I Was Tagged
Posted by ginnypub on January 30, 2009
A Facebook friend tagged me. That means I’m supposed to come up with 25 random things people don’t know about me.
Since my life is an open book (boring, but open), this is difficult. I am a simple person who has no use for self-aggrandizement. I have no use for bloggers who think everyone in the world wants to read how wonderful they are (Look, here’s a picture of me with a celebrity). I’ve decided instead to write about why my husband thinks I’m sexist.
I can count on one hand the number of women I’m close to. I’ve always preferred hanging out with men. The reason is simple. Men let go. By “let go”, I mean men have their say or punch the other one and whatever the argument was about is ended. Women drag out arguments until last rites and then they’ll manage to grab the priest’s vestment, pull him down to their mouth and use their last breath, “Father let me tell you what my former best friend said about me”…and recount some perceived insult from 40 years earlier as if it had happened the day before.
There are exceptions to everything. Maybe it’s a hormone imbalance (too much estrogen) or upbringing (“Mama’s special boy”), but some men are women. You meet him at a gathering and he casually mentions in passing how great people think he is, how important he is and how the reason he was invited is because of his celebrity status-a reason to make everyone else want to be there. Then he overhears you telling someone else at the party that you think he’s a pompous jackass. As life goes on, he makes an appearance at every party you attend to pull people aside and tell them about the pain and suffering you’ve inflicted on him. Of course the accounts become more grievous with each telling, “She told everyone, all over town…” Sometimes he switches to intimidation, “If I wasn’t such a good person, I’d sue that witch…” Life continues. Natural catastrophes, wars, elections, births, deaths. Forty years later, “Father, let me tell you…”
I get bored easily. That’s another reason I don’t hang around with hang wringing women or hand wringing men. I’ve learned over my 52 years to push the delete button of life on them. I can continue with my boring life w/o listening to their incessant yammering and they can pump themselves up at the next party, “Let me tell you how I made that bitch run like a scalded dog….” Everyone wins.
(For all those that are “so vain, I bet you think this song about you”…
TAG, YOU’RE IT)