It’s a Cruel. Cruel Summer.

| romcomdojo

Let’s talk about the kid with the pool.

Everyone knew this kid, and maybe you were this kid.  I’d be surprised if you were, because I rarely associate with demons from Hell.

At least not since I got out of the music and insurance businesses.

The kid with the pool could be a girl or a boy, black or white, rich or poor.  The kid with the pool could be anyone, anywhere.  The one common theme among all kids with the pool was that they never wanted to go in the pool.

I hated the kid with the pool.

Let’s call them KWP for short, because I am already tired of typing out “kid with the pool” and we’re only getting started here.

KWP never had a regular, everyday pool, either.  KWP had an awesome pool.  A pool with a slide and/or a diving board.  A pool with one of those hot tubs that spills over the side into it.  A pool that’s screened in so you don’t get eaten alive by mosquitoes.  A pool that had a sweet boombox on the porch where you could listen to your Beastie Boys License to Ill cassette all the live-long day and gloat about how awesome sixth grade is going to be next year.  An awesome pool.

An awesome pool that they “weren’t in the mood” to go swimming in when you came over.

On any summer day in South Florida, it gets so hot that you literally contemplate suicide.  Then you think, “Nah, it’s not that bad” and decide to go on living, and then take one step outside and think, “I wonder how much carbon monoxide it would really take to kill me?”

The fact that we didn’t have air-conditioning in my house growing up made this red-hot strife approximately one billion times worse.  We were so miserable inside that ramshackle sweatbox, a slow gas leak in the kitchen would have done wonders for morale.  I bet at least half of the fist-fights in my house would have never happened if we had just had stupid air-conditioning.  And also if we weren’t born mean assholes.

You would wake up on any summer morning, drenched in sweat from sleeping in a 90 degree room all night, and call up KWP.  The conversation would go like this:

“Hey, it’s Maggie.  Wanna hang out today?  It’s supposed to be really hot so I was thinking we could go swimming and lay out.”

KWP:  “I don’t know.  I may feel like swimming later.  You can come over now, though.”

You don’t want to seem too eager when you show up at KWP’s house, because the more you let on that you want to swim, the more KWP will resist the idea because, as I may have mentioned earlier, KWPs are demons from Hell.

In an effort to not appear too eager, instead of showing up in just your bathing suit with a beach bag full of stuff, you just tie on your bikini top and then put a t-shirt over it so that the strings hang out the top of the collar in the back.  Bikini bottoms go on under your regular shorts.  No pressure, KWP.  The bikini top strings hanging out the top of my shirt are merely a visual hint that pool-partaking might be a fun thing to do.  KWP did, after all, say that they may want to go swimming later.

Then when KWP opens the front door, they look you up and down and say, “Oh, hey.  Come on in.  I just put on The Goonies.”

Then you say, “Oh, wow.  Haven’t you already watched that like fifty times?  I just rewatched it for the tenth time last night!”

This has no effect on KWP.  Nothing doing.  You’re sitting through that whole movie, in your bathing suit, eyeing the glistening pool just outside the sliding glass door behind you.  KWP will pause the movie to take phone calls, make a sandwich, play an Atari game, and stretch out this 51st viewing of The Goonies to a three hour affair.

As the credits roll, you stretch out a little when you stand up and say, “Man, the pool looks really good today.  Wanna go jump in?”

Then, naturally, KWP says, “Oh, my mom said nobody’s allowed to use the pool for a few days.”

Damn you to Hell, KWP.  You could have said that way, WAY earlier.  But no!  Heavens no!  KWP has to string you along all day.  And to top it off, when KWP’s mom comes home, she asks why you’re not in the pool on such a hot day.  KWP looks away and says nothing.  Oh ho hooo, KWP!  On top of being a pool-tease, KWP is also a filthy liar.

Hey, look.  I’m not an idiot, despite what “college admissions officers” may tell you.  I know that KWPs are afraid that everyone is just using them for their pool and they want you to prove your friendship to them before they’ll agree to go swimming.  I assume all KWPs were emotionally damaged by having a pool as kids, and grew up to be those non-committal types in relationships who never trust anyone’s motivations and they eventually turned their angst into one of those awkward early Sex and The City episodes where people still talked at the camera.

Here’s the thing, though, KWP.  I’m going to save you a ton of time in therapy:  People can like you and still want to swim in your pool.  The two things are not mutually exclusive.

So let me in your goddamned pool.  How can you live in that house and look at that pool all day long and not want to get in it?  What are you, sick?  Are you SICK?  You get some kind of cheap thrill off of dangling pool time in front of people and then snatching it away?  What is the big deal, KWP?  LET’S JUST GET IN THE POOL.  It’s not like I’m going to get in the pool and then ignore you.  I’m going to get in the pool and then we’ll play Marco Polo or some shit.  I’ll even let you be Adrock when we pool-rap to “Brass Monkey”.  We’re still hanging out together!  We’re having fun!  Why do you slam the door in the face of fun, KWP?  WHY DO YOU REFUSE TO BE HAPPY?

If you don’t work this stuff out, you can probably count on dying alone, KWP.  I don’t want to have to be the one to tell you that, but it’s true.  Let me be your friend.  Let me be your pool’s friend.  Learn to trust people again, KWP, because you deserve it.

And because you’re annoying the shit out of everyone.

Kickstart My Face

| romcomdojo

Have you ever had an old car that you’ve driven forever and then had this conversation with someone when they went to drive it for the first time?  

“Okay, so before you get in, you have to kind of toggle the door handle up and to the left, then pull, then push, then open the door.  When you put the key in the ignition, wiggle the steering wheel side to side while slowly kickstarting the gas pedal five times as you turn the key.  Then take this screwdriver from the center console and tap it on the crescent-shaped notch on the steering column, pump the brakes eleven times, then you’re good to go.  Oh my god, I forgot to mention – do NOT try to start the engine with the air conditioning on or the entire engine will melt onto the tops of your feet through the holes under the dashboard.”  

When did your car become so difficult, and why hadn’t you noticed?  Ten years ago, you didn’t used to have to do anything special to make it start.  Then after a couple years, you had to do one thing.  Then a few years later it was five things.  By the time you get to the ten year mark, you have to do the Electric Slide to get the damn door to even open, and give a voodoo handjob to a Michelin Man doll to keep the tires from exploding when you drive over speedbumps.  It just all happened so gradually that you didn’t notice it.  It takes so much work to make it work these days. 

This is an analogy.  I am old.

When I was 21, in order to get ready for work in the morning, I would oversleep, drag myself out of bed and touch-up the $3 eyeliner that I had slept in, brush my teeth, and go.  The men-folk swooned.

This morning:

I woke up two hours before I had to leave for work.

I took off the sticker that I wear on my forehead overnight so that I don’t get those unsightly “11” lines between my eyes (Frownies).

I showered, using three different kinds of soap (Ocean Breeze in toasted coconut, vanilla body wash, Noble Zinc face soap), the shampoo that I use specifically on Fridays (Redken Color Magnetics), the deep conditioner that I specifically use on Fridays (Everpure Hair Mask), and the hideously expensive but highly effective rechargeable sonic cleaner device-thingy that I use to wash my face (Foreo Luna in Normal/Sensitive), because nowadays I can assure you that when you see a electric device on my bathroom counter that is pink, made of silicone, and has raised, vibrating nubbins on it, it is a device that is used strictly on my face to reduce the amount of gunk in my pores.

Then I got out, dried off, sprayed canned French spring water on my face (La Roche Posay, Thermal Spring Water), and let it soak in while I use my special detangling brush for the first brushing of my hair, to be followed by the second brushing using the round brush.

Then on go the face serum (Ole Henriksen Truth Serum), first moisturizer (Ole Henriksen Transform), second moisturizer for redness relief (La Roche Posay Rosaliac because fucking hormonal rosacea), and eye cream (Avon, current free sample).

Then I use a refrigerated de-swelling iron on my under-eye area – the kind that they use on boxers when their faces are all swollen from being repeatedly punched in the face.  That is to say, I have to shop at specialty sporting goods stores in order to find products that will make me appear “awake” in the eye area, because I am so puffy that it appears I have been beaten up by Buster Douglas in the middle of the night.

Then flossing and toothbrushing.  Then, after the hair air-dries about ¾ of the way, I spray hair serum on it (It’s a 10 Miracle Styling Serum), brush it through, and blow-dry it using the round brush.  Then the pomade (Glossier The Balm.com, actually a skin and lip treatment, but works great on hair).  Then the hairspray (Old school L’oreal Ellnet).

Then the face gets concealer (Benefit Boing Moisturizing Concealer), eyeshadow primer (Urban Decay Primer Potion), foundation with SPF 50 (It Cosmetics CC Cream in Fair), four colors of eye shadow (miscellaneous brands), eye liner (Revlon Colorstay liquid in dark brown), eyebrow pencil and tinted brow gel (L’Oreal Brow Fantasy) , two coats of mascara (Maybelline Falsies in Black/Brown), contouring powder (Cargo), blush (Tarte), shimmery highlighter (Benefit Dandelion Twinkle), and a touch of pressed powder on the corners of the nose (Maybelline FIT). Then lip balm (Tony Moly Liptone), lipstick (miscellaneous brands and colors), and lip gloss (same).  JESUS CHRIST.

You have to go easy on the gloss, because it will seep upwards above your lip line, and you will frighten small children with your horror shitshow face.  The clown from “IT”, will be like, “Seriously, you need to tone that shit down.”

The foregoing routine does not include the non-daily items, like shaving, tweezing, dealing with foot callouses, nails, cuticle work, scrubs, acid masks, mud masks, and snail slime masks.  It also fails to include the olive oil that I drink every morning as a beauty supplement, and the black currant oil that I take at night so that my eyeballs don’t dry up and white-over like a dog turd that’s been left on a dewd’z carpet for a week.  It also does not include my fitness routine, where I have to work out TWICE a day in order to keep from looking like Rodney fucking Dangerfield.

This is the part where you tell me that I am high maintenance, that I have bought into the beauty industrial complex, and that I would probably look “just fine” if I didn’t engage in all this rigmorole.  If that is the case, then this is the part where I respond by giving you a glimpse of what I look like without all of this stuff:

Imagine that this emoji is a photo of the Crypt Keeper from HBO’s Tales From The Crypt ——————–> 😐

I assume that in another ten years, my beauty and grooming routine will take so much time that I never get to actually leave the house for the thing I’m getting ready for, which will be bittersweet, because it will also mean that I never have to put on pants again, which is clearly the ultimate life goal.

Happy Friday, you high-maintenance bitches!

The Six Hundred Dollar Orange

| romcomdojo

As a young lass, I was thoroughly under the impression that men had very, very high dating standards when it came to women.  You often hear men describe the kind of woman they’re looking for as “5’ 10”, 105 pounds, model-type, no baggage, no high maintenance”.

Women hear that description and laugh so hard it makes their heads hurt, and then, unfortunately, on a deeper level, they immediately feel inadequate, like there’s something wrong with them for not meeting those requirements, even though they know they’re ridiculous.

For starters, if you see a thin woman who is 5’ 10”?  She probably weighs at least 160 pounds.  Women can’t tell you that, because men hear “160 pounds” and immediately close their eyes and picture the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.  I once heard a guy describe a woman as “pretty freaking chunky”, and when his friend asked how much he thought she weighed, he said, “Oh man, she probably weighed like 120.”

Sorry, I just guffawed so hard that I choked on this Weight Watchers ice cream bar, not to mention a bucket of hopes and dreams.

Also, when I was 13 years old, I was 5’ 1” and weighed 105 pounds, and people accused me of being anorexic or having some kind of terminal disease.  My head looked like a lollipop with my body as the stick.  You could play xylophones on my ribcage, front and back, and I couldn’t lie flat on my back because my spine dug into the mattress so hard that it would leave a bruise on me.  So, no, barring some weird supermodel whose bones are made of paper, nobody is 5’ 10” and weighs 105 pounds.

And “Model-type”?  Really?  Unless you, yourself, are the equivalent of a male model, then no.  Juuuuuuuust no.

“No baggage” means you should have no problems of any kind.  You know, like all those scores of people in the world who have no problems?  I’m sure the person who’s requiring you to have no baggage certainly has no baggage himself!

That sound you just heard, was me rolling my eyes until they fell out of my head and onto the floor.  I know you may live 5,000 miles from here, but I’m sure you still heard it.

Related, anyone who tells you that they are “drama-free” will always, without fail, every time, be the most dramatic motherfucker you’ve ever met in your entire life.  Count on it.

“No high maintenance” means you should wake up in the morning and look flawless.  Fuck you.  I’m not even going to dignify that one with a response.

It’s funny, because you would think that since men’s standards are so very high, that only one out of like every 100,000 women would have a boyfriend or husband and the rest of us would be toiling the nights away alone, crying in a house full of cats and collecting cobwebs in our hoo-hahs.  Look around and, obviously, you’ll see that’s not the case.  Not even close.

As I have become a dusty old hag, I have realized that these men are not highly discerning at all.  They’re just attempting to be shrewd negotiators. These types of men, the ones who state this ridiculous laundry list of standards, are usually the same ones who will turn around and stick it in anything that moves.  They’re just starting off the negotiation from what they think is the highest asking price, which is for some reason, a supermodel with the body of a praying mantis who also has no problems and wakes up looking flawless.  They know that woman’s not showing up.  They figure there’s no harm in throwing that asking price out there.  It’s a first offer.

So what do you do?  You do what you do with any first offer.  Reject it and counter.

If he says, “5′ 10″, 105 pounds”, you counter with “5′ 3″, 220 pounds”.

If he says, “Model-type”, you counter with “I am good at my accounts receivables job.”

If he says, “No baggage”, you counter with, “You first, asshole.”

If he says, “No high maintenance”, you counter with, “I don’t often leave skidmarks.”

Then tell them to take it or leave it.

It reminds me of this episode of Designing Women where MaryJo is complaining about how when she lived in Mexico, there was no such thing as a price tag, and when she would ask a shopkeeper, “How much is this orange?” they would size her up and say, “Six hundred dollars”.  Then she would put the orange down and walk away, and the shopkeeper would chase after her and yell “Thirty cents!”

All this fretting over whether some guy doesn’t want to date you because your eyebrows aren’t perfectly waxed, or because you have cellulite or weigh more than 105 pounds.  And OMG what if he finds out you have problems?!!  All the emotional strife because you’re not the kind of woman who can roll out of bed looking perfect.  I’m here to tell you it’s all for naught.  I’ve never encountered any man whose standards are actually that high.  And if they are?  They can go jump into a dick-shaped volcano.  You don’t want to be with someone like that anyway.  Those are the guys who will never, ever stop looking for the bigger, better deal.

Slow your roll, women.  Take a deep breath.  You don’t need to meet somebody’s ludicrous requirements, because their requirements are exactly that:  Ludicrous.  They are as ludicrous as asking someone to pay $600 for an orange.