Great. So he’s not just a pretty face. How utterly disappointing.
I guess I should have realized this when I looked up his bio – in proper stalker fashion on Google – and found a list of degrees, books, and research articles a mile long.
Whatever, Professor Unicorn.
Methinks thou reads too much. It’s just unnatural. Dumb it down a bit – keep up with Kardashians or something.
Professor Unicorn was a guest speaker at work on Tuesday for Hispanic Heritage month.
And the sisters were out in force. The only place I have seen that many stilleto heels, stuffed bras and pencils skirts in one place is on RuPaul’s Drag Race.
Me?
I can barely get to work on time wearing jeans and Nike sneakers. If I’m not gonna get dressed up for people who actually pay my mortgage, I am not gonna do it for some dude. Nope, just too lazy. And I am pretty sure yesterday I wore a dirty bra.
[Question: How many times can you wear a bra before it is "technically" dirty? Discuss.]
I am sitting in the back of the auditorium so I can leer [I mean listen to terribly informative information] without interruption.
Oh, what’s he yammering about now [Strip down to your natty bits already. Take it off, dammit]…. Let’s see, let me paraphrase.
Kids are stupid because blah blah blah some educators don’t know how to educate some kids whatever – and everybody is screwed because the next generation is too dumb to peel an orange, let alone run a country.
Bored now. I wish I sat closer to the door. [Epic fail.]
Note to self: Always sit next to the mother[trucking] door!
Some folks asked me to post a picture Professor Unicorn. But that would technically make me an official pervert – and my goal is to remain unofficial [so just Google "Pedro sociology" if you're curious - and try not to lick your monitor. M'kay?].
Anyway, I totally lost interest when I saw the band of drudgery and imprisonment [I mean wedding ring] in the first 5 seconds of his speech.
I distinctly recall my vajayjay slowly starting to cave in on itself and teeny tiny knitting needles magically appearing to cross-stitch my labia together.
Some people think married men are a turn on. Not me. As soon as I find out someone is “married” or “taken,” my brain immediately starts shopping at Target for more interesting things to do.
Note to hot married men: Just wear a T-shirt.
Put pictures of the brats and the wife and the minivan on it so you are easily-identifiable – because I don’t want to waste 2 of the 3 seconds of the year that I feel horny on thinking about what your creamy, highly-lickable skin tastes like. OKAY?!
I remember an ex-friend telling me all about this “cute couple” she knew. He was so sweet and they were so in love. And then she says, “he’s married and has 6 kids, but they live in another country.”
[Look, I am not trying to be judge-y. I am a person who happily writes about her vagina on the internet... but WTF?!]
She just threw that grenade into the conversation like it was nothing. I mean how dare she ruin my romcom (romantic comedy) moment with this bullshit.
In the name of Meg Ryan, Nora Ephron and all of my romcom heroines – [ONSD] Oh, no she didn’t?!
Honestly, I don’t know why I was so pissed off.
[Okay. I do. I have a soft spot for children and childhoods that go by far to fast. No one ever thinks about how shit affects children when they are catapulting their gonads through the air to any available penis/vagina for that 10 seconds of bad sex and/or a fake orgasm. Or maybe they do and they just don't care, which is far worse. Okay, rant over.]
The following response is why she never, ever told me anything again. And rightfully so. I am pretty sure I did not hide my disdain – and there was some headbobbing nonsense going on.
“Yes, that’s cute – if you think being an unethical douche is cute. Then, it’s adorable,” I said, with pursed lips and shit.
She gave me this wide-eyed doe stare – like her elevator was stuck between floors – and queried, “How do you even know he’s married?”
Hello, Earth to Mars. [What is wrong with you?]
First, you just said he was married. That is called “knowing” on this planet.
But for argument’s sake – you could do this crazy thing called asking? What is with people not asking questions because they don’t want to upset other people?
But what if they lie? – is always the response. [Seriously. No computer yet? You'd be surprised how much you can find out about a person for $1.95 on the internet.]
But let’s not let technology stand in the way. What about good old-fashioned common sense?
I have an ex-friend who hates me – literally hates me - because I was dumb enough to open my big mouth.
Boyfriend X told her he worked in the CIA and that is why he was never available on the weekend. He told her his house cannot be located on Google Maps because it was a top secret location and the satellite blocked its whereabouts. He told her she can never come to his house because it was “top secret.” He told her he will be unavailable for long periods of time because he goes on secret missions for the government….Get the picture?
And every time she agreed to meet him at some skanky place – he stood her up – and she would cry and ask, “Whyyyyyyyyyyy?”
One day, these words just flew out of my mouth like a trapped canary – “Because HE’S MARRIED?!”
Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
Yes, she found out months later it was true, but still…
I have since learned that it is best – to shut the fuck up. There is a fine line between being helpful and being an asshole.
Sometimes learning by yourself is how you learn.
Anyway, that is how to effectively end a friendship, ladies and gents. [And for my next magic trick, I will literally exhale while I type... Behold.]
I think my point to the last story is most people aren’t good liars [thank the goddess].
How do you know?
Enter the Art of the Follow Up Question.
A good lie requires context [I mean details] and consistent alignment with logic, but must be simple enough to remember. That’s tricky.
Here is an example:
Once, some dude told me he was very busy during they day [which was supposed to imply he was gainfully employed.] Then, he said something about working on his house in the afternoon.
I said, “Why aren’t you at work in the afternoon?” [Doh. Yeesh, that was too easy. But you get the gist.]
A few follow up questions will sort even the best storyteller out.
How do I know?
My mother was a good liar. The best. Nimble and quick – like Mohammed Ali. Cunning and so smart it was scary.
But she was also a sociopath [alas, nobody's perfect]. I really don’t know why she didn’t go into politics? [Oh yeah, she was bonkers.]
I guess it isn’t surprising that – “family” was the number 2 choice in the survey called – “What should my first book be about?”
I was sure “dating and sex” would be first choice [because I have the most embarrassing sex stories - like ever, but I guess I'll save them for the blog.
[Question: What do you think about Tales From My Vagina Fridays? Discuss.]
The number 1 choice was – “I don’t care. Just start writing already!” [Hysterical. Your very subtle hint has been noted and will be done by spring. Thank you for your input 
]
Just for the record, the stories above are not meant to mock people – only what I perceive as odd behavior, in general. I had to learn to choose myself first after a long, painful string of dating/relationship choices.
Because everyone wants to be loved.
Everyone has done crazy shit to find it.
And everyone has convinced themselves that they have.
It’s just life.
Okay, now back to my labia.
I thought I might list all of the things that men have said to me that makes me want to cross-stitch my sweet labia together – and my responses…
- Do you cook? [Yes, after I beat the laundry on a rock down by the river, churn up some butter, and tell time using only the sun.]
- What is your relationship like with your family? [Occasionally I check Google to make sure they still live at least 3 states away from mine.]
- Do you have an iron? [What the fuck for?]
- Do you like to clean? [Do you get the majority of your pee in the toilet?]
- How much do you weigh? [How large is your penis? How long can you keep it erect? And how many children has it sired?]
- Can I come over? [I am pretty sure that means you would require my address, and by that, I mean no.]
- Why is there no food in your refrigerator? What will I eat when I visit? [Visit? All of the adults in my house are required to feed themselves. I know I have crappy parking, but this is not a supermarket.]
- We would make pretty babies. [Seriously, why do men think that is romantic. It makes me want to figure out how to drain all of the sperm from their body - and then burn it.]
Maybe on Tales From My Vagina Fridays – I will write about my vagina’s very long journey to selective admissions.
She’s like Harvard now – only the cream of the crop may apply
And even fewer get in.
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