Can’t Fight City Hall

I’ve had a headache for two weeks now.  I don’t have health insurance so I’m not going to a doctor.  So be it if I have an aneurysm because the last two weeks have been the most irritating two weeks of my life.  Every day feels like PMDD, and if you suffer from that debilitating form of PMS, you know what I’m talking about.  I’m so irritated, tired, and annoyed that If I ran into John Edwards right now I would take out all my frustration on him.  I would knee him in the crotch.

In the last two weeks I’ve had to move and moving is an awful task. My lease is up and packing makes me hate.  Unpacking makes me hate even more. 

So, in the midst of moving I had to travel to Chicago.  This trip to the Windy City was for business, not for pleasure.  I had to attend an AEJMC Conference because somehow a paper I wrote with my roommate- to- be won a top paper prize.  I hope I never win a top paper prize again.  Presenting the paper made me so nervous I got drunk the night before.  Presenting a paper to a roomful of smug and scary academics while hung over was so awful I wish I could extract that moment from my memory–or have an aneurysm so I don’t have to think about it anymore.

I’ve had to put off my thesis because I’ve been so busy moving and preparing for the Chicago presentation.  This stresses me out so much I think my head is truly going to explode.  I need to get this damned thesis finished because I need to get the hell out of Syracuse.  And, I need to get my degree so I can move on and get a job with health insurance.

As my personal stress grows, another politician sex-scandal hits the news.  Former presidential candidate John Edwards cheated on his cancer-stricken wife and blames it on narcissicism.  Generally, I would not really care too much, but it just so happens that I was at my highest stress point when the mainstream media finally reported on the story that everybody else already knew.  So, John Edwards, I want to take my stress out on you.  Please, please let me beat the crap out of you.  I could so use the catharsis.

I just finished reading a Brookings Institute study which examined why women are still underrepresented in American politics.  I know what you’re thinking: “Why oh why are you reading nerd-stuff when you could be getting laid?”.  This is true.  Unlike a few months ago, I now have the means to get busy with a boy, but I still have a thesis to write and my thesis is about women in politics, which of course leads me back to my introductory sentence and how that got me thinking about me and my interest in running for Congress.

Yes, indeed, my foul-mouthed, horny little self thinks about public service and not the kind that comes with a “happy ending.”  I think about serving my fellow Americans with diginity, tenacity, and with style that puts Nancy Pelosi’s Armani suits to shame.  In “Why are women still not running for public office?”  researchers Jennifer Lawless and Richard Fox find that women aren’t as interested in world domination as men.  I’d like to defy those statistics.

Lawless and Fox reasoned that women may not be populating America’s political institutions for many reasons like lower levels of encouragement and recruitment.  I can see those two factors keeping women from getting a daily beating from Fox News et al, especially because I think I’ve personally experienced a lack of encouragement–especially from a few boys I know.

For example, I once told my best guyfriend about my political ambitions and he told me I could never run for office because I’m too much of a party girl.  And even my boyfriend, who assures me all the time that I’m really pretty, sexy, and smart, told me the same thing. 

My response:  “Whatever!”  I don’t think being a former party boy and alcoholic stopped the current president from winning two elections and fucking up America.  If I remember correctly, George W. Bush was the one with whom the average Joes most wanted a beer.  Maybe all those NASCAR dads will vote for me and take shots of tequila off my political chest.

And, dabbling in cocaine did not stop Barack Obama from becoming the Democrats’ best hope of winning back the White House.  Hell, I’m not even that much of a party girl.  Maybe I could better my chances with some nose candy.

People often wonder what it would be like if a woman politician got caught up in a sex scandal.  Well, I think sooner or later it will happen.  Women reach their sexual peak at 35 and men get to their’s at 18.  I don’t think any of those nubile, young Congressional pages are safe from anyone representing a district.  I just promise that when I do have sexual relations with my hot, young interns who I have personally hired and for whom I will write sterling recommendations to Harvard and Yale, I will not lie about it. 

And, yes, I do have a dirty mouth and I imagine that might cause some problems for the Evangelical Christians who are beyond reproach.  But Dick Cheney told Senator Patrick Leahy to go fuck himself.  What’s good for Cheney surely can’t hurt me, right?

What a sleazy year it’s been and I’m not talking about just politicians and celebrities, although, Eliot Spitzer,  R. Kelly, Michael Vick, and Amy Winehouse sure make the world a scummier place.  I’m talking about the people I know.  The lovely male people who have touched me or molested me–depends on how you look at it.  Let me take a moment to thank the scumbags of 2007-2008. 

1.  This one goes out to the married/engaged guy who probably thought dirty gmail chat  was not cheating on your bride-to-be.  Here’s a new rule:  it is.

2.  A special shout out to all the boys either on Facebook or Myspace who have sexually propositioned me this year.  I know I’ve paid tribute to you silly gooses before, but that was 2006.  A new year and fresh crop of emails that usually start out like this, “Hey sexy, I wanna get to know you…”  Thanks, but no.  That doorag you wear in your profile picture seriously looks bad with your skin tone and that whole part about you already being in a relationship doesn’t make me want to meet you in the Wal-Mart parking lot.

3. Smooches to the Karmel Korn guy at the mall who eye raped me.  All I wanted was a Cherry Icee and some popcorn.  I did not ask to be undressed by your imagination.  For a split second that day, I really, really wanted to wear a burkha.

4.  As a matter of fact, this next tribute goes out to the frat guys who hooted, hollered, and said lascivious things to me as they drove past me on East Adams Street.  Without you, I would not have known I was a hot piece of ass–especially when I was running late for class, did not have time for a shower, and was wearing the clothing I fell asleep in the night before.

5.  And of course, no tribute would be complete without this jack ass of the year! Dear, Ex-Research Partner/Socially Awkward Classmate, thank you for being the ultimate sleaze.  I know you covered it up well with your Woody Allen-like nervousness and Charlie Brown-like self-deprecation, but seriously dude, you suck.  Without you, I would never have contemplated the possibility of becoming asexual.  Without you I would not have learned the difference between a good guy and a sleaze.  Without you, I would never have been completely surprised and completely caught off guard when I met a rare species of good guy who stole my heart with his silly songs, Walker, Texas Ranger obsession, and who actually gives me the relationship you were incapable of giving me.  Thanks, for the pain or else I would never have been able to savor what came next.

Here’s something new:  the 2008 presidential election is officially another sausage fest.  I feel so sad even though I’m a girl who usually loves a good sausage fest.  I was just hoping this election year would be less pork sword fight and more woman vs. old dude.

Following in the footsteps of the great media critcs Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh, I will now attack The New York Times.  The newspaper with all the news that’s fit to print seems to think that studies about women in the science, technology and engineering fields fall under the Fashion & Style section of their online edition.  I desperately combed the story for a mention of fashion or style.  Perhaps, you could do a better job of finding the fashion and style!  Here’s your chance:

Diversity Isn’t Rocket Science, Is it? http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/15/fashion/15WORK.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

Couldn’t find the fashion and style, huh?  I’m thinking that a story that has no mention of fashion or style, but plenty of mentions of women ’s strides in education and the work place, diversity, science, technology, and how some men continue their quests of stupidity and callousness should be in a different section of the newspaper.  What about the U.S. section?  This story concerns American women at work.  What about the business section?  This story mentions what several businesses are doing to level the playing field for their female employees.  What about the Science, Education, or Technology sections? 

I think the placement of this article proves the research done by the story’s subjects:  Women in the sciences and technology aren’t taken seriously.

I often wonder if I’m the only person on the planet who thinks John Mayer sucks.  Sometimes I feel so lonely with this sentiment and I will search the wide world over for somebody else who agrees with this statement:  Your Body is a Wonderland is the most irritating song ever penned.  Knowing that it was written for Jennifer Love Hewitt makes me throw up in my mouth.

John Mayer is one of the few people I would actually punch in the face.  Yes, that is what I would do if I had a second with him.  I would punch him the face because he makes music for people who clearly don’t like music.  His music sounds like the dreary crap that’s always playing in doctor’s offices.  As a matter of fact, I heard Waiting on the World, while sitting in a doctor’s office just last week.  As if sitting in a waiting room wasn’t bad enough.

I’m not quite sure what brought on this rant, but John Mayer’s driveledy shit plays in my personal hell along with Dave Matthews Band, Jack Johnson, and Norah Jones.

I have perfected the art of not getting laid.  Follow my simple instructions and you too will go months and months without sex:

1).  Have one really, really bad break up that will turn you off to the opposite sex.  This break up must alter your ability to trust your own instincts when it comes to dating.  For example, you thought this person, really, really liked you–alot.  But this person was really just using you for his own pathetic needs.  You will then find it hard to believe that people like you, find you attractive, and are worthy of your trust.

2).  Devote all your time to school work instead of getting laid.  When you think every guy you meet is hiding a girlfriend, you must find another area of your life where you’re in charge.  For me, that’s school.  Luckily, school takes up all of my time.  I am thankful for the excuse, “I’d love to go out tonight and possibly meet someone, but I have to stare at my computer and type the same sentence over and over again just to get it right.”

3).  Find a new job.  Make yourself extremely busy and get paid!  I became a research assistant and on top of my school work, I co-author a paper with a professor.  I’m so tired by the end of the day, I don’t want to be touched by another human being.  Hell, I’m so tired I don’t even touch myself.

4).  When you do feel like going out for an evening, spend it with gay men.  When you surround yourself with gay men it’s water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.  As a matter of fact, I can say that I spend my free time with gorgeous men and I feel good about myself without the rejection and disappointment.

5).  When you are in the company of straight men, make sure to silently judge each and everyone of them.  For example, my wonderful gay entourage tried to play wingmen for me the other night.  They pointed out every cute, straight boy within view.  Apparently, many of these straight boys were checking me out, but really, there’s no sense in joining any club that would have me as a member.  Instead of talking to these boys who may have wanted to bend me over and make me cry with the greatest pleasure I have ever known, I decided to myself: ”Eh, that one is too short” or, “He’s never going to make me feel like that stupid ex-research partner who deserves a hockey stick up his ass.”

6). Blog, blog, blog about your misery.  Let other people know how indulgent you’ve become with your self-loathing.  Actually, self-loathing is an excellent way to keep the men at bay.  Nobody wants to have sex with the sad girl.

In conclusion, I think what I need is a dating lobotomy. I need something that will make me forget awful memories that have no bearing on me as a human being.  I need something that will exorcise the ghost of a bad boyfriend past because I really want to move forward.  For all my self-deprecating, I deserve great sex.

I try not to make fun of people too much.  Okay, that’s a lie.  I don’t avoid it at all.  I relish publicly flogging stupidity in all its unendearing forms, such as the MySpace message I received the other day from a young man who fell horribly on his face in his honest attempt at hitting on me.

One disclaimer:  I generally reserve my sharpest attacks for the scumbag ex-research partner/socially awkward classmate who ripped out my heart, stomped on it, and destroyed my ability to believe in myself and all of humanity (well, maybe just the opposite sex). So, when a guy hits on me in any shape or form, I am quite flattered.  Wow.  You think I’m pretty?  You think I’m cool?  You think I’m worth getting to know?  Holy shit–maybe life is beautiful after all.  But, this little gem I’m about to relate is too good to pass up because it’s like kids say the darndest things, only I’ll call it: Horny boys in their mid-twenties say the darndest things.

A few days ago, I got a Myspace message from a guy who used the subject line: “Hey pretey woman.”  Yes, he spelled “pretey” just like that.  If you recall from my last post, “What a girl wants”, bad spelling makes me lose my proverbial hard on.  So, as you can imagine, my inner snark was already turning cartwheels and jumping up and down on the imaginary trampoline in my head.

The next thing he writes:  “Are you really 28?  You look really good for your age.  I bet you get that a lot though.”  Well, yes, I do hear that a lot.  In fact, I have a baby face, I’m petite, and I’m shaped like a gawky teenager.  Waitresses, gas station attendants, and 16 year-old clerks at Wegmans call me honey and sweetie all the time.  My driver’s license is always assumed to be fake.  I make men feel like child molesters when they sleep with me; however, I’m not complaining.  I look forward to being a sexy 40 year-old woman with my hot 18 year-old boyfriend by my side.  Demi Moore knows what I’m talking about.

But, I’m making fun of this guy’s e-mail because the implication in his message is that 28 is old.  I don’t think I’m reading into it or making impressive inferences.  His message made me wonder: what is 28 supposed to look like?  Perhaps the bottom falls out after 25 and you turn into an old hag.  I dunno.  I can’t tell the difference between 28 and 25.  I read the guy’s profile after reading his message, and I chuckled because it turns out he’s 25.  He’s three years younger than me!  It’s not like he’s a 15 year-old kid, because I thought 25 was sooo old and sophisticated when I was 15.  Now, I think 25 is quite young, and this young man has a lot to learn about ladies.  Lesson number one:  Don’t hit on a young woman by implying that she’s old.

I think I’ve firmly established that George W. Bush and Dick Cheney are not sexy.  But, I don’t think I’ve spent sufficient time on what I find really sexy.  Sure, Seth Rogen beats Matt Damon and I’d rather spend the rest of my life with a comedian than with a lifeless, sad sack of seriousness, but for some reason good spelling makes me horny.

I know.  Of all things–spelling?  I’ve tried to rationalize this and the best I can come up with is that I used to be an editor and nothing was more satisfying than clean copy.  I also attribute my fetish to my love of the written word.  If you haven’t noticed, I blog.  I love words and putting them together and making them sound good, so I get rather distressed when words are mangled.  I realize people make mistakes.  I’ve misspelled words, usually when rushing through a paper at the last minute, and I’m still working through effect and affect, but the constant and blatant lack of attention to detail upsets me.

So, what does bad spelling say?  I think it says you don’t read all that much.  If you’ve seen all those words in print over and over again there should be no excuse.  Reading implies intelligence and education–things I value.  Why won’t you take the time to look up a word or use spell check?  This implies you don’t care about the details, and then I get to thinking that perhaps if you could be so careless with words you could be just as careless with my heart and worse–your failure to pay attention to the details suggests you may miss an important detail like my clitoris.

Okay, maybe I’ve just made a giant leap by comparing copy-editing skills to good cunnilingus technique and maybe no connection exists between bad spelling and a useless tongue.  I don’t really check out every guy’s spelling before I let him get in my pants.  I just think everyone should be allowed one off-kilter fetish and spelling is mine.

 Whenever I’m feeling blue I turn to Keith Richards for advice.  His words are quite comforting and sage, especially when you’re trying to figure out who you are and what you’re supposed to be.  Prepare to be transformed:

“I’m still trying to grow up, man.  It’s still an amazing adventure to me, the whole thing.  Wow.”  You see, life is an adventure and you’re never too old to have it all figured out.  Never stop being amazed by life and all that it offers.

“Any idiot will face a crisis, it’s this day-to-day grind that’ll get you down.”  Dr. Keith says you’re stronger than you think.  We can’t worry about the unexpected because if you can make it through each day you’ve accomplished something.

“I’m still looking.  I’m still searching.”  Even Keith Richards isn’t done with his journey!

“You just keep going, baby”  Don’t give up!

The Washington Post http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/04/02/AR2008040203622.html?hpid=features1&hpv=national