OK, before we get started, let’s tell a story about THE WORST 8 HOURS OF MY LIFE. Ready?
So I went to work yesterday, and that sucked, but whatever, I need the money, as I am a very poor person and all, and so I got to the parking lot at work. And I had some time to kill because I thought, ZOMG I have to leave the house on BLACK FRIDAY DUN DUN DUNNNNNN so I left hella early (like that? I’m totally hep, yo) and then there wasn’t any traffic so I got to work half an hour early. So, when I have half an hour to kill, I inundate the people I love with tweets and emails and texts. I mean, as you do. THAT’S HOW THEY KNOW YOU LOVE THEM IT’S NOT AT ALL ANNOYING. But! When I pulled my phone out of my bag! NO Gs. Usually, I have three Gs! No. No Gs! So usually that’s fixable by turning the phone on and off and also glaring at it because I’m totally the scariest but THAT DIDN’T WORK YOU GUYS. AT ALL. All DAY. And there’s no internet at my second job.
Just take a minute and let this soak in. I WENT 8 HOURS WITHOUT INTERNET OR TEXTING CAPABILITIES.
Somehow, at lunch, two tweets snuck through the Iron Curtain of evil and I could SEE THEM, as TEXTS, but I could not RESPOND to them, and I could see that they were AWESOME, and I WANTED to respond, but COULD NOT. The dingoes totally ate my baby.
So as the day progressed I got scratchy and started seeing bugs climbing out of the walls, you know, like the addicts in the filmstrips they used to show us in health class, and then on the drive home the Gs returned. WHERE WERE YOU Gs. I don’t UNDERSTAND.
My father assures me that this was not some sort of conspiracy perpetrated by my employers to keep me from checking my phone by employing G-blocking technology even though they were TOTALLY digging a big hole by the building for no apparent reason the other day that I think probably could house some sort of cloaking device. And my dad is all about the conspiracy theories so if my DAD tells me I’m being cuckoo-bananas, then probably he’s right.
ANYWAY. I totally survived the DAY WITHOUT PHONE SERVICE. I’m pretty sure I deserve a medal. And NO, people who thought I hated them all day because I wasn’t responding to you, I don’t. Well, MOST of you, anyway. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
OK. Moving on! So, my wonderful friend @melme found this article yesterday on Alligator Sunglasses called 1938 Dating Guide for Single Women. It is full of very, very helpful advice. And photos! Of women being BAD DATES! And men SCOWLING AT THEM! I’d gank all the photos but that seems rude. I don’t want to get eaten by some alligator wearing sunglasses. So click. It will make your WEEK.
I’m totally ganking the advice, though. I’m not THAT scared of an alligator in sunglasses.
“Don’t sit in awkward positions, and never look bored, even if you are. Be alert, and if you must chew gum (not advised), do it silently, mouth closed.”
Um…what’s awkward? THIS IS UNHELPFUL. I win the gum thing, though. I have TMJ. If I chew gum, my jaw locks shut like a trap. IT IS HOT.
“Careless women never appeal to gentlemen.”
“Don’t use the car mirror to fix your make-up. Man needs it in driving, and it annoys him very much to have to turn around to see what’s behind him.”
This bugs the shit out of me. What kind of woman is all pulling the rearview mirror around to fix her lipstick while someone is DRIVING? I get pissed if someone ADJUSTS THE PASSENGER SEAT in my car. I’d probably lop their hand off with my ice scraper if they decided to rearrange my rearview mirror. That’s set just so. STOP TOUCHING IT.
“If you need a brassiere, wear one.”
“Don’t be familiar with your escort by caressing him in public.”
I’m pretty sure they don’t mind unless you’re all “snuggy wuggly cuddly cuddlums” or something annoying like that. It means you want to fuck them later. They like that, because it’s not always obvious to them that you want that unless you flat-out say “hey, I want to fuck you later.”
“Don’t be sentimental…men don’t like tears, especially in public places.”
I’m very weird about crying about sad things in front of people. I will seriously run a Chariots-of-Fire like SPRINT rather than let people see me have an actual sad emotion. However, that being said, Jesus, men in 1938 and I would NOT have gotten along. I have totally overactive tear ducts. I cry over EVERYTHING funny. Especially horrible things like people falling. Men in 1938 would NOT have wanted to see my brassiere at ALL.
“Don’t be familiar with the headwaiter, talking about the fun you had with someone else another time. Men deserve, desire your entire attention.”
Hee! Headwaiter! If someone brought me to a place with a headwaiter, I’d be more excited about the fancy salt and pepper shakers than chatting up the headwaiter, let me tell you. Also, “deserve, desire” my entire attention? They might desire it – and well they should, I’m amazing as shit, and when I’m into you, you feel like a million bucks – but they DESERVE nothing. Screw you, 1938.
“Please and flatter your date by talking about the things he wants to talk about.”
Oh, good. Can we talk about cars, please. And also maybe sports. And to top it off let’s talk about really cool things your friends said when you were hanging out the other night. HEADWAITER GET OVER HERE.
“Don’t drink too much, as a man expects you to keep your dignity all evening. Drinking may make some girls seem clever, but most get silly. The last straw is to pass out from too much liquor. Chances are your date will never call you again!”
If I went somewhere I was “expected” to keep my dignity, I’d be flat-on-my-ass drunk before the appetizer course was served. I’m really bad at living up to expectations. AND I AM TOTALLY ALWAYS CLEVER. “The last straw.” Hee! Well! Isn’t THAT knicker-twisty. Just think, this boring sap MIGHT NEVER CALL YOU AGAIN. OH THE HUMANITY.
I want to go back to 1938 and give this chick the following set of rules:
- This dude’s probably going to get drafted in 3 years. Don’t waste your good brassiere.
- Look bored now, so he can get used to it. Imagine the letdown when you start looking bored AFTER the wedding. Best to get it out there early on.
- Careless women totally appeal to gentlemen. Don’t be fooled. That’s why the words “shameless hussy” were strung together originally. Men LURVE a shameless hussy.
- If he won’t let you use his car mirrors to touch up your makeup (which, what the hell, you should know better, Grabby-Hands McGillicutty), either get your own goddamn car and drive YOURSELF to the date, pop a little compact mirror in your purse, OR DON’T WEAR SUCH HIGH-MAINTENANCE MAKEUP. I solved it.
- Wear a brassiere, don’t, I don’t give a shit. Those brassieres in the 30’s looked like total torture chambers anyway.
- If your guy doesn’t want to be caressed in public, even a little, maybe introduce him to your nice friend Steve the hairdresser. Then you’d have totally fabulous friends and be invited to the best parties.
- Why are you even CRYING in public? Go to the damn BATHROOM. Unless you’re crying because you’re laughing so hard because someone fell down and/or ripped the ass out of their pants. OBVIOUSLY that’s ok.
- If you need to slut it up with the headwaiter, be polite and go back at the end of his shift. That being said, NO ONE DESERVES YOUR ENTIRE ANYTHING.
- If you want to talk about the things your date wants to talk about, more power to you. If your eyes are glazing over from boredom, TELL HIM TO SHUT HIS EFFING CAKEHOLE AND IT’S TIME TO TALK ABOUT MUTUALLY PLEASING THINGS NOW. Ugh.
- And you know what? Yep. Drinking too much does make an asshat out of you. I’d like to go back and tell little college Amy this as she falls asleep on the bathroom floor because it’s closer to the toilet, you know, for the all-night vomiting. Mostly, though, it’s for your own damn protection, little 1938 lady. Hard to fight someone off when you can’t even stand on your own two feet without being all “the world! So SPINNY!”
Do we even HAVE dating rules now? There’s the milk and the cow thing that my mom still says (don’t get me started, I KNOW) and, like, the three-date rule or something (I was never very good at that, sorry, propriety) and probably don’t go on a date with someone who asks you if you’re cool with being stabbed to death HA HA JUST KIDDING GET IN MY WINDOWLESS VAN NOW. I need MODERN DATING RULES. I’m going to research this for tomorrow. Or how about you all comment or tweet me some, because that’s a hell of a lot easier than researching? DO MY BIDDING MINIONS.