Special introductory note: So Eddy told me, The Shining, about this one beef someone has with the ol’ MCoA. This beef-haver, he (or she!) said that the MCoA is “humor for intelligent bros,” that there’s nothing for the chicas in here. Well hey, guess what?! I, The Shining, just so happen to have a vagina. Except — oh snap, I just now realized it has not been activated all this time that I have been writing for the MCoA! Oh noes, I had the switch set wrong. Tee hee! Whoops, you guys. Hang on a sec. … OK. It is all good in the hood, my friends — I have just re-activated my vagina. So henceforth, the MCoA will (sometimes… as in, maybe once every four years) pour fourth writing that is pink and sparkly, iridescent like rainbows shimmering with mysterious womynly wisdom and truth, writing for the universal sisterhood. Oh, it’s a great day in herstory! … And fellas, if you read this one, too — there’s a special bonus for you at the end. It is nothing less than sacred womynly knowledge you may use to better “understand” your lady-friends, if you know what I mean. Bow-chicka-bow-wow!
I. Hey, I used to be you guys.
OK, raise your hand if you had at least one My Little Pony when you were growing up. … Yeah, of course you did. Can you believe there once was a time when we could get so into something just because it was pretty-colored horses with pictures of happy things — rainbows, sunshines, moonbeams, whatever else — on their butts? These days the fuckers would have to have USB ports in their hooves and unicorn-horn antennae with the capability to access wireless Internet networks if we were going to give a damn. I’m not saying that the little girls of today need these high-tech features; I’m saying the us, the grown-up little girls, would need them.
You know what happened to me? Just now, before I started to write this? I pulled my Honda Accord into a parking space outside the townhouse I live in with my boyfriend, and two neighborhood girls, maybe 8 years old, were playing in front of the space. I wasn’t driving fast at all, but when they saw me — they screamed. It wasn’t a scream like, “Look out, she’s gonna hit us!” It was a gleeful, mock-scream like you make for fun at a horror movie when a monster appears — an excluding sound that made apparent the wall between them and me. I wanted to say, “Hey, I used to be you guys, and someday you will be me.” But they were off, frolicking in some imaginary land. And me just standing there with my car keys and my Stabucks cup, my fears of infertility and infidelity, my knowledge that fall will be here before you know it, there are already dead cicadas on the ground.
Charlotte stood before her closet and pondered whom to be today. Maybe the girl in the deep indigo, boot-cut, skinny jeans; dove-gray shell with the tasteful paillettes embroidered in understated vertical stripes; faded-lilac long knit cardigan; copper Indian bangles; and black ballet flats. Or maybe the girl in the plum camisole with the crocheted mini-rosettes at the neckline; olive-green denim miniskirt; sequined black bolero jacket; opaque black tights; black leather riding boots (on sale at Old Navy for $25!); and the delicate golden chain necklace with the heart-shaped locket and other charms on it. Or maybe the girl in the slinky navy V-knit, half-sleeve sweater; brown corduroy A-line skirt; brown plaid knit stockings; and brown knee-high boots. Or the girl in the full, marigold-yellow cotton button-down skirt; black half-sleeve oxford shirt; metallic-gold slim belt; slouchy turquoise leather shoulder bag; and brown velvet Mary Janes. God it was fun being a girl, Charlotte thought.
Hey, Charlotte. In Saudi Arabia they don’t let women drive cars. And in China if you’re born a girl, don’t be surprised if somebody kills you, even though you’re just a little goddamn baby who never hurt anybody. Sorry to harsh your buzz; I’m just sayin’.
III. Can I get an “Amen”?
That Audrey Hepburn was a classy broad.
IV. It just makes you human.
Sometimes you think about him. You know you shouldn’t. You know you do.
You hear that song — you know the one; don’t fake like you don’t — and you get all frickin’ weepy. Maybe you’re like me — you tell yourself, “Stop being such a goddamn [synonym for cat].” But you get all weepy anyway. Hey, no judgment here — crying doesn’t make you a girl; it makes you human.
Maybe he treated you like crap. Maybe he didn’t appreciate your value. Maybe he still doesn’t.
Just do me a favor, OK? Don’t start piling on the “men are dogs” crap, alright? Don’t throw one of these “girls’ night out” shindigs, where a bunch of you take the weepy, just-been-dumped girl out and ply her with cocktails and maybe you guys go to a male strip club or maybe you go to just a regular nightclub or maybe you just stay in and watch “Beaches” or “Steel Magnolias” or even “Stella.”* Or you get those little tubs of Ben & Jerry’s and put in a bunch of “Sex and the City” DVD’s. I know; this was how my sister and I used to console each other. It’s fantastically cliched and yet it was absolutely what we used to do, that time we both got dumped.
Well, you can have one of those shindigs, but don’t do the thing where you say that men are scum, all of them, that if only we could all go lesbian and find our own planet, then that no-boys-allowed civilization would have world peace and no broken hearts and no left-up toilet seats and blah blah blah.
Because geez, girls, who is going to come rescue us when we have a flat tire? Didn’t think that one through, did you?
*Yep, I know about “Stella.” This is proof that I, The Shining, am in fact a girl. No boy has ever seen “Stella.” And if you’re a girl and you haven’t seen it, well then why don’t you re-activate your vagina and go queue it up on Netflix, because it is a damn fine film. I give it five girl-stars. Girl stars are like regular stars, except that they are pink.
V. Stuff Your Girlfriend Likes: A special service for the “intelligent bros” who make up the overwhelming majority of MCoA’s readership. Yer welcome, fellas!
Cupcakes. Brunch. Etsy. Planning the perfect wedding. Painting the walls “mango sorbet.” Pumpkin spice latte. Vintage. The moxie of Dolly Parton. An autumn visit to the farmers’ market or a vineyard. Roller derby. Sushi. Bad-boy-with-a-good-heart Robert Downey, Jr. Erotic scenes from art movies. Henna tattoos. Sephora. Good deals on stuff that is actually hip at Target and IKEA. A well-deserved bubble bath. Burlesque. Taking pole-dancing classes even though there is no plan to become a stripper. Working toward dream abs. Jem and the Holograms. Gay rights. Socks with images of cute things on them (parrots, bicycles, bananas). Yoga or Pilates (or at least the idea of it). Tango (ditto). Frappuccinos. Hoping abandoned puppies and kitties find good homes. Nutella. Harry Potter. Chai-flavored things. Motherfuckin’ unicorns, and not just in an “ironic” way but for real.
Trust me — I have a vagina. I know these things.