s going to just come out and say, “Look, I can’t go out with you because that would be a waste of valuable energy that could be better spent on my coloring books.” No, I will sacrifice my integrity to be nice. Thinking, thinking, don’t know what to do. Then it hits me like a load of sweet maple syrup on multi-grain-chocolate-chip pancakes; she’s a prissy little daddy’s girl who belongs to a sorority, I’m a jock, I like sports, maybe I should talk about them. So I ask her what sports she likes, she doesn’t [hi-yo!]. Does her family like any sports?…no [score another for the good guys!]. Then the kicker, she asks me why I like sports so much, and I tell her that I was an athlete up through college, and she says, “You seem like you’d be a meathead.” Strike three-direct attack against one of the foundational personas of my inner character! You’re done lady.
I’ll save you from my ranting on the remaining conversation:
Her: So where are we going tomorrow?
Me: Yeah, I need to talk to you about that, I’m actually heading to a bar way out of your way to watch a cover band (the best one in Boston – The Swingin’ Johnsons) for a friend’s going away, I really need to be there.
Her: So you’re ditching me for a cover band?
Me: No, I’m inviting you to watch the band with me and my friends.
Her: So you want me to drive to your place and then go watch a band at a bar with you and your friends?
Me: Yes.
Her: Well if I’m at a bar I may want to drink.
Me: Well you can sleep on my couch if you want.
Her: Hmmm, I don’t think so, but I still want to hang out soon and I’m busy all weekend.
Me: Well how about next week, I’ll call you this weekend, it was nice talking to you, later.
Her: Goodni-[Click]
The Heterosexual Male Dancing Ring
So this weekend my band of merry men and I gaggled our way into the Brighton area to experience the delightful sights and sounds of the posh (well more posh than the ilk of establishment I frequent) but highly accessible Soho nightclub. As always the women were beautiful and generally unimpressed with me, the atmosphere was cheery while remaining sophisticate, and the music selection stayed eclectic yet supremely appropriate. Which brings me to the general purpose of this musing…the social acceptance of the male dancing ring.
Allow me to present the situation that brought this apparently socially sensitive topic to fruition. There I am in the middle of the floor pounding the hardwood with exactly two of my friends, one female and one male. Right in the middle of my best Brandon Flowers impression, I caught the eye of an attractive member of the opposite sex who proceeded to give me the come hither finger curl. Right away I thought, “Not subtle and to the point, I like her already!” All in all, we enjoyed each other’s company by in large in a “I like dancing with you not because I want to sleep with you kind of way but because I’m glad there’s a girl here who actually finds my David Bowie chicken dance remotely entertaining” kind of way. Well apparently her friends didn’t agree with the display of non-affection happening on the floor and they pulled her away. This I didn’t mind because that just meant I could keep perfecting my air guitar fist pump with my non-homosexual male dance partner.
Stay with me because this is where it gets interesting. About a Justin Timbersnake/P. Diddy song tandem later, the girl that I had the little fling with earlier in the evening came back, but this time her female friend had her boyfriend in tow. They may have been arguing about something but before I could return the come hither finger curl I heard a loud and thunderous, “Those guys are so gay…[gasp]!” I looked around for some dudes making out in the corner but none were to be found. I searched high and low for a pair of grinding dudes to no avail. Then I turned to my partner in boogie and he says, “No brah, he’s talking about us.” That chache called my friend and me gay! And I’m not saying gay in a look at those guys going crazy and enjoying themselves so I’m gonna call you gay in a joking sort of way so I can come join the fun, but in stern-faced homophobic I wanna rip you a new one by calling you gay kind of way. So I did what any self-respecting obviously not gay but sympathizer with the plight of the homosexual community would do, I simply turned to my buddy and said in a very audible volume, “Oh my gosh, did you hear that? We’re so gay!” And then stared right at the gay-bashing offender while doing the bouncing boob dance with our perfectly sculpted pectoralis muscles. Apparently it worked because he was no where to be seen for the rest of the night.
Anyway, I’m not writing this just to talk about sequence of events in this weekend’s foray. I want to talk about comment made by the deutsche on the dance floor. Not only was this non-instigated vomit of words an outright insult to the gay community (mainly because the majority of homosexual males are much better dancers than my friend and me), but it was a grossly unimaginative way of expressing disaccord with the behavior of others. Unfortunately we still live in a world where it is unacceptable for heterosexual males to enjoy each other’s company on a dance floor. If you see a group of girls getting in to the groove at the local watering hole you don’t go up to them and call them a bunch of lesbos. You sit back and enjoy the show. I’m not saying if you see a group of guys acting in a similar fashion you do the same, but I am sick and tired of this double standard that society is perpetuating in the young adult community that girls can dance without guys but guys can’t dance without girls. It took me a long to time to develop my current repertoire of sic moves that are at a standard to make me feel comfortable enough to put them on display without a female counterpart. And like women, sometimes I just want to be able to go in to a club or bar and be able to say without hesitation, “F girls tonight, I just want to dance!”
So this weekend my band of merry men and I gaggled our way into the Brighton area to experience the delightful sights and sounds of the posh (well more posh than the ilk of establishment I frequent) but highly accessible Soho nightclub. As always the women were beautiful and generally unimpressed with me, the atmosphere was cheery while remaining sophisticate, and the music selection stayed eclectic yet supremely appropriate. Which brings me to the general purpose of this musing…the social acceptance of the male dancing ring.
Allow me to present the situation that brought this apparently socially sensitive topic to fruition. There I am in the middle of the floor pounding the hardwood with exactly two of my friends, one female and one male. Right in the middle of my best Brandon Flowers impression, I caught the eye of an attractive member of the opposite sex who proceeded to give me the come hither finger curl. Right away I thought, “Not subtle and to the point, I like her already!” All in all, we enjoyed each other’s company by in large in a “I like dancing with you not because I want to sleep with you kind of way but because I’m glad there’s a girl here who actually finds my David Bowie chicken dance remotely entertaining” kind of way. Well apparently her friends didn’t agree with the display of non-affection happening on the floor and they pulled her away. This I didn’t mind because that just meant I could keep perfecting my air guitar fist pump with my non-homosexual male dance partner.
Stay with me because this is where it gets interesting. About a Justin Timbersnake/P. Diddy song tandem later, the girl that I had the little fling with earlier in the evening came back, but this time her female friend had her boyfriend in tow. They may have been arguing about something but before I could return the come hither finger curl I heard a loud and thunderous, “Those guys are so gay…[gasp]!” I looked around for some dudes making out in the corner but none were to be found. I searched high and low for a pair of grinding dudes to no avail. Then I turned to my partner in boogie and he says, “No brah, he’s talking about us.” That chache called my friend and me gay! And I’m not saying gay in a look at those guys going crazy and enjoying themselves so I’m gonna call you gay in a joking sort of way so I can come join the fun, but in stern-faced homophobic I wanna rip you a new one by calling you gay kind of way. So I did what any self-respecting obviously not gay but sympathizer with the plight of the homosexual community would do, I simply turned to my buddy and said in a very audible volume, “Oh my gosh, did you hear that? We’re so gay!” And then stared right at the gay-bashing offender while doing the bouncing boob dance with our perfectly sculpted pectoralis muscles. Apparently it worked because he was no where to be seen for the rest of the night.Anyway, I’m not writing this just to talk about sequence of events in this weekend’s foray. I want to talk about comment made by the deutsche on the dance floor. Not only was this non-instigated vomit of words an outright insult to the gay community (mainly because the majority of homosexual males are much better dancers than my friend and me), but it was a grossly unimaginative way of expressing disaccord with the behavior of others. Unfortunately we still live in a world where it is unacceptable for heterosexual males to enjoy each other’s company on a dance floor. If you see a group of girls getting in to the groove at the local watering hole you don’t go up to them and call them a bunch of lesbos. You sit back and enjoy the show. I’m not saying if you see a group of guys acting in a similar fashion you do the same, but I am sick and tired of this double standard that society is perpetuating in the young adult community that girls can dance without guys but guys can’t dance without girls. It took me a long to time to develop my current repertoire of sic moves that are at a standard to make me feel comfortable enough to put them on display without a female counterpart. And like women, sometimes I just want to be able to go in to a club or bar and be able to say without hesitation, “F girls tonight, I just want to dance!”
