When I brush the tangles from my daughter’s hair, she often cries about the chunks of scalp matted between the bristles. Following my sinister laugh, the next three words are always the same, “beauty is pain.” Search below this paragraph and see examples of what I mean. That krugerrand-size blister on my heel? From running off the fat I can’t afford to Lap-Band. That permanent indent between my shoulder and neck? From three decades of over-the-shoulder holders carrying eight pounds (I’ve weighed) of boulders. I’ve been peeled chemically, waxed Brazilianly and have considered getting improved surgically.
And guess what, stupid men? I don’t do it for you. Contrary to how your ego strokes… itself(?), women don’t suffer because we love you. We do it because we hate each other. Hold a conch shell between a pair of women working at the same job, and you’ll hear the soft ocean sounds of two passive-aggressive bitches locked in a silent competition of jealousy and one-upmanship. Whether you’re my best friend, my faux friend or just some twat, the cutest shoes in the room better be on my blistery hooves. Hey, I really like that haircut, but I liked it a lot more when I had it first a year ago. No, sorry, real Coach bags aren’t stitched like that on the inside—your boyfriend doesn’t love you. And so on.
I’ve mentioned my bijou friend, Autumn, on the blog before and I adore her. She’s one of the few mature adults I’ve met, cute as a basket full of kittens and just as sweet. She has immaculate taste in fashion and fine dining—two things that make her perfect when I want to hit the town and play classy trouble. But none of that stops me from pretending I’m stepping all over her tiny, mangled body while I run laps. Who the hell said she could have a smaller frame than me? The Queen of Everything did not put her royal seal on such nonsense!
Guys, don’t pretend you’re any better. When it comes to the solidity of your calves, the frosting of your tips or the anatomy of an authentic Rolex (remember: its second hand doesn’t tick, stupid, it sweeps), you are every bit the gluttons for superficial punishment women are. The difference is, unless you’re a metrosexual priss like my ex, you really are doing it in service of the opposite sex. We all come factory-installed with one universal truth: women are better looking than men. If this were inaccurate, the female form wouldn’t have been the central theme of art, music and porn since time immemorial. You must never forget that you are men, and as men you must dream; and when you dream, you dream of boobies.
Lovely Potato Salad
- 9-10 russet potatoes
- 1/2 cup chopped marinated artichoke hearts (about 20)
- 1/2 cup sun dried tomatoes, packed in oil, chopped
- 1/3 cup mayonnaise
- 1 1/2 tbsp basil, chopped
- 1 tbsp shallots, minced
- 1 tbsp chives, finely chopped
- 1/4 tsp minced garlic
- Salt & pepper
The trick here is to boil the potatoes whole, with the skin still on. Allow them to cool and then peel. Slice potatoes and place in a large bowl. Add remaining ingredients and gently stir to incorporate. I used my mini food processor to chop the artichoke hearts, sun dried tomatoes and shallots, but they can be done by hand. Refrigerate for at least an hour before serving.
To further my woman-as-art argument, here are some of the songs I can think of that are named after women: Iris, Michelle, Eleanor Rigby, Hey Jude, Irene, Alison (Evlis Costello), Allison (Pixies), Billie Jean, Sweet Jane, Maggie May, Baby Jane, Beth, Suzanne, Christine, Jenny From The Block, Polly, Lola, Roxanne, My Sharona, Lyla, Helena, Laura, Angie, Oh Sherrie, Oh Shelia, etc. (I really could keep going). And what do men get? Ben. Ben sung by a then-black Michael Jackson about a homicidal rat. There’s also Daniel, but that’s Elton John—so one man singing about another. Jessie’s Girl certainly isn’t about Jessie. See where I’m going with this, fellas? To quote Daphne and Celeste, “U-G-L-Y, you ain’t go no alibi—you ugly!”
TWTG says, “I have to blow my nose, or I’m gonna do it on your shirt.”