(I am recovering from a 3-day bender and subsequent 10-hour drive from Nashville so Lacochran was nice enough to come over and entertain everyone today. If you have never been over to her place go check it out - she was one of the first blogs I ever read and has always been one of my favorites. Right behind that White-Collar Redneck guy - he is hilarious AND dreamy. Total package - that's what the girls say.)
L.A. guest posting here while Narm is off lollygagging—and let’s face it, if you’re going to enjoy your lolly, you best learn to relax and take it slow. Work that jaw, man.
So, fine. In an effort to try to hold up my end (that’s what she said) here in this testosterone filled place, I’m upping the crude factor. For me, that is. Still way below the usual Narm standard. But I’m giving it a go.
Scratch. Stare at your chest. Hork and spit. Belch. Yeah, you might want to take a step back… that would be the onions on the pizza at lunch. Huh, tasty both ways!
How’m I doing?
In truth, I’m not that well versed in the ways of strange men. And they’re all sort of strange, no? It’s kind of odd stepping into a guy’s place—you know, once you step over the empty Molson bottles—but sort of interesting, sociologically speaking.
It’s not that I haven’t been interested in what’s important to guys before but what with all the mandatory pillow fights in lacy underwear and high heels, and, of course, the hours of giggling I’ve got to log, we gals just don’t have a lot of extra time.
In fact, guys, you know how we’ll be casually chatting and you’ll be going on and on about something (who knows what) and I’ll be looking at you like you’re fascinating? I’m actually thinking about sparkly jewelry. Or monkeys. Or monkeys bringing me sparkly jewelry. Ladies, you’re thinking about a monkey bringing you sparkly jewelry right now, right? Who can blame you? Nobody. A monkey with a diamond tennis bracelet in his paw: that’s the American Dream. Ahhhh.
But since I’ve got the floor here, and I’m supposed to act like I care about manly stuff even more than usual, let me ask you a delicate question that is specific to men (I mean men exhibit the behavior—I’ll happily take answers from men and women): What’s with a guy who does a lot of adjusting? Yeah, adjusting. I used to work with a man who did a lot of adjusting. Is this a more publicly acceptable way to choke the chicken? Is this supposed to be a compliment? Is this an indication of disease? How much adjusting should one man need? No, really. Can you break it down for me? In the words of Elaine Benes, “I don’t know how you guys walk around with those things.”