Wickedmoxie's Blog

So, I’m sitting here considering my dating life, and it occurs to me that men have it sooooooo much easier than women on just about every conceivable level; however, there is one specific level where the complete and total injustice of the disparity between the two is just astonishingly revolting.  Let me explain…

In order to get ready for any given date, all men, all across the country fuck around all day long, well into the evening, and then possibly take a nap.  Upon arising from said constitutional, they will energetically scratch themselves,  almost assuredly burp, and wander clumsily into the bathroom at which point their preparation begins in earnest, to wit, they shit, they shave and they hopefully shower, in that order.  Preparation se fini (French for fucking done).

Now my friends, for women and how they prepare for a date…

14 days before said date – We crash diet, read we eat nothing but a handful of grapes, maybe a lettuce leaf and possibly water.  This process goes on for the next 13 days until the date.  Also at the commencement of this timeline, which for our purposes is DAY 14, we also do the following:

1.    Start tanning.   2.  Set an appointment to get our hair colored and highlighted, for DAY 7 on the countdown to the date, and then low lighted, glazed, cut and styled and DAY 13 before the date.  3.  We also set subsequent appointments, to get a mani, a pedi, a salt glow scrub, a bikini wax, a leg wax and underarm wax, botox, possibly collagen, and definitely a facial, all for every evening after work the entire week before said date.  4.  We also set an appointment to get our nails refreshed the afternoon of said date at the same time that we are getting coiffed.

13 days before said date – we are now starting to feel lighter from the crash dieting, so now the crazy extra workouts start, marathon sessions in the sauna and steam room, fully clothed in latex to get maximum sweat benefit, while of course wearing a pound of lotion on our hands and feet so that the steam and heat can help the product penetrate better.  Bear in mind we also have a hair mask on our head made from anything under the sun the the media has sold to us with the promise of silky locks.

12 days before said date – We are still doing the dieting, the crazy workouts, the beauty treatments in preparation of the other beauty treatments, and we’ve now more than likely enlisted the help of half a dozen friends to come over to the house and help us sort through our closet.

11 days before said date – Again all of the above is still going on but now our tempers are a little short because we’re fucking starving, and have come to unanimous conclusion with the aforementioned half a dozen friends that we have nothing appropriate to wear.

10 days before said date – See above, ibid.  We are now starving to death, pissed off because we have nothing to wear, and behind the wheel of a potentially deadly weapon on the way to the mall with an arsenal of credit cards in our pocket and half a dozen friends in tow.  At the mall, we have all unanimously come to the conclusion that we need not only the perfect outfit, but the perfect shoes, the perfect accessories, and of course the perfect lingerie, on the off chance that we’re feeling benevolent enough to let Romeo get some.

9 days before the date – See above, ibid.  Starvation has evolved into a near psychotic obsession with EVERY food, candy, and potentially edible item commercial that comes on the TV.  We’re pretty much at this point Pavlov’s dog because we’re salivating at the thought of tossing back those yummy pureed prunes that we just saw on the Gerber Babies commercial.  BUT we’ve lost 8 pounds so there will be none of that and we immediately call the trainer and schedule some more extra workouts, to which he is entirely to enthusiastic about and we are now wondering exactly what we would need to make a voodoo doll of the energetic little fuck, becaus ehe’s a man and what the fuck does he know about getting ready for a date when his biggest concern is whether or not his fucking underpants are in fact clean AND bright white, and not yellow in front and brown in the back.

8 days before the date – See above, ibid.  Moreover, we go get our hair colored with our grapes, our lettuce leaf and our gallon of bottled water in tow, and happily collapse thereafter onto the aesthicians table to be waxed and facialed to within an inch of our lives.

7 days before the date – See above, ibid.  We’ve lost 12 pounds, we’re deliriously happy, our outfit rocks, our hair is glorious, and we are looking pretty fucking fine in that Victoria Secret number we bought, so all is well with the universe.

6 days before the date – See above, ibid.  We go get our botox, possibly a little collagen, and maybe some plumper in our lips because a girl can never have to fetching of a trout pout.

5 days before the date – See above, ibid.  We’ve decided that we want to lose 5 more pounds before the date so we start tossing back prune juice and prunes like it’s a fire sale in the dried fruit department and juice department.

4 days before the date – See above, ibid.  Back to the aesthicians table we go to get our salt scrub, and to get any stary hairs tweezed, and any last minute waxing done below the neck and set an appointment for 2 days before the date to get our hair rewashed, restyled and blown straight as well as for the eye brow designing.

3 days before the date – See above, ibid.  The prunes and prune juice are working, we’ve lost 2 more pounds, nevermind the fact that we’re pissier than a longtailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, we’re lightheaded and we’re convinced that the personal trainer is trying to kill us, and no we can’t fucking do JUST FIVE MORE YOU FUCKING MUSCLEBOUND HALF WIT… then we realize the entire weight room is strangely silent and figure out that in our haze from being near starving, we actually DID in fact say that out loud rather than just thinking it…

2 days before the date – See above, ibid.  We go in for our salt glow, our eyebrow waxing, the mani and pedi, and we look absolutely stunning.  All is good with the world.

1 day before the date – See above, ibid.  We’re a nervous fucking wreck and absolutely freaking out the little bastard will cancel after all the fucking work we’ve done to look hot, and be desirable, so we commence to have a nervous breakdown in the presence of the half a dozen friends who have come over to help you prepare your makeup and lay out your clothes.

MORNING OF D DAY – See above, ibid.  With a gaggle of your friends in tow, back to the salon you go for a refresh of the mani and pedi, to tweeze any stray hairs, to have falsie eyelashes carefully applied and a professional make up, and to have your do blown straight.  Then you proceed to get driven home by your gaggle of friends who will then commence to help you prepare for the date that mind you is still some 10 hours away.  BUT preparations must be made, clothes must be laid out, we must decide if any last minute shit needs to go be gotten, and determine if the perfect outfit, is in fact, PERFECT.

Now if you’re a woman reading this you’re thinking MOTHERFUCKER because you know your date is probably lighting farts with a gaggle of his friends, and probably scarfing a triple Tommy Burger, and chugging a beer, and that the one trip he’s made, god bless his heart, is to the drugstore for the Magnum Trojans (He’s way too optimistic but bless his heart for setting his sights high) that he’s hoping he might get to use.  So as I said you’re good and pissed because all you have is a handful of grapes, two lettuce leaves and maybe some cucumber water and have put a good 100 miles on your car driving all over fucking town, $750 on the AMEX, and logged something like what has to be 1000 miles on the treadmill and the stairstepper trying to get your ass to perk up, in an effort to get ready for this asshole, and he better so be taking you to a nice fucking restaurant and not some dive, because god help you, you’ll tear off his arm and beat him to fucking death with it, if you see one chick  wearing a belly shirt and daisy dukes and the word HOOTERS is emblazoned on the napkins.  You will absofuckinglutely go BATSHIT.

Having said that, the time has come, 15 minutes before your date begins, you look smoking hot, you feel even better, and the doorbell rings – he’s early, brownie points, maybe this won’t be as bad as you think it will… but then as you step down onto the porch and turn to lock your door, you see four pairs of eyes looking at you like they are about to cry from your sofa, and  you look at Mr. Right Now and you think, fuck this date better be good and if I decide that he’s getting lucky he better be one fucking spectacular lay, because I could be sitting on that couch with those four pairs of eyes, in my flannels and my fuzzy slippers, a mug of hot cocoa, watching a marathon of Iron Man, X-Men Wolverine (NOW HE’S HOT), and anything with Jonathon Rhys Myers in it,  for what has to be the tenth time, and not dealing with the drama of all this shit and some pervy little man who’s more than likely gonna try and maul you, probably has sweaty palms, and more than likely can’t string together a coherent sentence without the use of dude, homie, pimp, or god help you, aight (WTF DOES THAT MEAN?????????????????)  and is he really all that cute???  Is that a fucking combover??????????????????   Is he wearing a Member’s Only Jacket?????????????????? OMG, he showed up driving a moped… FUCK ME SIDEWAYS, AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH…

Now, I ask you how anticlimactic is that???

I tell you being a girl is exhausting, and blind dates, are simply NEVER a good idea…

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