Linguistic cartwheels in the stylings of a rant, these are the thoughts that keep me up at night.
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I am a 20 year old female writer residing in Central New Jersey. My influences include the great Dave Barry, Neil Gaiman, George Carlin, and the two greatest editors in the world, Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. My webpage can be found at www.homestead.com/foxfyresden and I can be reached at Foxfyre33@aol.com. Happy reading!
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Sunday, December 29, 2002
Dating is a lot like a job interview.
For both, you get dressed up. Do your hair, makeup (given you're the proper gender or else live in greenwich village) and best clothes. You call your friends, usually with excitement, occasionally with misgivings and doubt. You promise a "full report" when everything is all said and done. You check the time a lot more often than usual...wouldn't want to be late!
You get in your car and travel to a place you most likely don't normally go to, to meet someone you probably have only talked on the phone or emailed with prior to the meeting. In both cases, you are quietly at your best, hoping that the other person seems you as favorable and compatible, and that you have the same goals. A tiny part of your brain wonders who they've been meeting recently, before you, and how well you'll stack up to your competition. You hope that they won't choose to meet anyone after you.
You run the gamut of questions, each finding out about the other, and deciding if this is a worthwhile partnership.They want to know about your other recent partnerships, and why you are no longer in them. They certainly don't want to be left in the lurch if you have a history of prematurely departing.
Both depart with promises to call each you.
Very seldom are they actually, truthfully, going to call you.
~FoxComment
6:00 PM
Privately, I think there's a conspiracy among men.
I think that they feign ignorance on a wide-scale cultural basis because they know the majority of women won't stand for their bumbling attempts at common chores that will inevitably stain, tear, shrink, destroy or otherwise maim household items that passed for functional until the aforementioned male tried to "help".
It's the..."Oh christ, will you just...here...give me that..." syndrome.
You girls know what I'm talking about. You get to a point where you start to wonder exactly what havoc large amounts of testosterone wreak on the logic center of the brain.
"Lance? Honey...what are you doing?"
"I'm vaccuming, dear. " (insert puppy-dog "don't I do good?" look here)
"It's upside down. Plugging it in might also help."
I think that somewhere, eventually, a man is going to try and substitute kool-aid powder for bleach and women are just going to take the reins of washing for the rest of time, to prevent them from doing further harm to themselves or t-shirt-kind.
~Fox
Comment
4:57 PM
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