Last night, Esteban and I went to a supper club type place with Joel and Cheri and ate much underdone steak. Afterwards, we were standing around in the parking lot, silent, listening to the gastric acids in our stomachs break down the protein-heavy meal into various enzymes and apparently this made those folks with Y-chromosomes ansty. (If all that science talk made those English majors amongst you nervous and sort of space out, here’s a translation “We were full and quiet and this made the boys nervous”… better?).
The menfolk began then to talk about my car as if it were not my car. “Well, them tires are about $150 a piece, Esteban!” “Don’t I know it! Those are 15cc (or some other tire measurement, I’ve since repressed the specifics) tires!”
I’m certain that primitive man could have easily joined this conversation without a problem.
“Ur, Me hate gathering. Me hunt. Hunt is good.”
That’s how it’s evolved. Testosterone talk used to be about hunting (and still is, for some men), but now it’s about having a car with such balls it requires big fat tires. I’ve witnessed this conversation before. Guys love to talk about the Monte. It’s got a big fat engine and it drives guys wild. However, they then try to act as though it is Esteban’s car. It is not. It is my car. The little woman’s car. And the car is a SHE. Her name is Ms. Monte. And I think that upsets the guys. When I purchased the car, the salesguy kept talking to Esteban and ignoring me, even when Esteban told him repeatedly “I’m not buying the car, she is!”. And she’s allllllll estrogen, baby.
And women have their girly talk, too, not to feel left out. Lots of times, Estrogen talk is about children, having babies, and possibly clipping coupons. I don’t know. I shy away from estrogen talk, generally, because I don’t have children, have never been pregnant, and let the grocery store rip me off as much as they possibly can. But I generally feel left out, so I cling to whatever female-ness I possibly can. It bugs me though, that guys assume that *I* have no interest in the state of my tires. They’re right of course, I don’t have any interest. I figure that when my tires need to be changed, I’ll suck it up and buy new tires. There’s nothing I can do about how much they cost, so why get all worked up about it months ahead of time? But don’t assume that I don’t care, ‘k?
Cheri and I, of course, were feeling a tad left out. I turned to her and said “So, my vagina is good today! How’s your vagina?”
I purchased some “mood nailpolish”. Actually, it was a substitute for the Rouge Pulp lipstick that I had wanted to buy. Instead, I opted for the $1.99 investment, rather than the $8.99 investment, in trash beauty.
Apparently, my mood right now is “rotting corpse”. Sometimes it’s “drowning victim”.
I haven’t played The Sims since I purchased House Party because the expansion pack corrupted the game and all three disks have to be reinstalled. And it’s just too much effort for me to try to find all three disk cases for the serial numbers.
Last night, I had a dream. I dreamt my Sims were all running amuck, fornicating in their red vibrating beds, saying “Yes” when the phone rings and asks if they want a child. Their fish were dead and they all lost their jobs. They were all going to go on Sim Jerry Springer and talk about how I ruined their life. The person from the Sim show was calling me up to see if I would come on the show. Of course, they were talking in that crazy Sim language, but I understood the jist of it.
I don’t know how Uncle Bob writes his entries so early in the morning. I just got up and I get the feeling that I didn’t “give good diary” today. (That, by the way, was a quote from Blue Armadillo who said I “gave good diary” which is I think a compliment or a vague sexual euphamism. Either way, I’m blushing. Thanks Blue Armadillo!)
Wow. I just had a really weird deja’vu when I reread this entry. If this entry is a duplicate of a different entry… let me know. Or maybe I wrote it last night in a dream. Maybe while I was waiting in the green room of the Sim Jerry Springer show.
Weird.
