The great butt dimple debacle

I am a piece of meat. A juicy piece of meat to be poked and prodded and salivated over by ravenous animals. Nah, just kidding. I’m a human being. Though that’s not as much fun for the aforementioned slobbering idiots.

Harassment is a hot topic lately. At least I think it is because I’ve read a couple headlines and memes and whatnot. And THIS. So let me rephrase: W. Kamau Bell and I think harassment is a hot topic lately. As a living and breathing woman this day and age, I’ve encountered some of this nonsense, and boy I’ve encountered some doozies!

Let me tell you, I’m usually a pretty enthusiastic audience. I’m just fascinated with these guys and what they deem appropriate to say to a strange woman. Oh, I’m a cunt? It’s about time someone was honest with me. Let’s go have some coffee. Oh, I’m a 6? Thanks, dreamlover. Here are the keys to my motel room. I’d love to shrink to the size of a protozoon and hop into a microscopic spaceship and blast off into the inner workings of their brain. What would I find? Probably not much more than a panda playing the cymbals, random posters of boobs and a shitty Van Halen song wheezing on the gramophone. I apologize: shitty Van Halen song is an oxymoron. 

I work part time as a bartender at a small brewpub. Which in men’s minds means that I engraved invitations and sent one to each and every one of them and they read: You are cordially invited to make ridiculous comments about my body and face and/or compare me to other women in the bar or in the entertainment industry. Please RSVP to hoot and holler inappropriately while I bend over to retrieve something I’ve accidentally dropped.  I look forward to being objectified by you while I do my job!

No joke, the other day, two grown ass men were trying to argue with me about whether or not I had dimples on my butt. Seriously. Butt. Dimples. I wanted to barf on the bar and then brush it nonchalantly into their chinos. If I worked at an establishment called Twin Peaks or something, then by all means, let’s also discuss the circumference of my nipples. But no, I don’t work at Twin Peaks. They wouldn’t hire me on account of the circumference of my nipples.

Eau de housewife

It’s not enough in this day and age to just do one thing. You have to add slashes to your title.

I’m a mom.

Well, do you grow your own vegetables? Do you sew all your kids’ clothes? Have you found a way to improve the Dewey Decimal System?

When I’m tending bar at my part time night job, people ask me all the time, “Sooooo, what do you do?” I want to reply, “I’m a neurosurgeon, asshole. What does it LOOK like I do?” But I just kind of pretend I don’t hear them. It’s a loud bar.

Sometimes, when people ask what I “do”, I want to tell them that I am a nanny. That implies that, yes I am a slave to a little nosepicker all day BUT I went through some sort of hiring process, backgrounds were checked AND I’m receiving a paycheck. Maybe, just maybe that would make my position in life a bit more respectable to these people. Maybe I wouldn’t get so many of the head tilted to the side puppy dog eyes frowny face nods, like these people feel sorry for me. Like I just told them my neighbor backed over my Dachshund this morning and didn’t even apologize. He didn’t even offer to buy me a new Dachshund! I mean, no one could replace Mr. Crispy, but it’s the principle.

This is all Jennifer Lopez’s fault. I blame Jennifer Lopez. She was the o.g. slash-hag. It wasn’t enough that she was a Flygirl. She wanted to be an actress. And when that wasn’t enough, she wanted to sing shitty songs. And when that wasn’t enough, she designed clothes and created signature fragrances and had a high profile and somewhat controversial love life. All while making everyone want a big ass. But not just an I-had-too-many-oreos ass. It’s a maybe-I-had-a-few-oreos-but-then-I-merengued-the-shit-out-of-those-oreos ass. Then she went and had twins. All this talk is making me feel like I should stop typing and go to Zumba. And create my own perfume. It would be called Eau de Housewife. It would smell like chicken nuggets. And tears.

So now it’s not okay that I just want to be a mom. Maybe I didn’t craft all of my daughter’s toys out of papier mâché BUT her oatmeal was a perfect consistency this morning and I got her to kind of apologize when she kicked me in the nose. And btw there’s no way to improve the Dewey Decimal System. It’s perfect. Believe me, I’ve tried.