Why It's Okay to Look: The Illiterate Sports Fan

I've lived in the Boston area for just over a decade now, and the number of men I have met who could be serious contenders for a relationship has not exceeded the number of fingers I have, excluding thumbs. It's getting to the point where I am thinking that maybe New England is not the place for a native southern California girl to find...well, love OR lust. It's time to start documenting my search for the "L" words (both of them) for the giggles and groans of not only my readers, but for posterity as well.

The picture above is real. Not doctored. Not Photoshopped. Not created by me for a laugh. Real. Real disturbing. Being a fan is one thing, and being a fanatical fan is pretty work-a-day around these parts. Trust me: this guy's friends probably think this tat is wicked cool. And they should know, because they (his friends Sully, Neil, and O'Douls) are the bosses of what is wicked cool because they are wicked smaht. They'll admit they're not Roads Scholars, but they didn't even know about scholarships for roads or they would've applied. Anyway, this dude is smart, too, and if you don't believe it, just check out his ad (copied and pasted without revision, I swear):

Hey ladies listen I am a loyal Guy trustworthy sweet Italian I have an edge tho LOL I'm not desperate just trying to change the scene I like live. Musick the Boston night live funny! Movies I'm not into drama or b.s so if u want to know more shoot me an email with pics I have pics to trade I just gave u a taste I'm 5.9 and 200 lbs green eyes well hmu if u Wana know more I don't open spam email s so title the email not spam hope to hear from u all

The number of things to make fun of here is so numerous that I think you'll have more fun finding them on your own than having me point them out one by one.

Thank you, "30 attractive italian northshore." Thank you for making the terrible student essays I grade seem suddenly unterrible. Thank you for helping me believe my mom who tells me that I'm just too cute and smart for the guys out there. Thank you for making me listen to my friends who always say that it's not me, it's you--the men, er, boys--and that I really AM attractive and funny and smart and that the supply of quality guys around here just can't keep up with the demand. I always think they are just being nice and that if I believe them it will be a surrender to the single girl Kool-Aid. Well, I surrender. Pour me another glass.

Match.com Is Right: Why It's Okay to Look (Even If You're Not Looking)

Online dating is terrible. And great. And fun. And frustrating. But those same words describe dating in general. People complain about dating after divorce, or dating after 40, but from what I can tell, dating at any age is a test of one's endurance and sense of humor. Take a snapshot of a website's collection of profiles at any given moment, or trap everyone in a bar on a Saturday night, and you're going to see the same characters. Single people come in all flavors across all spectrums: they are hopeful and jaded, horny and uptight, desperate and cavalier, cocky and insecure, honest and deceptive. They're people. People who need people.

As one of those single people, I admit to being home alone on more weekend evenings than I want to be. Some of my married readers may be jealous, and I can understand why: a Friday night can be lonely, but also self-indulgent. Last night, for example, I did what I wanted: I watched “Sex In the City” and “What Not to Wear” and other chick stuff, flipping channels with the remote as often as I wanted; I ate a healthy salad and diet soda, followed by two bowls of ice cream, approximately (ahem!) number of cookies, and three glasses of wine; I wore my pajamas over comfortable cotton underwear and unshaved legs; I read online personal ads.

So, at this point, I have to admit that I read them all: m4m, w4w, m4w, w4m, and all kinds of other categories I am discovering with each visit to a new site (did you even know there is such a thing as mm4tw???). I should probably be embarrassed to admit that I read this crap. And make no mistake: it IS crap. But sometimes it is hilarious crap. And if I were too embarrassed to admit that I read it, I wouldn't be able to share it with my readers, who by now must know that I am all about sharing and caring, even if it makes me look a lot less cool than the persona I was hoping to establish.

Anyway, the point is that last night I saw a headline that gave me hope for all the single ladies, all the single ladies (whoa-oh-oh).

The headline said it all. It said This Man is Funny. Honest. Vulnerable. Sensual. Expressive. Enthusiastic. It said This Man Knows What He Wants. And surprisingly, What He Wants is NOT a teeny, tiny, prepubescent, stick-thin, wanna-be model-waif chick who is devoid of curves but compensates with a push-up bra. This Man? For many women, This Man is a beacon of hope. For others perhaps, This Man is a crude, sophomoric neanderthal. And for me?

For me, This Man represents a happy future, but not one related to sex or love. For me, This Man represents financial independence. Why? Because while he is trolling online for BBWs, I am going to take his headline, copyright it, trademark it, stylize it, and slap it on tee-shirts, sweatshirts, baseball caps, bumper stickers, and all manner of dollar store goodies. I will be rich because of This Man and his headline. I don't want to date him, but still I see a bright future because of him. And so, without further ado (and at the very real risk of having someone steal my great idea and make MY million dollars off it), I present to you the headline worthy of an entire blog post and the foundation for my future Fortune 500 company:

I Heart Big Giant Boobies!!!

(Yeah, he included all those exclamation points, too. Thank God for This Man and his unfettered exuberance. This Man is my muse. Hey, and if you see my merchandise in the future, mention this blog post and get 10% off your purchase. Such a deal.)

Pillow Talk

I can't sleep.
Mmm?
I said I can't sleep.
Sorry, baby.
Don't be sorry. Just keep me company.
I am. I'm right here.
Yeah, but you're sleeping. Wake up and keep me company.
I am awake.
No, you're not awake.
I'm talking, aren't I?
Yes. But you could be sleep-talking.
I'm not sleep-talking.
Okay. I just can't stop thinking about today and how—hey, are you listening?
Mmm-hmm.
Really? Then what did I just say?
You think I'm sleep-talking.
After that.
After what?
Never mind.
Okay.
Okay? Okay? I said I can't sleep and that I wanted you to keep me company and you said you would and now you're sleeping and when I said never mind you said okay. You're so mean.
Alright, baby, I'm up, I'm up. What's on your mind? I'm ready to listen.
Forget it. I'm too tired to talk now. And besides, now I feel guilty for waking you up.
But now I really AM up. Look, I'm sitting up, my eyes are open, I turned on the lamp. I'm listening.
It's just that earlier today those kids at the mall were looking at me and laughing. I know I'm not as young as I used to be, but am I that hideous? I mean, I've put on a few pounds, sure, but...
Baby, don't you worry about that.
...and we're not having sex as much as we used to.
That happens with kids.
I know. Still, I worry that maybe you just don't find me attractive anymore.
Oh stop. Of course I find you attractive.
Really?
Yes, really. And I love you. Even though you worry too much. And even though you're too sensitive.
You're right. I am too sensitive.
It's okay. It's kind of endearing. Even cute sometimes.
Thanks. That's exactly what I needed to hear. Can we cuddle? I think I can fall asleep now.
Of course we can cuddle, baby. Anything for my husband. Good night.

Geesh. Ain't that JUST like a man?

After the First Date: Text for Success

So, guys, you finally got that girl to go out with you. Mazel tov. And the dinner went great. And you were on your game. And she seemed into you. And there was a hug, or kiss on the cheek, or even on the lips. All in all, a great first date. You want a second one? Well, there's a lot of advice out there about how to make sure you make that happen. If you were smart, you lined it up before you let her go, but that's still no guarantee. You need to nurture this tender, new relationship...and let's be honest: if it was a good date, there's nowhere to go from here but down. So you don't want to screw this up.

What To Do and When

Make a lasting impression. Make sure she thinks about you all week. Set yourself apart as an original. Be sincere. Be unique. Be bold.

Text her before you even start driving home. In fact, text her WHILE you're driving home (Who cares if it's against the law? What's a moving violation in the face of love?). And text her a LOT. Not just one message. Aim for at least half a dozen that first night. And keep it going all week.

What NOT to Text

You don't want to be trite. Or weak. Or mealy-mouthed. So, don't use lines that she's heard over and over again from all the other guys. Avoid standard lines like these:

* Text me when you get home so I know you made it there safely!
* The food was good but the company was better. Thanks for a great evening.
* I'm still laughing about that funny story you told. Can't wait to hear more soon.
* That was the best first date ever. I say we go for the best SECOND date ever.
* I can't stop thinking about that kiss. You are so great. I'll call you soon.

YAAAWWWN! No, no, no. Do NOT say any of those things. She's heard all these lines before and she didn't end up with any of the pea-brains who said them. Here's your chance to pull away from the pack.

What You SHOULD Text

Think bold, original, specific. Something that lets her know you were paying attention to the details of the evening. Something that tells her you are a man with your own mind. Something along these lines:

* I paid for dinner and didn't get any action. You can make it up to me though. Let's say on Friday you pay AND put out.
* Sorry I was such a klutz tonight, but I only dropped my napkin so often so I could look down your blouse when you bent over to get it. I totally saw your bra.
* I just realized that you said it “supposably” which makes you sound ignorant. Good thing you're so smokin' hot.
* Hey, I wanted to tell you this in person but was too scared: you've had a piece of spinach stuck in your teeth all night.
* Your face and body are burned in my mind...and I will use them to pleasure myself when I get home.
* I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight. I love you. If you don't text me back and say you love me too, I have a bottle of sleeping pills and a bottle of Jack and I'm not afraid to use them.

Get the gist? Leave her wanting more. Leave her wondering if you'll still be alive next Friday. Leave her knowing that you definitely want to hit that if you ARE still around next Friday. Leave her knowing that you'll be thinking of her a LOT, especially in bed and in the shower. Leave her knowing that you'll probably never leave her alone and that she will one day have to file a restraining order. After being disappointed by so many other men who wouldn't commit, didn't stay interested, couldn't say the “L” word (let alone the “M” word), and let their eyes wander to everything in a skirt during dates, women will find your relentless obsessiveness refreshing and comforting. In no time, you two little lovebirds will be on your way to a mutually satisfying codependent relationship. You're welcome.

New Year's Rabbit Reconstitutions

All new year's resolutions fail. It's a scientific fact. Show me someone who is actually keeping a a resolution afloat mid-February, and I will produce the Loch Ness Monster. In fact, show me someone who makes a resolution and keeps it through the end of the year and I'll throw in Big Foot, Elvis, and indisputable evidence that Joan Rivers is precisely 114 years old and has never had a bit of plastic surgery in her life.

Failure simply cannot be an option in 2011. That is why this year I am abandoning new year's resolutions. Rather than resolve to do something new, I am simply going to commit to those things I am already doing with at least some success. I am leaving behind the ideal and grabbing hold of the REAL.

Ideal: I resolve to be more charitable with my time, money, and emotions.
The Real: I will continue to abstain from punching anyone in the face, no matter how much he or she deserves it.

Ideal: I will exercise at a brisk pace for 30 minutes at least three times a week.
The Real: I will continue to walk my dog so he can pee, and even run a little when it is butt-cold outside.

Ideal: I will eat more whole grains, steamed veggies, and drink 8 glasses of water a day.
The Real: I will continue to eat chocolate on a daily basis, preferably more of the good stuff.

Ideal: I will lose the same 12 pounds I have been complaining about for a decade.
The Real: I will not gain weight. At least not enough to require buying bigger pants.

Ideal: I will get 8 hours of sleep every night, preceded by meditation, journaling, and teeth flossing.
The Real: I will continue to fall asleep on the couch watching trash TV if I feel like it, sleep in on the weekends, and floss at least when a popcorn kernel gets stuck up in there.

Ideal: I will speak in a polite, professional, and ladylike manner at all times.
The Real: I will continue to swear when no other words will do, but restrain myself in front of children and the elderly. Well, in front of children anyway.

This year, 2011, is the Year of the Rabbit in the Chinese zodiac calendar. And rabbits are cautious. They look before leaping. They don't jump into diets and investments and relationships without using their little bunny brains. I feel confident that my list of New Years' Reconstitutions is doable. And that's all I'm really going for in 2011. I'm not saying we ought to settle for mediocrity or stop setting goals or refuse to challenge ourselves. But sometimes we need some small successes just to keep us going. And that's what 2011 is going to be about for me: small successes. It would be great to get out of bed an hour earlier every morning to do sit-ups and stretching and read some classic literature before work--that's the ideal. But you gotta know where you're at. For sometimes just getting out of bed and going to work is not only The Real, but a Real Success, too.

P.S. If you'd like to join me in a year of Real Successes, the official Year of the Rabbit doesn't start until February 3 this year, so you still have a whole month to modify your list and replace some of those idealistic resolutions with realistic reconsitutions.

In Bra We Trust

Every once in a great while, I come across a cause that I think really deserves attention. Recycling, dolphins, Frankenfish, back acne...these are covered by people with greater influence and personal interest than I can muster. But I can certainly get passionate about things. And you know what has me spitting nails right now? They discontinued my bra.

At this point, gentleman readers, you may want flip over to ESPN.com or go make yourself a sandwich. This here's Woman Talk.

Ladies, I'm sure we've all been here before. We spend hours in the department store, trying on bra after bra after bra. And because it's no longer the 70s and because we are no longer 19 and perky, we MUST buy SOMETHING. So, we pony up more than we should for a bra that gets the job done--barely. And we live with it. That is our lot in life.

But every so often, the heavens open, the stars align, our horoscope promises that we will find what we are seeking, and on that day, we find The Bra. You know the one. It is exactly the right color, and it feels good against the skin. It gives you lift and separation in a way you thought could only be bought from Dr. 90210. And, miraculously, it fits BOTH girls perfectly, in spite of the fact that they are clearly two completely different sizes.

You buy one in every color, go home, and for days afterward, see your tightest sweaters and skimpiest tank tops in a whole new way. You walk around the office feeling like a Victoria's Secret model, standing taller and straigher and with the confidence that comes from knowing You Are A Woman. Weeks, months go by, and you love your body again. And you wish you had found this sooner. You wish you'd known that all it took to look and feel this good is The Bra.

But then, one day, it happens.

You get up, get showered, get dressed. Huh. Something isn't right with The Bra. The elastic is loose, the girls are droopy, and you realize that it's time to make another trip to the lingerie section of Macy's and buy The Bra again. This will be a quick trip. You know your size, you know the brand, and you have your credit card in the holster. In and out, with time for a latte before you have to pick up the kids.

You march right up to the rack where you first discovered The Bra, but it isn't there. Did they move the racks around? No. Wait, did you find The Bra at Nordstrom? No. You were sure The Bra was made by Bali, but maybe it's by Playtex. Or Wacoal. Or Maidenform? No, no, no.

Oh...NO!

Because it just hit you. The Bra has been discontinued. Some stupid MAN (had to be a man) on the board of directors or in accounting or marketing has decided that The Bra is not bringing in an adequate return-on-investment and will therefore no longer be made. And when you call customer service to find out what they recommend you buy to replace The Bra, they give you three other model numbers, NONE of which is even remotely CLOSE to being The Bra. And you complain. And they don't care.

It's a tragedy, and it happens to women every day all around the world. And frankly, I wouldn't find it so irritating if retailers didn't continue to carry OTHER items for decades on end, often hideous, outrageously ugly and outdated items that have survived far past their fashion usefulness (banana clips for the hair, mom jeans, Christmas sweaters, turtlenecks with little flowers, anything Bedazzled or made of pleather...I could go on and on, but I won't). They don't seem to mind manufacturing and selling the same old unflattering outerwear, so why can't they keep making The Bra?

Ladies, I'm fed up, and I don't want to take it anymore, but I don't know what to do except cry, complain, and finish up the container of Chunky Monkey. What can one do? It's all been done before--PSAs, celebrity statements, sit-ins, rallies, bra burning....hmm. Maybe that's what made the bra makers so flippant about discontinuing designs in spite of who loves them. We burned bras in protest and in public. Obviously we didn't care about them THEN, so maybe they figure we don't care about them NOW.

Why, oh why, didn't we burn denim jumpers and Birkenstocks instead?

Let's Talk About Text, Baby: Gynonudomania

Gynonudomania. I'm not kidding. This is an actual word. Not yet accepted by the Oxford English Dictionary, it is, nevertheless, being used in some circles. At first, one may be overwhelmed by the seven syllables. But break it down the way our high school English teachers asked us to, and see what you can figure out. No need to brush up on your Latin and Greek roots. Trust me.

gyno: Um, something to do with chicks. Got it.
nudo: Sound it out. Sounds like "nude," right? Yep. Got it.
mania: Crazy obsession about something. Got it.

Got it? Gyno-nudo-mania. You're thinking something along the lines of "liking naked chicks." Well, not exactly. You're really only half-way there. It's not the nakedness so much as the method of getting her naked that puts gynonudomania into the category of fetishism. According to my sources (they are plentiful yet dubious), a person who is into gynonudomania is a person who derives sexual pleasure getting the chick naked by quite literally RIPPING her clothes off her body.

Got it. Gynonudomania. Ripping clothes off a woman, presumably (hopefully!) prior to consensual sex. Fine with me. Just warn me ahead of time so I can wear stuff already in the Goodwill bag. And if you do decide to go all gynonudomaniac on me without warning, you'd better be ultra-handy with a needle and thread or ready to hand over your Macy's card afterward. Probably both.

Upon Learning of My Replacement

Sophia will be taking my place. Sophia. A girl I hate. A girl with hips that are too wide and thighs that rub together when she walks. A girl with saggy breasts in need of a well-fitting bra. A girl who wears different shades of brown during the daytime because it is safe and wears all black at night because she heard somewhere that black is slimming. A girl whose muddy dishwater hair is too long for her age and too frizzy all the time, as if it is in the perpetual state of growing out a perm. A girl who wears the same outdated shade of lipstick every day, regardless of the season. A girl who owns only two pairs of high-heeled shoes. A girl who thinks that an inch-and-a-half qualifies a shoe as high-heeled. A girl whose foot-fat squeezes out over the top when she wears these heels on the rare special occasion. A girl who thinks a special occasion is dinner at Red Lobster. A girl who I would pass by on the street without noticing, or would notice only to comment on how sadly unnoticable she is. A girl HE noticed. A girl--no, THE girl--he picked instead of me.

He's not very tall, but I spotted him in the crowd right away. He wasn't alone. But where was my replacement? Where was the dowdy, frumpy, marble-mouthed, moon-faced girl I had already decided she was? Obviously this was the re-replacement. But then he said, "This is Sophia," and I am sure that my mouth dropped open with bottom lip hanging in quite unladylike fashion. "This is Sophia." Did he just say that? "This is Sophia." THIS this Sophia?

But this is no girl. Sophia is a woman. And she is stunning. And her breasts aren't saggy--they are annoyingly, perfectly perky. Her hair isn't mousy brown and frizzy--it's silky and smooth and golden and falls over her shoulders in big, full ringlets that probably smell like vanilla or jasmine or whatever that smell is that makes men lean over and kiss women without thinking or asking for permission. Her skin is flawless and glowing--not covered in the dull, acne-scarred pall I had decided on for her. She is not wearing safe brown or slimming black--her dress is red. Well, not red, but the color of perfectly cooked cranberries, and I decide now that cranberry is probably what her hair smells like, too. She is not fat, and in fact, not skinny either--her feminine curves seem sculpted in softness that even I want to touch. And her feet? Not the graceless, clumping sledgehammers I had hoped for. Instead, her feet are almost dainty and have been slid into delicate satin stilettos adorned with just-the-right-size rhinestone hearts.

"It's nice to meet you," she says, and my eyes jump to her perfect lips and perfect teeth--straight and white and smiling with genuine warmth. "I've heard so much about you," she practically sings, without the least bit of pretention, but I had already stopped listening. My eyes had already met his--no, had TRIED to meet his, but his eyes were already (or still?) on her, and I knew in an instant that he was hers and that he would never be mine, and worse, that the only person who had noticed or would ever care was me.

Don't Let Holiday Relacide Happen to You

[Note: I read somewhere that if you have a blog and you are single, separated, divorced, widowed, or part of the GLBT community, it's practically a law or something that you write a post on being alone during the holidays. In accordance with the aforementioned expectation, I give you the requisite it-sucks-being-alone-during-the-holidays-but-let's-pretend-it-doesn't post. Enjoy.]

Single and alone on Thanksgiving? Look on the bright side. Relative-on-relative homocide rates spike 293 percent on this holiday compared to other days of the year. Okay, I can't back that up with any actual data, but I do know I have personally had to channel the strength of Zeus in order not to shove the big turkey fork into the carotid artery of a particularly annoying relative over more than one holiday spread.

So, besides eliminating the inevitable desire to commit relacide, there are lots of other advantages to spending the holidays alone. And this isn't only for single people; you married folks with annoying parents and/or in-laws should feel free to use one of your sick days to call in and miss today's "festivities." Here's just a short list of things to be thankful for if you must (or choose to) spend today alone:

* If you're a chick, you don't have to listen to the endless droning of announcers and crowds as the relentless sounds of football waft through the air with the smell of burnt rolls.

* If you're a dude, you can have the football games on all day long without fighting for the remote, negotiating for time away from the Macy's Day Parade, leaning around well-meaning bearers of Doritos and pork rinds, or missing important game commentary because of the endless droning of Aunt May about your third cousin's newborn who has colic.

* You don't have to answer the question, "When are you going to get married?" or any of the other [frequently more annoying and distasteful] derivatives (e.g., "You DO like men/women, don't you?" or "Do you think it might be time to lower your standards a bit?" or "You do realize, I hope, that at your age, you are more likely to be killed in a terrorist attack/struck by lightning/attacked by a rabid hyena/commit relacide than get married?") .

* You can drink as much as you want without the fear of letting it slip that Cousin Pete is the ONLY person who doesn't think his toupee looks obviously like a toupee and that when he's not around you semi-affectionately refer to him as Squirrel Pelt Pete.

* You can eat as much as you want without apology, without wishing you'd worn looser pants, without the judging eyes of your grandmother who always said it's a good thing you're so smart because your sister/cousin/niece is "the pretty one." In fact, you can unbutton your pants and slide your hand inside the waistband Al Bundy-style and sit that way all day long if you want. Hell, take your pants off. It's your house.

* If you cook a turkey, you get to pull BOTH sides of the wishbone, guaranteeing wish fulfillment (bonus: you don't have to tell anyone what you wished for).

I guess none of these ideas is particularly unique, and perhaps all are inadequate in staving off the achiness that comes with spending a family-ish holiday alone-ish. But when it comes right down to it, Thanksgiving should be more about personal gratitude than a jockeying for position around the sweet potatoes and big screen TV. That's why this Thanksgiving, I'll be spending a few moments writing down a list of things for which I really ought to remember to be more thankful. Right at the top of that list: the fact that I have family members I love enough to miss today, and friends who love me enough to help me miss them a little less.

Why Victoria's Secret Sales May Skyrocket

Granny panties have never been my thing, but I admit there are too many items in my lingerie drawer that would fall under my mother's don't-you-dare-wear-those-out-of-the-house-because-if-you-get-into-an-accident-the-paramedics-will-see-them advice column. I've typically dismissed this advice under the if-I-get-into-an-accident-I-will-have-probably-soiled-myself-anyway response column.

I've got what I consider to be a healthy mix of undergarments, from cotton briefs to thongs. But based on some new information I have just acquired, I'm going to make a trip to Victoria's Secret very soon and get something special.

Why? Well, I don't want to jinx this, but I feel sure that I am about to let someone make it to third base with me in the very near future, and I want to be ready. I want to feel sexy when it happens, especially because it will likely be a public fondling. In addition, I may have some nearly-nude shots taken, and I really want to look and feel my best. Dieting and working out are too much effort, so I'm going for the quick fix: a lacy new bra-and-panty set (I am considering red or leopard print the front-runners, demi-bra with extra lift and seamless bikini bottom with lycra--again, for extra lift).

How can I be so sure about my imminent frolic? Well, I bought a plane ticket, and I understand the airlines are running a special. Apparently, with each ticket, you get a free x-ray or a complimentary feeling-up. I want them both. I'm sure they will oblige. A free photoshoot AND a groping from someone with a full-time job? That's a better offer than I get from most men. I'll be there early. Just show me which line to get in.

I am very excited about this. I may stop dating altogether and just start hopping little commuter flights for $59 each way so I can try out different folks at airport security. Ideally, I'll get screened by a man, but the idea of gettin' a little sumpin' sumpin' from a stocky female security screener with strong hands and a no-nonsense attitude isn't altogether unappealing. I never did go through that experimental phase in college, so this seems a fairly harmless way to see if I might feel a little spark during the inevitable cupping and rubbing. Afterward, I can treat myself to an eight-dollar Big Mac at the food court, grab a Cinnabon for the ride home, and sleep soundly.

Hey, it's not all about me, you know. I'm just doing my part to keep our country safe. Maybe if you can find a way to put a positive spin on the new security screenings you won't be so freaked out about it. I'm not saying it's time to put a stripper pole in your bedroom, but give your inner prude the day off, spread 'em, and smile for the camera. Your fellow passengers thank you for your cooperation.

Lady Lumps

Okay, I give. Let's change it to "volumptuous." People aren't going to stop saying it that way, and nine times out of ten the word serves as just a thinly veiled euphamism for something between chubby and fat anyway. Women who describe themselves as "volumptuous" OR "voluptuous" usually have plenty of actual lumps under their ill-fitting clothing which, arguably, makes the mispronunciation a more accurate adjective. So I say, let's stop fighting over this one. Let's save our efforts for stamping out "supposably." There will never be a day when society should surrender to that atrocity. But for all the curvy, full-figured, hourglass, healthy, thick, stacked, womanly BBWs with a little boom-pow and some junk in the trunk, I support your bastardization of the English language because, like the guy who stumbled upon Post-Its and made millions, you accidentally invented a word that is better than the original. Long live your volumptuous lady lumps.

The Problem with Stereotypes: It Isn't What You Think

The problem with stereotyping is not what racial minority groups and the liberal media would have us believe. The problem with stereotyping is NOT that it is a form of unfair and incorrect bias. No, no, no. In fact, if I had their phone numbers, I would personally call Al Sharpton for African-Americans and Anderson Cooper for the differently-abled and Rosie O'Donnell for those with non-traditional sexual orientations and tell them to take a load off, kick off those leather loafers, plop down into their La-Z-Boys, and throw back a forty, or a milkshake, or a Seabreeze, or whatever. They've been working hard alongside their colleagues, fighting for the rights of the unloved, differently-loved, and unlovable, and I dare say that at this point, they've really made some headway. I know, I know...I'm a white, college-educated, middle-class woman. I BARELY fall into a discriminated class, and do so only by virtue of my having breasts. The women's libbers really took it on the well-powdered chin for us girls in the 70s and 80s, and as a benefactor, I refuse to let the lost lives of countless bras burned at the stake go forgotten and in vain. When I find the random pubic hair on my soda can or sit helplessly as a talking head above the cleavage with which my boss is having a ten-minute conversation about how his wife won't let him play golf on the weekends, I'm not offended. I'm grateful that they haven't forgotten I am, after all, a woman. I may have to bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, open my own doors, put on my own coat, carry my own groceries, and pay for my own dinner on dates, but at least in the workplace I can count on some ogling, albeit sans groping. Still, it's nice to be objectified once in a while.

But I digress. Stereotyping IS a problem. But not because it's unfair to paint old Asian women as bad drivers, politicians as sleezebags, and the Irish as drunkards. It may NOT be nice to paint them all with the same brush, but it is also NOT wholly inaccurate. And before you get all up in arms about my prejudices, just relax, Senator Eun Joo McNeil. The problem with stereotypes is not that they are inaccurate, but that they are typically SO accurate it hurts. There are enough morons in each demographic slice to keep the generalities going. And herein lies the problem for me--and all of us.

I am a woman. An emotional, PMS-suffering, shoe-loving, baby-wanting, chick-flick-watching, chocolate-craving woman. Without apology, I embrace and embody all that it is to be an XX chromosome bearer. However, I refuse to have ALL female-related stereotypes laid on my back like so much baggage on a packmule without being asked if each applies. In accordance with new baggage restrictions, please consider the following before traveling by airplane or said packmule:

* Just because I am divorced does not mean I'm bitter.
* Just because I am over 40 does not mean I'm desperate.
* Just because I am single does not mean I have cats.
* Just because I teach does not mean I can't do.
* Just because I am brunette does not mean I don't have fun.
* Just because I believe in God does not mean I am gullible.
* Just because I am a registered Republican does not make me evil.
* Just because I watch "Jersey Shore" does not mean I am dumb.
* Just because I read poetry does not mean I am smart.
* Just because I am white doesn't mean I can't dance.
* Just because I am a woman doesn't mean I can't swear, screw and scrap like a man.

The point is, if you are a gullible Christian, a desperate single woman, a bitter divorcee, a boring brunette, or any of the other aforementioned stereotypes, please consider the damage you are doing to all of us by refusing to be your own special kind of stupid or smart or smug. It's hard enough being the imperfect me, but to have to live down all the low expectations that go along with belonging to your clubs is more than one girl can handle. I don't pay dues, so I shouldn't have to bear your charter. And frankly, neither should you.