Nevergirl's

Dear female friends who do not need a man to buy them dresses, diamonds, slinky stilettos, or even a house by the beach:

Have you heard of Dante Moore? If not, it’s high time you do. Moore is the biggest tool to hit bookshelves and worse, his book ‘The Re-education Of The Female’ sold like pancakes in the U.S

In his guide, Moore advices women to “wear sexy clothes while cleaning and cooking and obey men.” He continues, “The fatter you get, the more you decrease your potential single-man pool. Let me give you an example. When you go to the grocery store to shop, do you pick out the nastiest-looking, most rotten, smelliest fruit or meat you can find? Oh you don’t? Why not? It’s the same with men when they see baby-elephant-sized, out-of-shape women. Here’s a little secret, ladies. Men never really ask for anything. They command. And believe me, what you won’t do, ten broads around the corner will.”

I don’t know the demographic of Moore’s readers but I’ll hazard a guess – they’re probably men who bitch about how difficult it is to find a woman who meets their exact requirements, namely: must be thin, have impeccably-groomed pubic hair, wears three-inch heels daily, and is always available for sex, dates, and errands. And dear husband, if you are reading this, do not grin. The day you succeed in making me cook in French maid costume is the day I do a Lorena Bobbit and make salsa out of the family jewels.

The hub tells me not to sweat the small stuff but how could I not? A lot of things annoy me and one of them is the phrase “for future reference.” I mean, really, has any good news ever started with “for future reference”? Has any boss ever said, “For future reference, I will give you a raise every time you ask?” Or, “For future reference, please feel free to ask me to orally service you whenever you need to feel loved and unstressed looking up Network Architect Jobs“?

No. The phrase “for future reference” will always be followed by something that sucks vacuum cleaners. So the next time I find myself on the receiving end of a “for future reference” sentence, I will answer with a much more polite, non-threatening “for future reference” version. “Dear X, for future reference, please feel free to go f*** yourself.”

Oh, and for future reference, I am blogging like a crazed hoo-hee because the hub has been griping about the wasted monthly dotcom fees and because Vet’s sister visits this site daily only to find cobwebs. For future reference, I will be blogging like mad now so that if I were to be kidnapped, held at gunpoint, and then handcuffed to a MacBook and beaten daily until I could produce a guide for doddering old farangs who want to marry Filipinas 50 decades younger than they are, I can do so without chipping a nail or God forbid, ruining my mascara.

Must.not.sweat.the.small.stuff. For future reference.

Sometimes, I worry about landing in prison. I haven’t broken the law and I don’t plan to. But, I have this sick visualization that one of these days, my life will take on a Kafkaesque twist – I will be put on death row due to a sad case of mistaken identity, or a violation of some obscure law, or failure to comply to ISO 27001 or something like that. I am not trying to be comic here (I never am because I was born without a sense of humor but people laugh at me anyway and this appalling lack of respect deserves a post of its own). Landing in prison is one of those things I actively worry about because

a) I’m obsessive about a clean loo;
b) I’m allergic to just about everything – certain perfumes, pollen, animal hair, seafood, dust, even people;
c) I like girls but not that way; and
d) my anus is way too small.

So, even though I am not headed for prison and probably never will be, I am always hatching A PLAN. The government suggests not eating anything with possible Melamine content as the best DISASTER PLAN but how would that help in my tragic false-imprisonment disaster?

Today, I have latched onto a new plan. I will buy all the boring books I’ve cash for but do not have the time or the interest to read right away. When I get sent to prison, they will keep me occupied until it’s my turn to say hello to the needle. I will also convert to some very nitpicky, time-consuming religion like Orthodox Judaism. The dietary restrictions will give me lots of reasons to be a pain in the ass. Plus, I get to be original. I’ll sit shiva for every dead animal or plant in the complex, wear sackcloth, sprinkle my head with ashes, and wail, “Ayeeee-humscarudumbambooyee!” Or, I could do a Joc-Joc and come down with some life-threatening condition which requires that I be protected from light and heat and stored at room temperature.

Oh wow, going to prison now sounds almost fun!

I am getting dumber with each birthday.

I kid you not, I am. I was born awesome. I read my first adult novel at age 8. I googled the title and discovered it’s 487 pages of ill-disguised smut; no wonder I knew plenty of synonyms to ‘penis’ even as a child. To most 8-year-olds, a penis is that unnecessary body part that will only cause you pain and grief – it’s a free pass to the circumcision tent. To me, it was a schlong, a dick, a ten-inch pole, a raging erection. And, thanks to my uncles’ vast library of porn books, my vocabulary grew and grew.

I was my school’s extemporaneous speaking champion from second to sixth grade. I was also a loser who wore knee-high socks, sharpened pencils with her teeth, and obsessed about Adolf Hitler and concentration camps. By fourth year high school, I had morphed into a full-fledged geek. I critiqued provisions of the Visiting Forces Agreement for the schoolpaper, debated over the National ID system, learned Bahasa from an Indonesian nun in school, stole a German-English dictionary from the library so I could read Hitler’s Mein Kamp in German – and still wore knee-high socks with floral patterns.

Today, those tasks would be too much for me. I keep trancing out on pretty things. My mind has the terrible aptitude of skipping ahead to discover the results of events that have not yet happened and probably never will. Thus, all Iris has to do is mention “a hefty yoga project that will pretty much take care of this month and the next” and my mind would be off imagining dollar amounts that would let me pay off my plastics and take the kids somewhere awesome, like Tibet so Alex can fistfight a yak, or Angola where tribesmen remain so primitive they still wear loincloths but are savvy enough they talk gunrunners into taking their cows in exchange for M14s, M16s, and M21s. Then, I take a break from that hamster-brained thinking to have impure thoughts about Jack Johnson.

How can anyone with such short attention span succeed at anything? I’m getting dumber, I tell you.