Seems like men really like their women lukewarm, a bit drippy, and slightly quiet.
If you have read my blogs or you know me, you know damn well that I don’t fit those categories.And you know what, it’s a cold, lonely day’s night when you’re a woman with chutzpah. A bigmouth at times. Outspoken. Silly and irreverent. Honest. Perverted. Slightly anxious. Okay, so more than slightly.
Why do men want the wallflowers? Why must the Donna Reed’s, Donna Martin’s,Reese Witherspoon’s, and Kate Middleton’s get all the love?
Where is the respect and admiration for those of us who don’t care enough to pander to your low self-esteem and tiny penis problems and insecurities?
Where is the passion for the woman who makes the sex joke at the wrong time, and in the wrong place, with a total smile and good intention in her heart?
I used to impersonate Dr. Ruth as a kid. I dressed up as Pee Wee Herman. I can learn voices adeptly and within minutes. I don’t like the Bachelor, football, or Twilight. I don’t know how to bake well, and I cannot fix something to save my life. I will never wear clothes from LL Bean or Talbots. I am reluctantly facing the fact that I cannot wear combat boots and have pink hair anymore, lest I never get hired again.
I still love the Sex Pistols, and I like to comment on chick’s boobs.
I will probably never make your lunch (at least not daily), and I definitely won’t feel shy about telling your friends how you sometimes forget to flush the toilet. I will hold back on the important stuff though.
There isn’t enough love for the lady with a loudmouth, mainly because we don’t fit your picture of lady hood.
I’m not going to scratch my vagina in public, or walk around with my tits hanging out, but I will probably tell you my political opinions, although I won’t step on yours.
I may even read–gasp–large books that don’t involve S and M acts, or sparkly vampires. I prefer S and M mildly in reality, and my vampires more like Keifer Sutherland and the gang in the Lost Boys.
I will probably never totally understand football–I will get enough of it to understand what you are saying and to engage you enough because I care–but I will never truly give a shit.
I am just me. You men want me to keep quiet, be bland, and don’t be anxious.
Essentially, I am supposed to just divorce myself from my personality.
Look, there are days I wished I could be a bit more subdued. Days I wish I were more elegant like Hillary, and not as honest as Joan Rivers. There were many times I even tried to hold back, and to keep myself at bay, but it just doesn’t work.
The real me always comes out, and honestly, even if the menfolk don’t like their “women” loud and a bit neurotic, I can’t help it.
Sometimes I am quiet–particularly if I feel uncomfortable. I have been around certain people who silence me out of fear, or anxiety, but in general, I find being quiet dull. I always have something to say. Maybe it’s not always that wonderful or poignant, but it’s me.
If you don’t like it, you can kindly go jerk off your minuscule excuse for a pee-pee in a cellar with a big obese woman with a mustache, chin hair, and belly button lint who likes singing off key Bette Midler’s “The Rose” in Yiddish or German.
Or,ahem, you can kindly look the other way.
Ah, it was so much better the first way I said it…