Godammit, I’m Mad!

On one of the blogs I like to read for sheer masochistic mental anguish, the mostly male commenters are arguing about the nature of intelligence. They can’t agree what an “intellectual” is, but they know they don’t like it. They’re also going on about Blacks being “cunning” rather than intelligent.

I can’t imagine women having this sort of argument. It’s too silly on the one hand, and too racist on the other. Who gives a shit? Women know what intelligence is and they don’t pretend not to. No wonder men don’t want to talk to us; we can’t take this kind of pompous pissing contest seriously.

Elsewhere, the ever-delightful Mr. Duff, who likes to annoy my commenters, has called them “retards” and “nobodies” in a rant (about intellectuals) on his own blog. Retards, good. We’re Retards. But “nobodies?” What kind of an adult man wants to obsess over the definition of Intellectual and then call a group of people Nobodies?

Men! They are always so confused about what to take seriously. And yet, they buy Extenze. Have we all seen the commercials where a dazed looking woman promises that Extenze will make “that certain part of a man” bigger? The first time I saw it, I yelled “What, his ego?” Which I thought was a really good joke, even though my husband failed to crack a smile.

Now there’s a new Extenze commercial where a married couple sits together looking smug and self-congratulatory. The man says something like he thought is would be “fun” to be “bigger.” The woman agrees suggestively that it WAS “fun.”

Hahaha! What’s wrong with men, I mean people?? A bigger dick is not the answer. I almost hate to break the news, know what I mean? But while looking for Extenze, I just came upon a website called Penis Enlargement Planet. And it’s about penis enlargement. What a waste of a great domain name!

The sillyness of men can be mind-boggling or endearing, depending on the size of their penis. JUST KIDDING! It can also be really frustrating. Take this simple quiz:

Person A asks Person B why they are mad. Person B denies being mad. Person A asks again. Person B states angrily that they weren’t mad, but now they are.

Who is the man, Person A or Person B?

Arts & Letters led me to an essay titled “Are Men Boring?”, where I expected to find some breakthrough study that proved the obvious, beyond a doubt.

Instead, it was the usual anecdotal findings of irritated wives and girlfriends whose male companions had nothing to talk about. Not “nothing” exactly, just nothing that they cared to share in conversation with a woman. I did like this quote from neuropsychiatrist Louann Brizendine:

“Connecting through talking”, she wrote in her book The Female Brain (2006), “activates the pleasure centres in a girl’s brain. We’re not talking about a small amount of pleasure. This is huge. It’s a major dopamine and oxytocin rush, which is the biggest, fattest neurological reward you can get outside of an orgasm.”

Yes, Louann, DUH, we love to talk. We are starved for conversation if we live with men. We will make conversation with practically anyone after being home all week with kids who only know how to yell, “BUT WHY? JUST TELL ME WHY!” when you don’t cave in to some demand. We crave conversation so much that we’ll talk to anybody who’s wiling to venture an opinion or relate some experience, however mundane.

Are Men Boring? Is the Pope a former Nazi? Of course men are boring, because they talk only to achieve a goal. The process is just too girly for them and makes them uncomfortable. Sometimes you can put two obsessive men together and they’ll talk about drill bits or blues singers or even sports, but it’s not talk as females experience talking. It’s a dry exchange of information, or else a competition.

Lately, I see there’s a breed of men who talk endlessly about their game with women, but it has the same quality of men talking about business strategy, only more paranoid.

Men must know deep down how boring they are. And I guess they’re proud to be indifferent to conversation. They’re not pussies, dammit!

One thing men don’t like even more than talking is a woman with armpit hair. Every so often, I like to seperate the men from the boys by lifting up my arms. I’m not trying to be obnoxious! I’m just letting them know who they’re dealing with.

While I’ve been pondering the mutton-dressed-as-lamb issue (evoked by the sight of a 63 year old film director wearing silver lamé jeans,) fate led me to a blog where men were busy explaining why dewy young women are infinitely superior to women over thirty.

Ladies, prepare to give up any illusions of a post-sexist world.  There are men among us who truly believe in their tiny hearts that women are ruined for all intents and purposes once they’ve been soiled by education and experience. Not only ruined, but downright disgusting.

Ah well. Being Sister Wolf, I barged into their conversation and toyed with them. This brought about wounded cries of “Feminist! Angry Woman!” and all the usual charges meant to send women cringing back into their sewing circles.

Let me just say, I FUCKING LOVE MEN! I love them when they’re stupid insecure babies, and I love them when they’re nice grown-up men. I love them when they’re gay and I love them when they don’t even know they’re gay. I love them the most when they love women.

Back to the mutton/lamb thing: In preparing for my Golden Years, I’ve been asking friends for advice about the Cut-Off Date, as in when is it time to give up jeans and a t-shirt and settle into a more age-appropriate dress-code.  Everyone seems to think that one should keep on dressing the way one always dressed. I can’t agree, though. The silver jeans were just wrong for the nice woman who wore them, even though she was as cool as you could ask for, without being Patti Smith.

Patti is the supreme role model for maintaining your coolness and your dignity. But I plan to swap my jeans for long Victorian mourning dresses. I will wear my hair in a bun, and no one will dare bother me. Plus, I will learn to cackle.

Check out this beautiful dress below. This will be the foundation of my Look. Then, check out this whole online shop if you are still drawn to Goth finery. The bustle skirts and petticoats made me moan out loud…as only a woman over thirty can moan.