Monday, July 28, 2008

The universe evens things out once again

A female friend recently told me she didn’t like to go the mechanic because she was afraid to get taken advantage of because she was a woman. She said this wasn’t fair, but I told her that it was.

I told her that it all comes out even when a man goes to get his hair cut.

She said, “They told me I needed to buy all this stuff and I’m not sure I even needed it.”

I replied, “You aren’t special. When I got my hair cut, I had to buy shampoo-mouse-gel or something like that with smoothers and moisturizers.”

I couldn’t help it. The girl cutting my hair told me it made me look hot. And that it was made out of tea and trees. And she kept calling it “product,” and I don't even know what that means.

You think I’m stupid, but I’ve seen bald guys walking out of there all loaded down with stuff. I mean, they’re bald, so life has already dealt them kind of a harsh blow and now they’re being victimized by beauty school girls. That’s harsh.

And the only person I feel more sorry for is a red-haired bald person getting swindled. That is just one too many injustices to bear.

It happens other places too, like one time I was looking for some jeans and a saleswoman helped me find a good size and style. I went and tried them on and when I stepped out of the dressing stall to look in the mirror the saleswoman was lurking and proceeded to freak out, saying "Those look great! You should totally get them!"

I was immediately suspicious because she was way too enthusiastic, so I said "Do you get paid commission or something? Cause you are too excited about my pants."

"Um, they're just really cool jeans," she said, looking at the floor. She wouldn't deny the commission thing. She was a slick one, I almost got hustled.

Maybe my friend and I should stick together: I'll go with her to the mechanic and she can go with me to shop for clothes and get my hair cut.

Meanwhile, I'm going to go look up "product" in the dictionary.

Monday, July 21, 2008

All the hairy details OR Hair today, gone tomorrow

I think I'm in trouble. I hate to say it, but girls aren’t into hairy dudes. I think they might have been in the past, but not anymore.

These days, girls only want a guy who is slightly hairier than they are. Which leaves me out in the cold because I can grow a beard in about 30 seconds, and the rest of me is correspondingly hairy.

I think I was born in the wrong decade because in the 70s body hair was king. Everyone had chest hair and sideburns and mustaches for days and it was hot. If I was living in the 70s I would have been a sexy, sexy man and an object of much feminine desire.

Take James Bond for example: all the "007"s of yesteryear had chest hair like a grizzly bear, but Daniel Craig, the newest Bond, is like a hairless cat. I'm afraid he is just a reflection of the changing times.

Being hairy is one of those things that I can joke about all day long, like I might say things like, “Ha ha, I’m the missing link.”

But if someone else tries to make a joke about it, I get mad.

Some dude: “Hey, man. You’ve got hairy arms. You're like 'An American Werewolf in London,' ha ha.”

Me: “Yeah, except we're not in London, jerk! And your mom has hairy arms.”

But things come in and out of style, so I’m figuring it’s only a matter of time until we have a Body Hair Renaissance and it becomes cool to be hairy again. I can’t wait.

And when that joyous day comes, we can usher it in with a parade. The parade will consist of lots of floats with hairy dudes with button-up shirts that have the first two buttons undone so that awesome tuft of chest hair will be crawling out.

Happy body hair day everyone! Send me a card.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Déjà vu at graduate school OR Et tu, graduate school?

Last week I packed up all my stuff into my Chevy Prism and headed down south to start graduate school and I gotta say, it's not all it's cracked up to be.

The good news is I have been reunited with my three closest friends from my undergraduate days: lecture, textbook and multiple choice test. Oh, how I've missed you guys.

I guess I don't know really what I expected. Oh wait, yes I do. I expected grad school to be a little more than undergrad with extra reading, but how wrong I was! Between the two classes, in the first week alone they want me to read 13 chapters in four separate textbooks, 1 novel and 5 online articles. In my estimation that comes out to be approximately 686 pages in one week.

I can't do it. I'd rather die. I exaggerate a lot, but in this case I'm serious. I'd rather throw myself in front of a moving train than try and read that many pages in one week. Good thing I've also gotten reacquainted with another old college friend: faking it.

Then what do I do once I have obtained all this wonderful knowledge? Do I go to class and discuss and synthesize it with my professor and peers? Nope. We go to class and the teacher turns out the lights and turns on Power Point and proceeds to drone on about the corresponding slides for three hours and forty-five minutes! We are supposed to get two 15-minute breaks, but sometimes the teacher becomes so enraptured with hearing himself/herself talk that they forget to give us our breaks. So we just sit in the dark.

Other aspects of the grad school experience have let me down as well, like the weather. It has been overcast everyday, but it only rains when I am riding my bike to and from school so I get road gunk all over my pants and when I get to class it looks like I have bladder and bowel problems. I watch out the windows at other times but it never rains until I get on my bike.

And then there's my living situation. My roommate has a cat, so our house smells like cat, and consequently I am sure that I now smell like cat.

And the oven doesn't work. So I eat a lot of cereal. Like, breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert.

Hooray for higher education.

Monday, July 7, 2008

Late bloomer serves cold cup of comeuppance to high school mean girl

A girl from high school contacted me through the internet, saying we should “catch up” over dinner. I decided to go, out of morbid curiosity.

Morbid because in high school this girl was the hottest and coolest and consequently never cared about me. We were in totally different high school castes. I was surprised she even remembered my name. Now she was contacting me, asking me to dinner? Something weird was going on.

So I showed up at the restaurant brimming with interest, and when my high school “friend” stepped out of a booth, I was more than a little surprised. She was no longer the vision of sultry hotness she had been eight years ago. She had aged, put on some weight, and just generally looked worse for wear. Time had not been good to my friend.

I, on the other hand, had benefited a little from the passage of years. My skin had cleared up, I had gotten a better hairstyle and the college experience had left me with a lot more confidence than I had had back when homegirl used to ignore me.

And even though she looked quite different, some things never change. She was still one big raging ball of ego. For instance, she didn’t let me talk. I pretty much ate quietly while she told me all about her last eight years. I nodded when I knew she expected me to and said “right” when I thought it polite, but mostly I was thinking about breadsticks. She never even asked what I had done in the last eight years. As far as she knows, I was in a coma.

At the end of the night she said, “This was fun! Let’s go out again this week!”

I replied, “So basically, being hot didn’t get you as far in the real world as it did in high school. And in the years since, you haven’t accomplished anything, have been in tons of bad relationships, wasted all your youth and beauty, and don’t have much going for yourself. And now you remember that I was a nice guy and you think we should date. As flattered as I am to be your absolute last choice, I’m gonna have to say no thanks.” And then I calmly threw my drink on her and stalked out of the restaurant.

Ok, I actually didn’t do or say any of that. I wish I did, but my mother raised me to be too polite. Instead, I just exchanged numbers and now I ignore her calls and texts. Not quite the same, I know.

Either way, it’s true what they say: “revenge is a dish best served cold.” And with breadsticks.