I Want Your Sex(ism)

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 24^th and ½ drink out at the bar, I’m not even feeling it yet!” and “who cares if after that 24^th 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.

Driving Around in my Automobile

I live in Atlanta, so needless to say I spend approximately 45098 hours in the car each week, give or take 30 minutes.  So I notice a boatload of retarded shit that people display on their vehicles during those times that I’m sitting dead stopped on 285 because some illiterate asshole can’t read that exit 6 is coming up 3 miles ahead of time and has to cross 5 lanes to exit or he’ll be late picking up little Jimmy from daycare, or soccer practice or the crack house or whatever.  So I now present to you…

THE TOP 5 MOST ANNOYING AS SHIT THINGS THAT PEOPLE DISPLAY ON THEIR CARS

5. VANITY PLATES

No, I’m not talking about those you can get in almost any state that show that you either went to or support *insert your community college here*.  I’m talking about that idiot that pays to spell out something phonetically, mismatching the 26 letters of the alphabet, and often tossing caution to the wind and utilizing the numbers 0-9 to help other drivers pronounce their vision correctly.  (“He’s just a sk8ter boy, she said see ya later boy…” you get the idea).  I’ve seen some seriously wonky shit in my time, but something I saw the other day just irked the living begeezus out of me.  Picture me, sitting on the East/West Connector (sidebar: seriously, Atlanta?!  ONE ROAD to get from the city, west?  ONE. ROAD?!) just trying to get to the gym to the bottle of two-buck-chuck waiting for me after work and I see this complete douchemonger in a red corvette next to me.  First off, who still buys corvettes?  And red ones at that?  Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize walking cliché was in this year.  As if this discoverance wasn’t irritating enough, as soon as he meandered by me in the right lane, I caught a glimpse of his vanity plate.  "kthxby”  Pardon?  You are a 45 year old white suburbanite in a red corvette where your daily commute takes you down the slowest 2-lane road in the city and you chose your vanity plate to read “kthxby”?  I’m pretty sure I learned that phrase back in 2002 from my lesbian RA my first year in college.

And then there are the ones you just swear can’t possibly be created by some randomizer at the DMV but still can’t quite put your finger on what message the driver is trying to get across:

What in the junk of all that is holy does this say?  “Behaving P”?  “Behave in pee”?  Am I the idiot here?  WTF Toyota.  W. T.  F.

4. ANTENNAE DECORATIONS

Particularly the Mickey Mouse variety.  Because who has those?  I think I can paint the picture of how you came to own one of these: you live in Flint, MI and one year you and your family deposited enough Busch Lite cans to hitch the old expandable trailer to the back of your car and road trip it and your mongrel children to the magical land of the mouse.  Except halfway there you run out of dimes, end up in Gainesville where you probably saw the equivalent of the possum-based side show that Max and Goofy see in A Goofy Movie, picked up that bobble head antenna cover in a rest stop and called it Disney World and a good day. 

3.  YOUR CHILD’S ELEMENTARY SCHOOL ACADEMIC “ACCOMPLISHMENTS”

“My son is an honor student at Some-Dead-Tennessee-Governor Elementary School”.  I’m sorry?  Last time I checked they graded elementary school kids in letters.  Like, “S”, “G” and “U”s.  Did your kid get an “S” in fucking napping?  He’ll make a great unarmed security guard some day.  Oh, a “G” in tying your shoes?  How do you only get a “G” you retard – Bunny FuFu goes around the hole (for the record: I was NOT taught how to tie shoes using this method, but apparently I’m the only one who wasn’t).  You’re only encouraging mediocrity by showing the youth that tying your shoes at age 5 is worth public praise.  That’s how Bush ended up in the White House.  Because Bush Sr. plastered a fucking “My son got all “U”s but we love him anyway” bumper sticker on one of his slave’s John Deer tractors. 

Rip that bumper sticker you overpaid for from the booster club off your car before I rip it off your face.

2. STICK FAMILIES           

Because I give a flying fuck how many kids/dogs/cats/fish you have?  Oh, and do you want to know how long little Trent (because people who have stick families on their beamers clearly have kids with names like Trent) is going to play lacrosse (because of course they play some sport only offered at private school) before you have to replace his lacrosse-playing stick figure with one wearing mascara, black lipstick and slitting his wrists?  About 6 months.  Is that fat stick baby waving some sort of college flag?  Because a toddler clearly already has collegiate alliances.  It’s not even old enough to get a “G” in napping.  What the hell are you trying to tell other drivers by sticking this shit to your back windshield?  Look at me and my cookie cutter family plastered all over my 2013 Range Rover!!! My life is perfect! Too bad you’re probably popping enough Xanax to tranquilize a rhinoceros and alternating it with Trent’s Ritalin prescription in order to continue acting like you even want to have sex with your husband to keep him from boinking his 23 year old admin, which he is doing anyway.  Thanks, but me and my childless Ford Focus feel even more vindicated in our life choices upon getting stuck behind your hot-suburban-mess in traffic.

I hope your stick dog runs away.

And now, the number one most annoying as shit thing people put on their cars:

1.       EERILY REALISTIC AIRBRUSH RENDERING OF YOUR DECEASED LOVED ONE

Please note the “IMISUTJ” vanity plate.

And that’s what we in the biz call coming full fucking circle.