Month: September 2010

What a Girl Wants

A friend posted an article about what men and women find attractive on Facebook a while back.

An excerpt:

“Speaking of what women want, this is a very gray area and is said to change from woman to woman and even be inconsistent among a single individual.” (Bold mine.)

Alas, so true. I like a certain quality or feature in one man, but the same thing in another turns me off. Moreover, I think I like someone one minute, and the next it’s shut off, like a spigot.

“One study…even confirmed the fact that while men are largely in agreement about who they find to be attractive, women have no consensus with one another. While men would largely agree about how attractive a given image of a woman was, the scores from women would be all over the board.”

Also true. My girlfriends and I have this game we call “Gross Crush”. All of us have someone we think is attractive that the others gag about. Some examples: Michael Douglas (ick), Chazz Palminteri (ew), and—mine—Joaquin Phoenix (dreamy!). My first runner-up is Bill Clinton….

And regarding what men want:

“As for curvy women, it seems that men’s brains respond to hourglass figures like they are a drug…curvy women’s bodies activate parts of the male mind that are associated with rewards and parts of the brain that are activated by drugs and alcohol.”

Boo yah! I am dope. I am the motherfucking grand prize.

Of course, curvy and chubby are two different things.

Rats.

Dear Redford, Part 3

I often hear a rhythmic thumping and look over to find you, asleep, wagging your tail. Thwap, thwap, thwap it goes against the floor. I don’t have to wonder what you’re dreaming about that’s making you so happy. Everything makes you happy. I mean, food, of course. Treats. Toys.

Mostly beings, though. Humans, you love humans. And other dogs. But really anything with a soul. When we’re hiking, sometimes I can hear Violet’s thoughts, “Bird! Deer! Bunny! Human! Bug!” and yours, “Friend! Friend! Friend! Friend! Friend!” What a sweet baby.

You’re very much the antithesis to your mother’s self-absorbed skeptic with a propensity for depression. Thank god for that.

You love going places in the car, but you hate the car. I think you have motion sickness. You spend all your time, if you’re in the back seat,

with your head out the window

…and, if you’re in the way-back,

draped halfway over the back seat.

I know you’re uncomfortable, but it’s pretty cute. And your motion sickness reminds me that you’re mortal. You seem invincible much of the time—bashing your head into furniture and not even blinking, for example. There was the time at the end of our trip to Massachusetts when you got all listless, and I was freaking out. Turns out you had frolicked in the sand so much without rinsing out between your toes, that the area between your paw pads was all raw and bloody and scabby. I didn’t figure it out for a few days. I felt like a bad parent, and I’m sorry you had to go through all that pain.

Something only a mother could love: You poot audibly. I’m always surprised when I look over and don’t see a pile of crap on the floor because it smells that bad. Seriously, I want to be mad at you because the stink burns my nostril hairs, but the sound is so funny, a little “pfft” or a “thoo”, and you look so cute lying there with your eyebrows arched and your upper lip flaps hanging over your lower lips, and I just have to go kiss your silly forehead. Oh god. I worry about the Pavlovian response you’re developing.

Actually, scratch that. I think, had you been there, you might’ve effed up Pavlov’s experiments. You don’t so much “learn“. Mr. Carlos and Ms. Kathy, the Spanish teachers at my old school—well, we used to joke about which teachers our dogs would get if they went there. One of Ms. Kathy’s would have done well in my class; alas, you would’ve needed Ms. Berry. Because you’re special.

But you’re my baby. You’re more than a year-and-a-half old now, but you’re still a big, gallumphy baby. My baby.

Love,

Amy

You Hate Me! You Really Hate Me!

I got my first hate mail! Maybe soon I’ll be able to monetize the hate!

This particular hater, named “Really?”, hated my 2 Cents + 2 Cents = post.

I especially like the part about how he mentions that knows his comments are unsolicited and perhaps unwanted, but his thinks your profile may be selling yourself short. I can’t think of a better way to say “fuck you” than to call him a douche and blog about it. Classy. I can’t really imagine what brought him to comment on such a woe-is-me profile from someone clearly in a “fuck-with-me-i-dare-you” mood, but you sure put him in his place. I’m sure you two will be the bestest of facebook friends.

Hopefully you have a link to your blog on your profile so guys can “Whoa whoa whoa, no” before they even send you an email.

My response:

Yeah, “Really?”, the point of the post was that I was being an asshole. You didn’t pick that up?

But thanks for reiterating.

For the record, my facebook friend got it. We still play Wordscraper. And you know what else is good news: if you don’t like me, you don’t have to ask me out on a date! I don’t like you, so I won’t ask you out on a date! Yay for both of us!

18% Country, 82% Rock-n-Roll

urlai.com says that my blog “is probably written by a female somewhere between 36-50 years old. The writing style is personal and upset most of the time.”

For the record, it’s 9% academic and 91% personal, 31% happy and 69% upset. Apparently, I’m dumb, self-absorbed, and histrionic. That sounds about right.

But I am not 36-50! I am 1-15 years younger than that! Their second guess on age is 66-100. Wow. What kind of geriatric shit am I putting down?

Also, in case you were wondering, I am 68% female and 32% male.

[Then I saw that it said, “The analysis is based upon 4 posts that has enough English words,” and the four posts it looked at were My Work Here is Done, A Mock Metal Soldier and a Duct Tape Salad, A Challenge for You, and Zeke & the Bee. Many of the words in those posts aren’t English, as they were written by my students!]