Girl Camp
While fashions change, one thing does not: I have no idea what's going on. For example, when did everyone get such straight hair? Have you seen this nowadays?
I mean, I know what's stylish where I shop: monkey tee shirts, and halter tops with gold buttons up the back. (Have you guessed my fashion secret yet? Ross Dress for Less!) No, but seriously, I lack both the sense of fashion and the technical skills to pull off "stylish." And I know exactly why: Girl Camp. This is my theory. Everyone else went to magical Girl Camp, from the beezies to the punk rockers. There they learned those little details like "how to wear a flippy skirt," "how to care about shoes," "how to put on eyeliner without bleeding," and "how not to be a dorkwad like Kim." I even know when Girl Camp happened: the summer before eighth grade.
Why didn't I go to Girl Camp, you ask? (Actually, you're probably asking if Girl Camp is a metaphor or if it's supposed to be an actual place, but that is neither here nor there.) Easy. First, because I couldn't afford it. And second, because that was the summer I was in the Summerquest program for gifted kids. There I made a website about otters, dissected a squid, made sand candles, and more. Yes. That is how I spent my Girl Camp summer.
I'm not saying that I want to know what an Abercrombie and Fitch is, or look like someone who'd have a boyfriend named Trevor, or be a girl who "discovers" bands on vinyl. I don't need to look like the kind of chick you'd write songs about, except maybe "Jessie's Girl," but just because that song rules. There are times, though, when I'm jealous of the Girl Campers--which would apparently be every woman my age, except for me and that cashier at Payless who has still has weddings for her Beanie Babies.
Like that straight-hair thing. Perfect-length, shiny, thick, straight hair, to Girl Campers, is a matter of simple logistics. For me, it's like being a particularly bright dog presented with some unopened Alpo and a can opener. I get the general idea of what's involved, but I might as well be lacking opposable thumbs. (Part of the problem might be that I get $6 haircuts and wash with 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner, but...no, that's crazy talk.) But I don't want straight hair, and I don't want any kind of "look." I guess what really works up my envy about Girl Campers--besides that they don't consider $4.99 to be a lot of money to spend on shampoo--is that they can do what they do, look like they want to look. They have Straight Hair Aptitude.
But then again, who am I to feel sorry for myself? Sure, I could have been learning the secrets of flat-irons and how to walk in heels during Girl Camp summer. I could require more than twenty minutes to shower and get out the door in the morning. But hey, at Summerquest, I got to dissect a squid. And afterward, we made the mantle and tentacles into breaded calamari and ate it, and we used the squid ink to write our names on paper! So, in conclusion: suck it, Girl Camp.
I Enjoy Nothing More
Summer's Eve makes "feminine hygiene products," and they urge you to "Enjoy being a woman." Great slogan, douchebags. Oh, wait...
Seriously, though. Dudes wouldn't put up with this. You think Maxim magazine's ever going to run an article on what astringents to use to keep one's balls "fresh"? No. But, if you fellows are curious, apply this with a loofah: 3 parts water, 2 parts Lysol (pine scent), 1 part Ajax cleaner, and 4 parts Tag body spray.
Bra Shopping
Dear Victoria's Secret Sales Lady,
Do you remember me? I came into your store several weeks ago, a frightened zombie lamb in a den of lions. Yours is not the most relaxing of stores. Since when does, "I need some underwear, maybe" translate to, "please immobilize me with perfumed nerve gas and pink hallucinations, and then interrogate me with a gang of mannequin thugs who look like they want to sexually assault me and eat out my eyes"? Furthermore, does the word "STRIP" really need to be painted in giant letters on the changing room mirror? I was already frightened of you, Mistress Victoria's Secret Corporation. Now you've just made me question why I need a safeword to go to the mall.
At any rate, you, Sales Lady, asked me what my bra size was. Not trusting your help in the totalitarian regime of the Democratic Republic of Victoria's Secret, I politely deflected; all right, I told you I was "between sizes." I'll be the first to admit that this is a nonsensical answer, but you threw me off by asking to feel me up (or "fit" me, if that's what they're calling it these days).
And now, to the point. May I give you some advice? When an obviously reluctant customer gives you the kind of ludicrous response I did, you probably shouldn't use this as your sales pitch: "Well, the first place to go is this area, so maybe that's what's going on."
No. I am 23 years old. There's nothing wrong with my body (or my "this area"); it's my brain that won't let me buy your stupid bras. My conscience and IQ won't let me spend $48 on what is more or less a yard of fabric, a couple of rubber bands, a bent coathanger, and two shoulder pads. If I'm going to be spending $48 on that glorified junk, it damn well better have been assembled by MacGyver.
Oh, and guess what? Remember when I told you that I usually only spend $20 on bras? I was lying. I spend $8.99 on bras. So take your fembots and go back to my nightmares, Victoria's Secret Sales Lady.
The Landing Strip
Recently I was prank-called at work by someone who asked, among other things, if I have a "landing strip." Believe it or not, at first I thought he wanted to know if our store had a landing strip for planes (on the roof, perhaps?). Then I got to thinking--uh, after I hung up.
The landing strip. The term calls to mind a young
mother, trying to sell Junior on his pureed peas. "Chugga-chugga chugga-chugga choo-choo! All
aboard the yummy train!" Truly, there is nothing more arousing than picturing your lover making plane noises while waving his cock at you.
It's your body, of course, and I wouldn't presume to argue against whatever you want to do with it. Mow your lawn, let it run natural, or hell, strip it bare and put in
a pool (?). I just don't know when it became so darn attractive to plant one of those awful
middle-class hedges on your hoo-ha.
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