Sometimes it’s really hard for me to believe it is the year 2011. This is for various reasons; most of them related to the fact that I consistently think I’m still 23 years old. Thoughts like “Oh I certainly won’t have kids until I’m in my late 20s, or even 30,” and “Of course I can have this 24th and ½ drink out at the bar, I’m not even feeling it yet!” and “who cares if after that 24th and ½ drink I have to puke out the window of a moving vehicle on my way home!”. And then I realize that I’m much closer to 30 than I ever realized I would be and am apparently, according to my 23-year-old self, supposed to be popping out baby #1 any minute now instead of puking out of the side of a car that my husband is driving. Shit. We'll save posts on that matter for another day.
One of the main reasons I have been flabbergasted to realize that it’s 2011 is the beyond blatant sexism I have been encountering as of late. I have two prime examples that I’m obviously going to share with you below. It wouldn't be "blogging" if I didn't.
Scene 1: Husband (let’s name him Don Draper [excuse my Mad Men obsession] for the purposes of this blog) is driving, me in the passenger seat, trying to leave a friend’s lake house after a fun weekend of sun and boating. Don, having asked Roger Sterling for directions to the highway upon our departure, takes a wrong turn and we end up at a marina, not at the exit. Frustrated, he turns the car onto the first road he sees where there is a gentleman walking his dog. He pulls up to the man, who is on my side of the car and rolls down my window to ask him kindly for directions. This man is a long-winded sonofabitch. He starts spouting off a slew of directions, turning left here, winding all the way down this road there and taking a right at Interstate Gettothefuckingpointgramps. Now, as he is speaking, I am politely looking at him, nodding comprehension and occasionally saying “ok” or “got it”. Halfway into his monologue, and directly after one of my “got its”, he turns to me and says “ok honey, I’m just gonna go ahead and keep talking to your husband here because… well, you know… ::chucklechucklechuckle:: ::sideways glance at Don::”
::giggle giggle:: I’m so sorry, I must have misunderstood you? I thought you just implied, to my face, that women are so obviously and stereotypically terrible at directions that they are not even worth giving the time of day to… but I must be off my meds because you couldn’t possibly have said that, again, to my face. ::giggle giggle:: Oh. You did. Well then.
I. Was. Dumbfounded. Completely speechless (which is probably how he likes his women anyway). I sat there for the rest of their conversation staring straight out the front window while this man continued to talk to Don RIGHT. OVER. ME. Enter the inner monologue running with wild abandon through my head whilst he completed his directions:
“LISTEN HERE ASSHOLE. My apparently all-knowing directional GOD of a husband over there is the one who got us fucking lost in the first place. So there’s THAT for ya. Secondly, you were speaking less than 4 inches away from MY FACE. You were literally talking ACROSS MY BODY. Was I supposed to sit in my seat, filing my nails, popping my bubblegum and not pay any attention to you so the big boys could talk? Because where I come from, THAT is the action I would consider rude – sitting stick straight, staring out the windshield while you gave us directions and did not whatsoever acknowledge your presence. Please let me apologize for being the slightest bit polite and appreciative of your assistance. Is this how you treat your wife? I beat you beat the living shit out of her. And that damn little dog too. I bet you make sure they both know their places. And hey, what kind of ‘big tough direction-knowing man’ are you anyway - out walking that thing I could kick across a football field? And I’m not even good at kicking! What the fuck year is it? Has this guy ever heard of Rosie the Riveter? Votes for women!”
Side note: Don got lost AGAIN following macho man’s directions. So suckabagofdicks to you too, pops.
Scene 2: I am home awaiting the delivery of our new washer and dryer (insert comment from anti-feminist movement me: it’s a blue Electrolux set and it has every setting on the planet and I want to marry it). The delivery men come in to take our old set away and during small talk I end up telling the story of how Pete Campbell almost lost a finger when he and Don moved the original washer into the house and that Don made sure he was out of town for the new set to be installed, etc. etc. (insert comment #2 from anti-feminist movement me: hey dumbass, don’t tell the two huge moving men that your husband is across the country). So as they are installing the dryer, one of them looks up at me and says “oh so while your husband goes out of town you just go shopping, huh?”
I’m going to go ahead and stop you right there, sir. First of all, go fuck yourself. Secondly, I think if I were going to purchase something behind my husband’s back, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be as conspicuous as a brand new, BLUE, washer and dryer set. Thirdly, and here’s where you really look like a jackhole, it was my husband’s goddamn idea to buy this thing and he basically picked it out himself. So I’m sorry that you are only a Lowe’s delivery guy and that your wife is addicted to buying baubles on QVC, but don’t take that out on me. (The QVC thing is 100% true. Not made up for comedic value. “My wife did that. Once.” Eeeeeeeeee)
Soooooooooooooooo WTF 2011? Did I miss the memo that women were no longer allowed to do shit like own property, have a job, or an opinion? Are we all going back to being secretaries? Or worse, housewives? ARE THEY GOING TO OUTLAW ABORTIONS?! Say it ain't so.
Guess I’ll just go and get my corset and hoop skirt out of storage.
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