I Heart Assholes (No More)

If you know me, you know I harbor a shameful love of romantic comedies. 

Oh, Kate Hudson... You make me believe love is for real
and always starts with a dare (or bet, or article assignment).

When I think about this shameful love (in times where I am painfully aware of my sad, sad life) I realize it's because romantic comedies are often simple to figure out. 

We (and by we I mean anyone who's seen at least two of these) all know who the protagonist is going to end up with (spoiler alert: It's usually someone she hates at first sight). 

If this were true, I'd end up with one of the many douchebags I know. 

... And I'm not in the mood to deal with that kind of shit. 

However, we all love our Mr. Darcys (thanks, Ms. Austen) and even our Mr. Rochesters (oh, Charlotte Brontë). These two characters, in particular, have created my love for arrogant, self-absorbed, assholes with a seemingly soft spot.

Enter a parade of all the boys I've liked and dated.

Sure, they all had their redeeming qualities, but if they were right, wouldn't have they lasted, or is it that I'm just not leading lady material?

From today on, I hope to stop living like my life is a romantic comedy and being surprised when the assholes in my life don't suddenly convert to the perfect boyfriend. The facade of the "changed man" lasts about three months (or less), in my experience.

When all is said and done, why don't they make more romantic comedies of what happens after the wedding? Or is that just reserved for a tear-jerker?

Ah, the questions of life. 

Call Me a Slut

Like many others reacting to Rush Limbaugh's smear campaign against Sandra Fluke's decision to present to the Democratic hearing about Obama's contraception policy, I am enraged (to say the least) at the thought that even today women are still being slammed for having a voice. Now, the fact is that this Limbaugh character seems to be the epitome of what is wrong with taking beliefs to their extreme (when they're no longer recognizable); it also reflects some things that are fundamentally wrong in our society:

• Instead of attacking ideas, we resort to attacking people. 
• We do not take into account our personal history before attacking others' personal lives.
• We believe our opinion to be fundamentally more important than anyone else's.  
• We do not think twice before calling a woman who is threatening a slut. 

How I see it, the most problematic aspect of Limbaugh's argument (attack, really) was his muddling of Fluke's argument in order to make it seem petty, and then demeaning her on a personal level by calling her a slut.

The derogation on basis of (hypothetical) sexual promiscuity as a reactionary response to a woman who clearly has a voice is a troubling move, but it is (to a point) an expected one. Our society values women as physical and reproductive beings, while wanting to negate any aspect that denotes the same sexual freedom men seem to enjoy. 

Sure, a woman can hold a job just like a man, is asked to set aside any plans to start a family because that would cause some logistical problems in the workplace if she wants to advance, but is denied the same sexual freedom men are freely given on the basis of their genitalia. Sure, men can have families and be successful in the workplace, but at what cost? Does that mean his partner stays at home and takes care of the children or does this mean that they have to hire someone to take care of the home?

More often than not, women are waiting longer to start families in favor of achieving career stability. I commend them for that. If that means that employers should include birth control as part of their health insurance, then so be it. In fact, that's not at all what Fluke's argument was; indeed, her argument listed other medical reasons for which women take birth control pills. The bottom line is that Fluke's argument was that birth control is not about promiscuity or sexual freedom (though, seriously, when all is said and done who cares? Viagra isn't prescribed for other reasons, yet health insurance covers it): it is about other medical reasons, such as regulating periods and so forth.

Yet, instead of attacking this argument, Limbaugh made the choice of calling Fluke a slut or a prostitute, even going insofar as extending his argument to: 

“A Georgetown coed told Nancy Pelosi’s hearing that the women in her law school program are having so much sex they’re going broke, so you and I should have to pay for their birth control. So what would you call that? I called it what it is. So, I’m offering a compromise today: I will buy all of the women at Georgetown University as much aspirin to put between their knees as they want.”

This, of course, misses the mark on every single point. Limbaugh distorts and further reduces Fluke's argument to one that teeter totters on the border between unbelievable and ridiculous. I can only insist that his attempts at paraphrasing are completely unreliable. 

Perhaps Mr. Limbaugh could benefit from a course of freshman composition, in which us instructors make sure that students understand how logical fallacies and wrongful paraphrasing detracts from a rhetor's ethos instead of adding on to it. Instead of attacking an idea, Limbaugh acknowledges the threat Fluke and other women may pose to his conservative views and calls her (and like-minded women, by extension) a slut.  

And you know what? I, for one, am not a stranger to being called a slut. In fact, my ex fiancé called me a stupid slut because I chose to kiss someone else some time after he broke off the engagement (via telephone, I might add). I resented the qualification of stupid he chose to bestow upon my sluttiness, but I could not be any prouder to be called a slut. 

I choose the direction of my life. I control my body. I decide whether I want to participate in sexual activity or not. I have a voice and an opinion. I understand that some people may want to muddle the truth with concocted lies and distorted realities. I chose to pursue my education and goals in life. I will not be silenced.

So yes, go ahead and call me a slut. 

Boobs Up to My Chin and Other Forms of False Advertising

A good pushup bra will get you places in life. If it doesn't, it at least lets your boobs get places (and by places I mean up to your collarbone, at least).

I'll never forget the day my affinity for push-up bras was discussed by my parents and my least favorite aunt on the way to a restaurant. This aunt of mine is the one whom I have whom I have the least amount of affection for, given as she's always stated that I'm never getting married or keeping a man because I'm too smart and don't keep my opinions to myself; if that's the case, I am shocked that she's divorced twice and hasn't had a long-lasting relationship for as long as I've been alive.

I was about nineteen at the time, and my mother was loudly complaining that I didn't appreciate the minimizer bras she had bought me because I favored bras with lining (or padding, as she referred to them).

Um, excuse me:

1.  There's nothing wrong with liking push-up bras, especially when your boobs are big enough to succumb to gravity. Damn gravity.
2. I. Don't. Like. Minimizers. They squish everything down and make me look more boxy than I already am.
3. It's not like I was a DD or anything. I was a perfectly acceptable C who was looking for a bit of lift, that's all. It's not like the so-called padding was designed to make my bust appear larger.
4. Speaking of which, I've never liked bras without lining. Possibly because I never want to be in a situation where people can see my nipples through my shirt. Just saying.

Anyhow, my aunt turned in horror towards me

Yep, that's about right.

and asked, "What will happen on your wedding night when your husband realizes that your boobs aren't as big as they seem?"

Ok, a few things:

A) Why does it have to be on our wedding night? Can he not see my breasts before? And does he have to be my husband?

B) Come the fuck ON. It's not like once they're in his hands or mouth he's going to be like, "Gross, they're not as big as I had estimated them being. Get dressed this instant and never show those hideous things to me ever again!" Dude, not even a gay man would say that about breasts (let's not get into my propensity to attract those type of males).

C) I'm not stuffing my bra for goodness sakes! It's just a pushup! It pushes my boobs UP to my chin!

D) Who the fuck cares if I wear pushup bras?

"Well, then, he can sue me for false advertisement," I replied.

My father's roaring laughter was the only addition to this conversation, though my mother and my aunt discussed the horrible nature of the false advertisement my boobs were conveying to the world.

Jesus Christ!

As a single lady (this inevitably brings Beyonce's song into my head), I've come to realize that false advertising isn't just in the form of makeup and pushup bras. Sure, some of us ladies use torture devices (i.e. Spanx and wire bras) in order to look our "best," but guys are oftentimes guilty of the worst kind of advertisement: they tell us everything we want to hear (or leave us to fill in the blanks for them) and then don't deliver.

Some of these guys, like Mr. Hot and Cold, knowingly use girls to fill the void of loneliness but aren't interested in "settling" down in any way, shape or form. The problem with this is that you can't tell by looking at most of them. They all look slightly geeky and perfectly nice (which is a problem for me because I just love the geeks), like someone your parents would approve.

Other ones, like church boyfriend, look like they're going to be the biggest douches in the world, talk like the biggest douches in the world, but end up being the nicest human beings possible once they think no one's looking.

Admittedly, one false advertisement is superior to the other, but does that mean that I should be on the lookout for sheep in wolves' clothing from now on?  I mean, what happens if it's just a wolf?

In the larger scheme of things, pushup bras aren't that bad, now are they?

Well, mother, I could do a lot worse than a
push up bra!

Your Labia is Showing

Going to graduate school is a tough choice. I mean, you basically come to school, promise to renounce any semblance of a life, read until your eyes want to shrivel up and die, speak about things during class you can't speak with "normal" people because they would look at you like you're fucking nuts (and perhaps you truly are insane), and in the process meet the biggest nerds you will ever meet in your life. 

Seriously, when you think about it, graduate degrees are for people who wake up one day and think, "Oh, I miss school so damn much I'm going to go back and ostracize myself from society willingly."

Well, that and we have a crappy economy. 

Graduate school seemed to me like the perfect choice, but after a broken engagement and dissolved plans, I started to wonder what the hell was wrong with me. In this process of discovery I realized I needed to start going out more, something that I didn't even do during my undergrad years (On a side note: my parents are thrilled I'm finally having the real college experience). 

Here's the thing about going to bars where I live: Most of these girls have used too bleach on their obviously non-blonde hair and most of them seem to have forgotten their pants. Or half their dresses. Some of them, it seems have been mugged and have holes in their dresses where there really shouldn't be any. 

I want to go up to them and be like, "Oh, honey, your labia is showing."

I blame this on Lady Gaga, I really do:

Where are your pants? Were you mugged? Have you notified the authorities?

And what in the name of all that is holy is up with your hair?

I guess I'm old-fashioned that way because when I told church boyfriend* 

*Church Boyfriend (noun): guy friend who frequently accompanies me to church, talks about inappropriate things -such as sexual exploits- during mass, holds doors for old ladies, is constantly checking out every female in discernible distance, constantly sexually harasses me verbally, and insists I'm like a sister to him -I know, I'm rolling my eyes too at that one. 

about this very wave of absentmindedness that led girls to leave their pants home he said, "They know what's up" in that very The Jersey Shore kind of talk he mistakes for charm. For someone who claims to have never seen The Jersey Shore, church boyfriend does a pretty good job of displaying all the characteristics that the guys from the supposed show MTV pushes down our throats and some of us watch because we're too lazy to change the channel (and become too intrigued with the inner workings of that pouf of hair we call Snooki). 

However, church boyfriend was not as enthusiastic about this wardrobe choice when I stated my desire to start leaving my pants home in order to understand the appeal of the fad. This led to a discussion on why it was okay for other girls to forget their pants, but not me... Or his future wife for that matter (who he has yet to meet because his standards for women are ridiculously high for someone who is such a man whore and dresses like he got rejected from The Jersey Shore but is still auditioning). 

Speaking of wives, the lovely Michelle Duggar (who just recently miscarried what would have been her twentieth child) has some tips for us women to have better marriages or understand our role in marriage:

- A Husband Needs A Wife Who Accepts Him As A Leader And Believes In His God-Given Responsibilities: Husbands are commanded to govern their wives; God works through a man’s decisions — good or bad; Bad decisions reveal his needs and allow the wife to appeal and demonstrate Godly character; The more a wife trusts her husband, the more careful he will be in giving her direction; Never ask others for counsel without your husband’s approval; reassure your husband that you understand and believe that he is your God-given leader.

- A Husband Needs A Wife Who Will Continue To Develop Inward And Outward Beauty: How can you become more of the wife of your husband’s dreams?; discover and conform to your husband’s real wishes; explain your hairstyle to others on the basis of your submission to your authority; separate your 'rights' from your responsibilities.

- Ask Your Husband To Define Your Responsibilities: Ask your husband to tell you when you have a resistant spirit; dispel a backbiting tongue by silence.

Source: Perezitos

Wow, just wow. I now understand that why my relationship with my ex-fiancé didn't work! I obviously didn't accept him as my God-Given Leader and didn't ask him how to do my hair! Phew, what a relief! She's just saved me thousands of dollars in therapy and has given me the tools to prepare myself for my next relationship by being submissive and trusting his judgement above all others. I'm sure that'll work out perfectly.

I just have a question, though... Until then, how will I know how to do my hair?

Mouth Raping

"What did you think about that?" hipster wanna-be asked on our hiking date.

Here's a list of the things that question was not intended for:

1. The view, however lovely it was.
2. Thursday's night's episode of The Daily Show or The Colbert Report.
3. How some graduate students/hipsters frown upon popular culture.
4. President Obama's presidential address. 
5. The current state of unemployment in the US.
6. The role celebrity gossip plays in society.
7. If female comedy is, indeed, shifting to become less of a gender cutesy thing and more of an honest thing.
8. For the love of God, any book I may have read in the past seventeen years. I mean any. 

I know what I think about any of those topics. In fact, I don't have any hesitation in answering truthfully about any of those topics (and quite a few others). 

However, since my life just needs to be awfully interesting and traumatic, this question was geared towards the kiss he had just planted with absolutely no warning on my lips. Inner voice A screamed, while inner voice B tried to soothe her with rationality, while I... Well, I just wasn't too present in my body --and not in a good way. To say that this was my kissing rock bottom would be an understatement. 

In all honesty, this was not the first time he'd planted one on me. The first kiss had happened a few nights prior to the hiking date. We'd had our "first" date at a coffee shop after I'd gotten out of a grueling day. I'd used magical thinking to somehow convince myself that kissing him was not the worst kiss of my life, it was second to last, and it was not as bad as it seemed because I was so tired. I managed to think that this was part of giving people chances. Perhaps, I thought, perhaps it'll get better with time. I thought wrong. Damn that magical thinking.

So there I was, sitting on a rock in the middle of a hiking trail, faced with the dilemma of answering a question I had no intention of answering. Ever. I mean, how do you reply to that sort of question after you used magical thinking to convince yourself to give him a chance and therefore got mouth raped in return? I mean, kudos to him for wanting a feedback on his technique, but was this an appropriate time for honest feedback? It wasn't like I could hide my answers in some anonymous suggestion box. This was reality. 

In this reality, I was hiking with him all by my lonesome (and my two inner voices, of course). The fact that I'd been joking with some of my friends as to what they should inform the authorities should I disappear and my deceased body would be mauled by mountain lions (I watch too much Bones, for sure), only being identified by my dental records did not help in my abilities to answer the aforementioned question.  

I could only scratch my head and muster an "Ummm..."

Then it dawned on me... On the way to hiking, while we were driving on the dirt road to get to the hiking grounds, I had jokingly texted one of my best friends:

How evil would it be for me to tell him that I'm emotionally unavailable?

I quickly decided that the text message joke needed to manifest itself into reality. Now, if you know anything about how lying works, you know that you need to provide evidence to back up your lie. I mean, who's going to buy an argument without evidence, right? As a composition instructor, it is my duty to abide by the same concepts I instill into my students.

The question wasn't that I needed evidence to back up my "emotionally unavailable" claim, it was what kind of evidence would convince my audience. Needless to say, time wasn't on my side. There was only so much I could stretch the "Ummm..." until it started sounding like a meditation mantra or something.

I had to think on my feet. I mean, ass. I was sitting down, after all. 

"Ummmmmmmmmmmmm..." 

I stretched it out as much as I could and then proceeded with what any good liar, or anyone who lives with a really good liar can tell you, knows. A lie has to be laced with some kind of truth to throw people off. I'm not proud of what I did, but I proceeded to verbally vomit the best half truth I could under the time constraints available, and also when you take into account the fact that I'd just been attacked by an unwanted mouth. 

"You know, I'm not ready for a relationship. I'm emotionally unavailable because I'm still in a weird place with my ex-fiancé. I think I'm still in love with him, and on top of that I have feelings for someone I really shouldn't have. I don't need any more complications, you know?"

I knew I was laying it thick, but I knew that guys didn't like girls with many complications, so I just, well, complicated the truth a little bit more than necessary.

I thought it'd worked. I thought I was free. Until he said that it was ok, he wasn't looking for a relationship.

Are you for freaking real? Wasn't he the one asking you what you were looking for in a relationship a week and a half after meeting you? Also, wasn't he the one that was asking you about your desire of having children the second he met you? He was playing it up like he was interviewing you for being his girlfriend. Not a part time one at that!, inner voice A --the same one who had been screaming bloody murder during the entire mouth raping-- demanded. 

Ok, let's stay calm. Don't make any sudden movements. This is survival. We don't want to end up in the mountain lion scenario, inner voice B replied.

I sucked it up, went about the hike trying to convince him of my complicated situation. I'm pretty sure I contradicted my story ten thousand times in doing so, but who's counting?

It's not working. It's not fucking working. Let me come out. Please. Let me. You know you want me to. I'm the asshole we all know you can become. Desperate times call for desperate measures, my friend, inner voice A pleaded.

I don't know about that. What do you think inner voice B? I asked.

Just let her out. I can't stand him any longer. I know I'm supposed to be the voice of reason, but let her out. She knows how to handle this shit, inner voice B replied.

I let her out and I became the asshole we (me, inner voice A, inner voice B and my friends) know I can surely be. 

There was no defeating his can-do attitude, as "aggravating" was as far as my asshole persona got as a qualifier after she came out to play.

Well, at least I tried. I also got us out of doing another trail. He seemed pretty insistent of that, inner voice A said consolingly as I buckled my seatbelt to make our way back.

I tried wincing and covering my ears for most of it. You were awful, in the best way possible. Now we're on our way back and that's what matters, inner voice B replied. 

Let's just pretend this never happened. How about that? I said to both my inner voices.

Deal, they said in unison as hipster wanna-be drove a bit too quickly for our liking on the dirt road.

Um, you guys, I started addressing both of my personas when it happened.

And by it, I mean the car swerved from the high speed on a dirt road, did a 145 degree turn, the front bumper of the car hit the dirt piled up for this same purpose on either side of the road, as the car teeter tottered until it almost flipped over. 

I don't know if it was that inner voice A and B were completely silent in this moment, or that we all came together as a calm unit as I steadied myself so I would't bounce around like I was the ball in the bad dates of pinball machines, but all I could hear in my head was a calm, yet tired voice intoning (in her best Daria impersonation, no less), Oh, shit. Not today. Not with him. I've got things to do.

It should come as no surprise, then, than when he asked if he could get another kiss as he dropped me off at my place, he was met with a resounding no that my inner voices A and B approved of (they're almost never on the same page), and I proceeded to slam the poor car's door --really, it wasn't the car's fault that its owner is a complete social moron-- and shielded myself in the comforts of my place, where mouth raping is a distant, if not unnecessary, memory. 

About Penis Persuasion and Magical Thinking

As many of my stories seem to start, I met a guy a few weeks ago. On paper, this hipster wanna-be seemed to be ok. We're not talking Prince Charming material here, but bearable. 

Some point after our meeting, I believed him to be of the penis persuasion. I know, I know, how dare I? Yet, when Facebook tells me that he's interested in Men, there's only so many conclusions I can come up with, you know?

I found myself feeling relaxed about the whole situation, though some times I just wanted him to STFU, because in my mind he was of the same persuasion I was -the penis one. 

That was until he asked me out. No rodeo, no bullshit. Though I found him highly annoying, I found this refreshing. So I accepted the following:

1. Facebook must be wrong about his penis persuading ways.
2. The date.
3. It couldn't hurt because how often do we give people chances? Not enough. 

That's when I got this nagging feeling there was something wrong with me. I didn't feel excited about the hiking date, even though it was something that I'd been looking forward to ever since I moved here for graduate school. 

In fact, I dreaded the experience for days on end.

It didn't matter that this guy seemed to be very into me and that he would be in contact with me every single day, not obscuring his motives. In my mind, that just made him more annoying and more repulsive.

Infinitively less repulsive to my mind was the other guy, hot-and-cold. He also didn't have the cuttings to be Prince Charming, but had somehow snuck into the place I thought no one was ever allowed again. Perhaps it was the intricacies of what we were and weren't, and the games that we both played with delayed words and prolonged absences that made it scintillating. The more the hipster wanna-be persisted, the more I wanted hot-and-cold to be the one initiating contact and being persistent. 

I started wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Here I was, single and willing to put up with the emotional toying of a man who should know better, all the while ignoring the advances of someone who was clearly interested. 

This line of thinking is a dangerous one. I should've known better because this line of thinking leads to my using my magical thinking.  Using such thinking, I convinced myself that hipster wanna-be deserved a chance, after all, even if I wanted to slap him every time he was unrealistically mellow and optimistic.

I should've stepped away from magical thinking, I should've known my mind is capable of convincing itself of things that it has no business convincing itself of.

I'm a Stupid Slut, Thanks for Noticing: A Hypothetical Reply

Dearest ex-fiancé,


I would like to begin this message by stating the obvious: of course you weren't being a jerk in your latest e-mail. Your desire of being honest was completely translated into pure and simple honesty as I read through your delightful coloration of my character. I was stumped by the message following its release that wanted to make sure that I understood you were just trying to be honest, and not a jerk. It's like you think I have feelings or something. God, who do you think I am? I know you better than any of your friends after six years of relationship; of course I won't take it personally when you call me a stupid slut! 


In fact, you're completely and utterly right in calling me a stupid slut because I kissed another guy after you broke up with me. Upon further examination, I've concluded that I've been a stupid slut even before the breakup happened:

• Had I been a smart slut, I would have been kissing other guys (and Lord knows what else!) even before the breakup. This long-distance thing would have diminished the chances of you ever finding out, especially because, you know, you never once made an effort to visit me while we were together. I should've also kissed other guys within hours after the breakup. Lord knows I could've found some.   
• A smart slut would have immediately taken upon herself to sell all the valuables and ask for more while you were in the process of groveling and willing to do anything to get me back.
• While we're on the subject of groveling, a smart slut wouldn't have turned down your advances while you were trying to make things work. A smart slut would've relished in the fact that if he succeeded in getting her into bed he wouldn't have gotten over it quickly and would have spent a hell of a lot more money in trying to win her back with gifts.
• A smart slut would've already acted upon and not refused the five sexual advances of eligible men instead of just keeping it PG.
• A smart slut would have looked at you in your weakest, most vulnerable state and would have spat at you, kicked you, and twisted the knife so hard that you would've felt you were dying instead of being nurturing, kind and understanding. Too bad I wasn't a smart slut, huh?

Taking these points into consideration, I think you did the right thing with both breaking off the engagement and pointing out my awful flaws via electronic text after I swallowed my pride and called you. Lord knows no one wants to be married to a stupid slut. You know, you've inspired me to become a smart slut. From now on, I'll stop acting like a stupid slut and start acting like an educated one. Maybe, just maybe I can catch myself a husband that way (because that should be my life goal from now on). 


In all honesty, honey, I completely agree with all the points you made in your e-mail, one of them being that you considered yourself a great boyfriend to and the fact that I had become a mainstream girl. Of course you were a great boyfriend and I've become one of those mainstream girls. Let's start with my singing you praises of how great of a boyfriend you were ... until you dumped me out of the blue, that is.


Regarding my becoming a mainstream girl, you're right, I've yielded to the societal pressures that allow me to love all things pink, makeup, high heels, dresses, skirts, and romance novels. Again, I'm so sorry you had to put up with someone who did things for herself and no one else, who wore makeup because it suited her and who was motivated enough to keep up with her education. I'm also sorry that I expressed my thoughts too much and without censorship. What a nuisance I must have been! You're right, I'm mainstream. I should look into becoming a hipster. Because that's clearly less annoying than staying true to who I've become. 


I can also see how my drooling over celebrity crushes only constitutes another reason for calling me a stupid slut. I was just settling for you and wishing I were with them instead (you know, because that's always been an option for me, as I've got contacts in Hollywood). I'm sure it would be perfectly more acceptable to be more like you, who didn't have celebrity crushes because you preferred your crushes to be of the real person variety, as they were accessible. I will keep this in mind for my future relationships; I'll make sure my eventual husband thanks you profusely for this little tidbit of advice. 


And don't worry, sweetheart, I could never hate you. You were just trying to be honest, for Christ's sake! How could I hate someone who obviously has my and my future husband's best interests in mind? I don't know if I've met him yet, but your pointers are clearly the direction I so needed to get (the fuck) over you and move into a direction that allows me to be eligible once again (because I clearly haven't been eligible all along). With all your pointers about how I could change into becoming the perfect woman, I'll be sure to be a smart slut, less mainstream, and fantasize about real-life accessible human beings when I'm in a relationship with someone. What a lucky fellow he'll be!


Forever yours,


The Educated Slut