Ginger vs. The Kitchen
Just because it’s been said that a woman’s place is in the kitchen, doesn’t mean it applies to gingers.
Besides the kitchen snafu, which I will mention later in this post, I have had a fantastic week. I am writing for two papers on campus and I am taking twenty credits, plus my sorority position designing shit. But no one wants to hear about me going all Ke$ha on them and talking about throwing glitter and going insane and making it rain (which Michigan seems to be doing enough of on its own). Honestly, I think it would be pretty hard to throw glitter. I feel like it’s would follow a similar pattern to the paper airplanes I made in middle school gym, I would throw it really hard, then it would fly straight up, only to come back and hit me in the face. No one wants glitter in their mouth, even if it is from a poorly applied vajazzle.
Why do I plan on killing myself this semester with academics this semester, one may wonder? The best advice I received, from the same girl both times I was dumped, was to stay busy. Here is my logic, I am beating the male species to the punch. I am dumping all men, because I like to think it’s my choice I go to bed alone, in my own sweatshirt, and wake up to texts from my mom. Not to say that I am trying to date women now. I am simply putting myself on the disable list and am out for the season, my therapy being writing- but I am still on the roster.
At one naive phase in my life, lets call that a fortnight ago, I believed that it was only fraternity gentlemen in the wrong; however, I have recently come to the stark realization that it’s all college men. Just because I am the common denominator doesn’t put me in the wrong. I am saying that more to convince myself, and less to convince you. I mean, I am a senior. I should have something serious to focus on since I am no where close to having enough credits for my Mrs. degree, nor am I seeing someone I could fake a pregnancy with and trap in a relationship. I really have it hard here, guys.
I am also removing myself from making moves because frankly, it’s getting rather expensive for me to have a closet full of spandex and get drunk enough for you to be interesting. A male cheerleader friend of mine asked why it was costing so much for me to go the bar. Unknown to me having a vagina apparently means there are always guys who want to bone you, and know the way to your heart spanx is through an open window we hopeless romantics call eighty cent drink night. Much to the dismay of my self-esteem, but at the ever increasing joys of my alcoholism, I have taken this to heart. Well, the place where my heart should be.
Now, about the kitchen. I have struggled with domesticity for years, in the same fashion my depressed cat struggles with peeing in a kitty litter and not every chair planted on white carpet. I try to hold it, but I never quite seem to make it. For once in my life I was trying to do a good thing, make some red velvet cupcakes for a friend who is bumming. But no, the gods of marriage refuse to give me any redeeming qualities a parent would find that compensate for my inevitable drunkenness the first time I meet those future parents-in-law. I added medium eggs, not large, did two cups of water instead of one and one fourth, and I burned my hand- all while the fire alarm is going off, and I am screaming curse words in such an eloquent string of patterning that the unassuming maintenance man in the parking lot below though it was a rap song.
In conclusion, I am replacing romantic exploits with writing. Not baking. Already I am getting more than all of my years as a college girl combined, and whomp goes the ginger.
