Monday, July 16, 2012
Dear Pretty Girls
Just for once, I would like to hear one of you say, "Yep, I'm a knockout. I know it. I admit that being pretty makes my life easier in ways you will never know. Jobs will be more plentiful, more people will want to be my friend, the network I can draw on will be huge, and there is no social gathering I will attend where at least three men don't try to get my attention."
Pretty Girls, I am tired of hearing you blush and smile and say, "Ohhhhhh, I am NOT pretty." I am tired of hearing you say that while your online photo shoots indicate that you know exactly what you're leveraging. I am tired of hearing you say that when we go to social events together and men talk to you as though you're alone. Tired of it as I struggle for ten minutes to get a bartender's attention while a stranger has your drink purchased almost before you even arrive. I am not one of those people who believe that life is fair and that, deep inside, Pretty Girls must truly be unhappy in order for the universe to balance. Because you know what? Deep inside, I'm unhappy. And I'm not pretty. And I don't have the guy. That particular guy. You do. So don't insult me by pretending that you're just like me. Don't tell me how much you hate your nose, or wish you had my eyes, because we both know you don't. We know that you would never trade places with me in a million years, and if you could at least show some honest gratitude for the completely unearned hand you have been dealt, I would respect you so much more.
Pretty Girls, fuck you.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
8 comments:
I have just decided to avoid the "pretty girls" altogether. It is just easier that way. Mostly because they don't get it.
But on the flip side, I have this single friend who is driving me crazy. At Christmas, after spending the entire day telling me of how busy she is, how many people fail her all the time, how hard her life is ... etc ... when I got a word in edgewise about how things were for me (so busy I wasn't sleeping more than 4 hours, so demanding I couldn't breath, so lonely I wanted to cry) she told me in a knowing voice to make sure to "take time for you" as she left so I could make dinner for my family. Um, huh? I mean, I had just given her the ONLY 5 hours I had in the entire Christmas season to just make cookies by myself and enjoy a bit of peace and quiet and she tells me this ... without an offer of childcare, helping me to fold my laundry, wash the dishes of the cookies we'd just made "together" (actually, that was me making, her sitting at my counter, drinking my tea and sucking the life right out of me) or anything. Furious does not even cover how I felt.
I'm just exhausted of the people who have no idea how they bruise the people out of whom they siphon one-way friendship. (See my last blog post!) I know that I need to only give to people who will give something in return, or at least recognise that they take if they cannot.
#endrant
"Take time for you"?!?! Is she a moron? Does she think the only thing standing between you and some peace was all this free time that you simply were turning down? What does it take to say, "let's pick a night, I'll come over and hang with the ids, and you take yourself to a movie"? Or show up with a lasagna and some wine? Schedule a couple of facials? I know, people drive me nuts. You know what I love? When people let me help them, when they understand that leaning on each other is a gift of friendship. I'm sorry you were feeling so low; i wish I lived closer, and we could hand and gripe and you could teach me how to bake awesome aliens.
As for the PGs, I avoid them, too; I was reacting to an otherwise innocent exchange with a guy friend, who's started seeing this chick whose online portfolio is something that would make us both want to slap her, and he commented, "she doesn't seem to know she's attractive." Aaaaand BAM! I went into werewolf mode, all claws and teeth and snarling. I know the piece is crazy-angry, but it's the cleanest, most direct thing I've written in awhile, and it felt damn good.
I know the stress/insomnia/lonely/sad thing all too well, and I hope you aren't there now. Maybe I need to plan a small trip to Vancouver and we spend a weekend eating our faces off and talking smack. And I'll cook dinner. :-)
One of these years you will plan a trip to Vancouver, but I'm okay for now. A neighbour I don't know very well brought flowers today because she found out from Alec about my mom. Unbelievable timing, I tell you. I really needed a gesture like that from somebody, mostly because it is something I'd do (well, I would not do flowers probably, but I would do something thoughtful).
Anyway, that PG TOTALLY KNOWS SHE'S A BEAUT, and that is such hogwash. HOGWASH. I mean, GAH! I'm so bored with the all dolled up diet coke people who then coyly claim they know not. Whatever.
I'm not sure I was feeling low so much as just gobsmacked. Yes, tired, overwhelmed, overworked, whatever, that is the position a mom finds herself in, don't believe the feminist hogwash that suggests one shouldn't. Alec totally pitches in and I still find myself in it over my head sometimes, particularly in a year such as this, particularly in the weeks leading up to Christmas as it were. But I resent someone advising me after telling me how BUSY they are, how CRAZY their life is, etc etc etc. whilst sitting at my counter, consuming the little breathing room I should have had, barely enduring the interruptions from the children who were far more deserving of my attentions.
Your rant was/is a perfect bottle of wine + lasagna + bitchmoment, so thanks. And g'night.
May the bedbugs not bite.
Yowza! Can I do one for rich girls? Fucking rich girls.
Ha HA, you gals always make me feel better, and I really need to feel better these says. Lisa, please please please do one on the rich girls. The ones who think jeans marked down to $50 from $180 are such a deal. the ones who think volunteering with minorities makes them In Touch. Pleeeee-uz.
No, mine would be about the woman in the grocery store who shakes her head and tells me that I'm so lucky that I DON'T have a maid, because they just complicate the hell out of her life. And how it's awesome that I can't afford to put my daughter in dance classes (which she asks about daily) or my son in freaking anything (which is why he sinks when he tries to swim, can't kick a freaking ball and doesn't know the difference between a piano and a violin). It's so cool because these things are better learned from a parent anyway! Except Mommy's doing the freaking laundry, ironing, shopping, cleaning, ferrying to and fro school, etc and doesn't have fuck all for time to teach a kid how to swim. Also? No pool.
Confession: I have never paid less than $50 for a pair of jeans. Most of our clothes shopping is done at thrift stores, but I can't let go of my denim issues. Which is why I buy, like, a pair every four years. I'll be onto skinny jeans in about six years, long after they're out of style.
End rant.
Hey, everyone has their thing: I shop at thrift stores, too, and am all about making the score, but I spent $79 + tip to have my hair cut. CUT. I won't tell you how much when it's a cut and highlights. Let's just say I really love my stylist.
Don't you love it when people think your penury is quaint? Or that you're ability to deal means you're somehow a fundamentally different person, someone who really doesn't want nice things? Write that piece, Lisa. WRITE IT!
Write. that. piece.
I could have my own rant on rich girls (and boys) but I would give myself ulcers.
Post a Comment