The Broad's Side

Wouldn’t it be fantastic if there was a manual detailing what type of people you should avoid building relationships with? Jesus, that would save us all a little time and energy. I have what I consider a pretty solid background in selecting losers, so as a public service I thought that I’d pass along what I’ve learned. Some are steadfast rules, while others are merely suggestions. These tidbits can apply to friendships, significant others or co-worker relationships. Use this information wisely, and please feel free to pass it along. I’m all about helping others.

My first rule is unfortunately a pretty solid one, and there aren’t many exceptions. Never trust a guy with two first names. I realize that this is beyond the man’s control, but it’s just a fact. Not only is he a douche, but he comes from a long line of men who are also douches. Whether they’re a ‘Thomas George’ or a ‘Michael Ryan’… Beware. I’ve never officially met Bruce Wayne, but I bet he’s a tool of epic proportions. He doesn’t even possess any true ‘superpowers’. He uses intellect, science, detective skills and technology to wage his war on crime. That’s equivalent to a homicide detective or a forensic scientist dressing up in a latex bat suit and running around town. All of that to outsmart someone? It would appear to me that this tactic would be much more successful if he played it under the radar. The bad guys probably wouldn’t even see him coming if he were wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt, jeans and a ball cap.

Rule #2 is an elective behavior, which makes it all that much more disturbing. Unless you are coaching a college football game, you should never wear a sweater vest. I don’t understand them at all… aren’t sweaters for warmth? How does one of the sleeveless variety accomplish anything that the sweater is intended for? If you opt for an old man classic turtleneck underneath, you might as well wear an applicator tip as a hat and change your name to Massengill.

Rule #3 is also something that is well within your control, so listen carefully. If your hair starts to turn grey, don’t kid yourself by attempting to dye it to conceal the ‘old’ that’s setting in. You’ll end up looking like you were mugged by the shoe shine guy in the airport terminal, and his weapon of choice was Kiwi shoe polish. For the love of god, put down the ‘Just For Men’ products. If you find yourself experiencing male pattern baldness, step down from the ledge. This doesn’t become an issue until you start using smoke and mirrors in a ridiculous attempt to trick people into thinking you have more hair than you do. There has NEVER been one single documented instance where someone complimented a comb-over without crossing their fingers behind their back, winking or flat out laughing. It looks asinine, so please refrain from exhibiting this behavior. In the event that you decide to shave your head, please be sure that you have a handle on this. I used to know this ridiculous little prick who would constantly have missed patches of hair on the back of his shiny little head. It looked like a bad Brazilian bikini wax. I wasn’t surprised to hear that he ended up getting a divorce. His wife must have hated him if she let him leave the house with a landing strip on the back of his dome.

Rule #4- Avoid the guy who introduces himself using his first and last name as well as job title in situations where nobody gives a shit. It’s usually a guy who’s so pretentious that he insists on being called by his formal first name. He’ll correct you, “I’m sorry, but my name is Thomas.” Worse than that is the guy that calls himself ‘Dr’ in social situations. I’ll tell you what buddy… unless I’m coming down with a severe case of strep throat or need a pap smear, I don’t give a rats ass if you’re a doctor. Do you really need to sign your credit card receipt at Target with ‘Dr Frederick Roger’? I’m sure the sixteen year old cashier and her cart attendant boyfriend are mocking you before you hit the parking lot. Education is fantastic, and congratulations on your successful career… but nobody cares.

Rule #5 involves the always feared ‘short man syndrome’. It’s hard for me to grasp why some men who are of smaller stature feel the need to be such assholes. Don’t treat me like it’s my fault you’re 5’2”. Take it up with your parents for Christ’s sake. I’m not sure if it’s a recognized mental illness, but it should be. If you’re short and pissed off, you should qualify for some special sensitivity training. These dudes should never be put in positions of power, and should have to take some sort of entrance exam to be considered for any type of corporate position. Give them a copy of ‘Snow White’ and see if they can identify all seven dwarves without going bat-shit crazy.

I hope you will find this information useful in one regard or another. God help you if you can see yourself in a combination of categories listed above. If you ever encounter a 5’4” sweater vest wearing tyrant with a poorly shaven head… run before he has the chance to introduce himself. You’re welcome!

Society conditions us to believe that there’s some sort of mandatory waiting period before you’re supposed to have sex with a new interest…. Like you’re trying to purchase a handgun. I listen to some of my girlfriends dissecting how many dates should happen before it’s appropriate to have sex. I don’t know about you, but ‘appropriate’ sex doesn’t really sound all that fun to me. I prefer hot, dirty, inappropriate sex any day of the week. We turn it into a ridiculous game that’s way more difficult to play than it needs to be. With that being said, I don’t want to give the wrong impression. I’m actually very particular about who I would even consider getting naked with. This is by no means an attempt to drum up new business.

I can vividly recall how frustrating the whole process was to me while I was in my twenties. I followed the rules about not putting out right away and it got me nowhere. I wish I could reclaim all of that time I wasted sitting through dinners discussing super mundane things like favorite movies, how much your job sucks, or whether you like your pasta el dente or not. How refreshing would it be for a woman to say something to the effect, “Let’s just cut through the bullshit, grab a bottle of tequila and go fuck”? Realistically, if I’m actively having sex with you in my head as appetizers are served I’m probably not going to retain the fact that ‘the Princess Bride’ is your favorite movie. It’s so uncomfortable to endure these first few dates anyways. Why? Because it’s forced and un-natural. Come to think of it, I probably wrecked a few relationships by trying to keep myself on this retarded sexual schedule. Women are so paranoid and afraid of what will happen if they just go for it. “What if he doesn’t call?” Who the hell cares? You might want to invest in a book on blowjobs if that’s the case though. There’s a chance you’re not doing it right.

Now that I’m 37 and fully embracing the Cougar Movement, I’m more comfortable with my sexuality than I’ve ever been. I also feel like I’ve earned the right to have sex with whoever I want, with no rules, restrictions or unnecessary bullshit. If you’re fortunate enough to be in a position where you meet someone and that insanely powerful sexual chemistry is there… what’s stopping you? Respect? That’s a load of crap. You can’t be disrespected unless you allow yourself to be. Save your lectures for your daughter’s prom night. If you’re a confident, independent broad who knows what she wants… good for you! A lot of things need to fall in place for me before this can happen. Beyond the physical chemistry, there needs to be a superior level of intelligence and witty humor involved. If I can connect with someone like that, I’m not sure why I wouldn’t take advantage of it. We both know where it’s headed anyways. It sure eliminates a lot of unnecessary stress and pressure.

I also fully resent the implication that it’s always the guy getting the woman into bed. Did you ever think that it’s the other way around? What if I seduced him and decided whether to talk to him afterwards? It’s not as if I wore that shirt that showcased my cans accidentally. Men can be so easily mesmerized by a little cleavage. The bottom line is that women like sex too and shouldn’t be so reluctant to admit it. Nothing is better than sex with someone who’s confident, willing to discuss and experiment with different things. It’s also completely acceptable to have a relationship based solely on sex. Removing all of the expectations and social pressures that go along with the whole dating thing can be very liberating. In my mind, this is much more realistic and healthy than walking into something with all kinds of inflated expectations about the future. I plan to continue to take full advantage of this while I’m still hot enough to pull it off. Men, no need to send me Thank-you cards for these words of wisdom.

I’m not sure that many people will be able to appreciate the tirade I’m about to launch into. With the state of the economy and the current heartbreaking situation in Haiti, the things that set me off are probably ridiculous. Let me qualify that by pointing out that un-employment gave me the opportunity to stew over this issue for much longer than can be considered healthy. I needed a place to channel my anger and frustration… at the expense of Disney. It all started innocently enough with a trip to the local cinema to catch a matinee of ‘The Princess and the Frog’ with my three year old. In a nutshell, the story centers around a hard-working young black girl with one main goal in life. She has always dreamed of running a restaurant of her very own. This was a dream shared by her father who spends his entire life working and never gets the opportunity to bring it to fruition. In typical Disney fashion, dad croaks and leaves Tiana to realize her goals on her own. WTF, Disney… what’s with the dead parent obsession? You’d be hard- pressed to find a two parent household in Walt’s world. Snow White, Cinderella and Belle were all down at least one. When it gets to the point where we’re even killing off animal parents, there might be an issue. Think Bambi’s assassinated mom or Nemo’s mom who ended up as shark bait. Really?

But I digress… back to the frog story. I won’t bore you with the specifics, but through an unfortunate chain of events both Tiana and her supposed prince are turned into frogs. Prince Frog is kind of a dick. He doesn’t appear to be all that fun to be around, but when you’re a frog I suppose your options are limited. The stupid broad ends up falling for the douchy frog… don’t they all? Enter evil villain who gives our fair frog princess the divine chance to have everything she’s ever dreamed of. She can go back to being a human and have the restaurant she’s been hoping for her entire life. Where’s the catch, you ask? Simple… leave the asshole frog behind. No-brainer as far as I’m concerned! What is the lifespan of a god-damn frog? Three years max? When faced with financial stability in these uncertain times, who takes the ‘stay a frog’ route? Are you fucking kidding me? At this point, my version of the story would have ended with both of these retarded frogs being consumed by an angry gator. Of course, the sappy Disney spin has everything work out in the end. I can see what the lesson was supposed to be, but here’s what I took out of it: You should let a guy be a total douchebag and treat you as if you were beneath him. After putting up with his shit for a while, you should just deal with it because chances are there’s not anything better out there. Most importantly, you should make all kinds of insane sacrifices for this jackass because what good are you without a man? Congratulations to Disney for finally giving us a black princess, but I’ll tell you right now… not ONE of my black girlfriends would tolerate that crap.

Let’s revisit some of my other favorite Disney tales. There’s the one where a young girl’s step mother puts a hit on her because she’s smoking hot. The hitman thinks she’s a hot piece of ass too, so he aborts the mission. At this point, she naturally ends up living with seven really old and very messy midgets in the forest. These little dudes are perpetually drunk little diamond miners who unsuccessfully try to nail Snow White. As if being three feet tall isn’t enough of a bitch, they’re all trying to impress the same chick. Step mom eventually comes back and gives hottie a jacked up apple that puts her into this insane coma that somehow requires no type of medical attention. Not to pick on Terri Schiavo again, but clearly comas wreak havoc on one’s physical appearance. I’m not sure one would still qualify as ‘the fairest in the land’ after such a traumatic experience. Oh… and then a normal sized man comes and saves her.

One of my other favorites is animation’s tribute to Stockholm Syndrome, ‘Beauty and the Beast’. I can remember discussing this one with my friend Shelley over shots of Tequila. A beautiful young woman’s father is captured by a disgusting, hairy and most likely smelly creature. In order to save her father, she volunteers to take pop’s place and become this prick’s prisoner. I have dated some assholes, but this dude takes the grand prize. He has absolutely no redeeming qualities. The meaner he is, the harder this dumb broad tries to win him over. She’s clearly emotionally crippled. Obviously, if your man mistreats you, you should kiss his ass and maybe put on some lipstick to be prettier for him. Once again, my version would have ended much differently… a post-escape 911 call and maybe some mace.

Don’t even try to tell me that ‘Pinocchio’ isn’t about the creepiest story ever. A lonely old man builds a little boy out of wood for his own pleasure. Something tells me that Pinocchio’s nose wasn’t the only growing wood in this fairy tale. Sure the old perv was longing for a ‘real boy’. The splinters must have sucked. I think I saw Gepetto on FamilyWatchDog.com while researching neighborhood pedophiles. If not, some old dude in Lakewood bears a striking resemblance. Last but not least is Disney’s resident whore, ‘The Little Mermaid’. Obviously, by the way she dressed there was no maternal influence. Evidently, even sea dads have trouble controlling their daughters. This girl essentially sells out her father in order to become human so she can get it on with some land dweller. By the way, this also wins the prize for worst prince name… ERIC. It just doesn’t sound right, does it? Prince Eric? For once, I want to see a Disney movie that ends with a princess drinking margaritas with her girlfriends and posting a twisted personal ad about her ‘prince’ on Craig’s List. Is that too much to ask?

My New Year’s Eve this year is being spent on my couch… voluntarily. I’ve only done that one other time in the past twenty years, and that was only because I was a giant, fat pregnasaurus at the time. I put some thoughtful consideration into my evening and had some pretty tempting offers, but I’ll be honest… I’m just not feeling it. My ex-husband tried to call bullshit on me, and he even had the sitter booked. I love going out and being social, but there’s something about New Year’s Eve that drives me bat shit crazy. Maybe it’s all of the once a year drinkers that storm the town or the fact that you have to basically commit to one establishment since there’s always a cover charge. If you’re responsible, you have to rely on a taxi. Good luck with that shit show on the busiest cab night of the year. When it’s all said and done, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.

Maybe I’m still having flashbacks from my experience two years ago. I was newly single and was dragged kicking and screaming to a place named ‘Corky’s’ for the most ridiculous experience of my life. My friend was dating the douchebag who manned the door, so I was essentially a third wheel at a place named after a retarded person. How could that go wrong? I’m a huge fan of the hole in the wall bar, but there’s a definitive line that must never be crossed. This place made the cantina scene from Star Wars look like a Hollywood hotspot. I was trying to be a good sport and take an enormous bullet for the team. For the record, this was one of those bullets that explodes on impact and rips your innards to shreds. I was barely a beer into my evening, when something terribly alarming occurred.

It was karaoke night, and a small Hispanic man was next on the mike. I hate people that give commentary before launching into whatever ear rape they’re about to subject me to, but this was well worth the price of admission. Check that… I think we avoided the cover charge because my friend was banging the ultra cool door douche. I hope that was worth the $10 we saved. But I digress. This dude starts rambling in extremely broken English. All I took out of it was something about a green card and ‘the most beautiful girl in the world’. Naturally, I turn to look for this Pamela Anderson look-alike (pre-hepatitis). What I witnessed that night will forever haunt me, and it left me visibly shaken. It was fortunate that gazing upon this monstrosity didn’t turn this poor little immigrant to stone. I was expecting Perseus to show up and lob her head off for use as a weapon. You could definitely use this broad’s head for one hell of a crime spree. Seriously, what a great modern day Medusa story! You could rob a bank, jaywalk, get out of any number of traffic violations or simply scare your friends. She was at least 6 ft 5, with about four inches of feathered platinum blonde hair. She was wearing those gross acid washed jeans with the lace cut-outs down the side. Her milky white thigh fat was oozing out… like someone stepped on a container of Yoplait. She had the jet black eyeliner with the wings out the side. I’ve never understood the objective of that makeup trick. What illusion is that supposed to create other than ‘I’m an asshole’? As I looked around for Ashton Kutcher and his gaggle of comedic sidekicks toting cameras, the little man dropped to one knee and proposed to the wildebeest. She giddily accepted as I looked for a penile bulge in her Merry Go Round jeans. Could this really be a woman? As she hugged her future groom, her boobs rested heavily on his little bald head. He then wiped a tear and launched into a very moving rendition of ‘To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before’, singing both the parts of Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson.

At this point my friend was making out with door guy, who was clearly doing the best job ever. Who the hell was he denying entrance? There was a bearded lady, two midgets, a KKK member and a mule. Ok… so I’m making up the mule part, but the rest is all true. Usually I try to be relatively nice to people who make awful attempts at hitting on me, but I just wasn’t capable in this joint. I pretended I had a nervous tick at one point and I’m pretty sure the one –armed man trying to nail me liked it. A sweaty fat man grabbed me in such an odd place, that I was all but certain he was scoping out the viability of my kidneys. “Jesus, I’m gonna end up in a bathtub full of ice”, I muttered. Who taught you that for Christ’s sake? Grab some tit or a handful of ass like every other pervert. I broke my all-time Jaeger record that night. I was secretly hoping that these people would start to get a little more attractive. I’m not talking ‘doable’, just worthy of any type of human interaction and basic conversation. I rang in the New Year sitting next to a guy wearing a bicycle helmet that kept blurting out, “I Love Pop-tarts” every few minutes. Thank god he and the bearded lady shared that common interest, because I was about to commit suicide by looking directly at the blushing bride after several hours of this crap. When you love your friends, you’ll do some pretty amazing things for them. My girl knows who she is and that I’m going to expect a bone marrow donation or bail money somewhere down the line. As for me, there’s very little chance that I’ll get puked on, stranded in a gross bar or pillaged for my internal organs tonight on my couch. Genius move on my part. Good luck to the rest of you suckers.

We all have stories of cell phone usage gone horribly wrong. Who hasn’t looked at their text message history the day after a booze binge in sheer horror? From personal experience, I can tell you that my Blackberry should have a breathalyzer application. On one occasion, I was trying my hand at dirty texting and decided I’d attach a sexy boob shot to the message. I explicitly described the masturbatory techniques that should be used, and promised more pictures to follow. Unfortunately, the adorable picture of my three year old in her bathing suit I accidentally sent wasn’t exactly erection worthy for the recipient. On another occasion, I accidentally dialed a former boss from inside my purse after tailgating for six hours. I’m pretty sure he overheard my drunken plot to murder him. A co-worker and I concluded that death by icicle would be the way to go, since there would be no usable prints. A melting murder weapon… how genius is that? All I know is that the call lasted eighteen minutes.

The single best cell phone horror story ever led to a ridiculous chain of events. It happened the night of a rehearsal dinner for a wedding my two best friends and I were bridesmaids in. There was a superior level of intoxication from all parties involved. At some point in the evening, the group split up. The guys stayed behind at the bar, while the girls decided that puking in the church the next day might be ill-advised. My friend Shelley was visiting from Vegas and was staying at my place. In hindsight, I’m sure she’s glad she didn’t opt for the Days Inn. My husband at the time attempted to reach me on my cell phone a few hours later. He dialed, and was absolutely furious when a man answered. He asked the male on the other end of the phone if he was having a good time tagging his wife. This line of questioning was met with a sarcastic, “sure… best sex ever. What’s wrong with you?” The dude assumed it was a joke and made the regrettable choice to laugh at my drunken hubby. My man was now on a mission to uncover my illicit affair, but not before hurling his phone against the wall and busting it into a million pieces. He used a friend’s phone to dial home. He was screaming incoherently about getting the guy out of the house before he made it back home. I had no clue what the hell he was talking about, so I hung up on him.

A few minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was my brother…still laughing. It appears that my hubby had dialed ‘Jeff’ instead of ‘Jen’ and accused my little brother of banging me. I only wish the story ended there. We lived in a row of identical brick town houses at the time. This guy was so hell bent on catching me in the act that he stormed home to interrupt my imaginary sex fest. He burst through the front door like a crazed mad man, with his buddy at his heels trying to calm him down. He bellowed, “Who’s fucking my wife?” to the five stoners sitting around in the living room doing hits off a water bong. As one of the dudes exhaled his smoke, he inquired “ Depends… who’s your wife?” followed by a few coughs from his pot-filled lungs. At this point, my husband’s buddy taps him on the shoulder and whispers…. “You know this isn’t your house, right?” The stoners continued smoking and listening to the Grateful Dead without flinching. My husband was not about to give up now. After being directed to the right house by his friend, he stormed into the intended residence. He came flying up the stairs in a pathetic attempt to catch me red-handed doing it… with my freaken brother, evidently. It seemed he may have lost a little bit of steam on the second try. He was panting and his whole face was red and sweaty. I could hear Shelley’s muffled laughter in the spare bedroom as she called her husband and put it on speaker. She claimed it was more entertaining than anything Hollywood could produce. He was very resistant to admit that he might have been mistaken. It’s not like he could check his call history, since his phone had detonated.

The message here is simple. Be very careful with your phone, specifically if any amount of alcohol has been factored into the equation. If you have a work issued phone, leave it out of your weekend plans. You might not be able to resist the urge to respond to an e-mail with something as well thought out as ‘Suck it’. You should also be extremely vigilant when selecting people from your contact list. Mom and Monica should not be confused with each other. This could get very awkward. It’s also advisable to give people nicknames to prevent you from making drunken errors in judgment. If someone pissed you off, you might forget about it after a few long island ice teas. Save yourself by giving yourself little reminders. Currently, ‘Douche Rocket’, ‘Ass Clown’ and ‘Knocked up the Receptionist’ are all in my phone as contacts. I’m definitely not texting any of those jackasses tonight.