The Girl Rules

As they stand today:

1. Girls like salt.

Next time you sit down to eat with a girl, see if she doesn’t reach for the salt shaker. Ask her how many kinds of salt are in her cupboard, and don’t be surprised when the answer is at least three. See if she doesn’t eat the pretzel salt from the bottom of the bag. Ask her if she’s ever salted a tomato or… a piece of melon.

2. Girls can tell.

They’re very hard to fool. If you’re not happy, she’s gonna know. If you’ve got a secret, she might not know what it is but she’ll know it’s there. If you’ve got a splinter in your right middle toe, don’t be surprised when she offers to help remove it, even though you’ve been trying to be stoic all day.

3. Girls get cold.

Boys should always take a jacket along for this reason. Never suggest that the girl take her own jacket, because she will insist that she is fine. So act like you think you might get chilly later, and pick up that light spring jacket on your way out. You’re not fooling anybody, she knows what the jacket is for (see rule #2), but isn’t about to admit it. But when she starts rubbing the tops of her arms in the restaurant, you’ll be prepared.

4. Girls have drugs.

If you have a headache, ask the nearest girl for a pill. She’ll reach into her bag (see rule #5) and withdraw some form of pain relief, usually Excedrin. Many girls are way into Excedrin. Not quite enough to make a rule about it, but plenty.

5. Girls like bags.

They’re kind of like baseball cards for girls, and the situation every bit as intricate as that statement implies. I know a girl who spent $1200 on a Louis Vuitton. That’s a leather bag less than 1 foot square, with the words “Louis Vuitton” stamped on the side. The girls who are reading this just went “that’s about right” and the guys went “holy crap”. However, word of warning– it is very uncouth to be disdainful of a girl’s bag. Also note, they are called “bags”. Not “purses” only rarely “handbags.” Do not risk a scornful look.

Fucking Swiss Miss!

Rated PG-13 (ish)

Did I ever tell you about my problem with Swiss Miss?

It’s their god damned tapioca pudding cups. The lids are impossible to remove!!

I’ll get home and be all “Jesus God I need me some tapioca pudding IMMEDIATELY” and I’ll reach into the fridge all hot and bothered for some-a that lumpy goodness. Rip me off a couple cups from the sixer I keep handy (one isn’t enough, ‘course, fuckers are small), open ‘em up and dig in.

Or rather, I’ll TRY to open them up, but be completely stymied by overzealous adhesive application to the lid! I mean, what the fuck is that stuff, epoxy?! And the lids are made of like, something they line the space shuttle with or something, because nothing short of a steak knife applied with a hammer can poke a hole in the god damned things.

I’m going to write a letter, I swear. ANOTHER letter. Fucking Swiss Miss and her sweaty Nordic girl-next-door provocations must be ended. That Tapioca Tart! Bitch!

Fucking Laundry!

Rated PG-13

It never ends! I can’t stand doing the fizucking laundry every gizoddamn day any more. Then just when I think I’m almost caught up I find a whole ‘nother hamper full of shit I stuffed in a hamper in the basement to get it out of the way. Christ!

It’s worse than the goddamn grocery store, which I have to go to every other goddamn day seems like. Ugh!

Just go ahead and deliver one of those Perdue three-packs of boneless, skinless chicken breasts to my house every third day, with a mix of equal parts broccoli, cauliflower, baby carrots, and green beans. I’ll get the lemon-pepper powder myself whenever I run out.

And some oranges. Bring oranges with the chicken. Six oranges– California navel, NOT FLORIDA, for the love of Mike! Gawd.

Oh, and bring a box of 100 Tetley “Classic” tea bags once a month. That’ll do me, thanks.

Remember that scene in 9 & 1/2 Weeks where she opens his closet and there’s like, 15 sets of the exact same suit, shirt, pants and nothing else?

That’s gonna be me soon. Hey, Mickey Rourke is hip now, right?

Atlanta, Land of Coincidence

When I came hurtling down to Georgia, I left good ol’ Lancaster PA in a cloud of buzzing curse words and invective. I was totally like “I’m gettin’ out of this podunk town! There ain’t no chicks here!” That’s exactly the way I was. And I was so right! Atlanta’s got girls out the wazoo! You can actually stand there and watch them pop out of the wazoo at a fairly decent rate. But I digress.

Lancaster’s pretty small, y’know? Like 50k people maybe or something. Wait a sec, lemme see if Google knows the census… 56348 as of 2000, and as of that time the number includes moi. Today it’s 56347 of course. The Atlanta metropolitan area? 4,857,497 as of 2004.

Including me, make that 4,857,498. Wait, my friends had a baby not too long ago, so 4,857,49– oh screw it. There’s a big LED sign up the street from where I work (about a mile or so) which keeps a running tally if you ever need the current figure in a hurry. Call me up and I’ll run down there and check. (I’m way too lazy to go look just for me, hence the outdated data. Heh. Outdated data.)

Anyway, considering the size of the population it’s pretty surprising that I’m continually encountering coincidental relationships between the people I meet. Here’s the list so far, mostly involving dates I’ve been on from like, match.com or eharmony or wherever:

• Girl #1– personal friends with my next door neighbor
• Girl #2– Speech Pathologist (my sister’s sometime major) Ok that’s a tiny coincidence. But also, the lady two doors up from me is a speech pathologist. And this random girl’s sister lives two streets over.
• Girl #3– knows Girl #4
• Girl #4– knows Girl #3, is in a Masters program with a former coworker of mine.
• Girl #5– not a date, but I met her at this “Mensa” dinner with my pal Rob about a month after I got to town. Technically she might be Girl #1, but she fits in the list better as Girl #5. She’s in the same Masters program with my former coworker and Girl #4.
• Girl #6– my pal and trivia teammate Amy, who I met by just randomly emailing her on Friendster one day when I was bored. Last night we’re at trivia, and Rob has invited his pal Dana, whose trivia team has recently disbanded. Lo and behold, Dana was Amy’s boss her freshman year of college.

I know, right? FREAKY. I’m like totally freaking out here is what.