Like this, but with penises.

Ok, so people getting hit on at the airport is totally a thing. I used to think that it was just something that happened in movies sometimes but it’s actually something that happens in real life. I know because I witnessed it and it was glorious.

I was sitting at an airport restaurant with my fella grabbing some nom-noms before our flight and I noticed a woman sit down at the table right next to us and I also noticed the man at the table across from her eyeing her from head to toe with a lot of eye-pausing on her boobies. Then, right before my eyes, this happened.

Man: Chloe?

Woman: Yes? 

Man: It’s me, Donovan. Remember?

Woman: I’m so sorry! You look so familiar though. 

Man: Just kidding, you don’t know me. 

Woman: Oh! Um…how did you know my name?

Man: It’s on your luggage tag. 

Woman: Oh! Haha! That’s a good one. 

Then the woman sat down and my boyfriend kept trying to talk to me but I kept shushing him, because he was being very rude while I was trying to watch this disaster of a pick-up. Then, the woman’s HUSBAND came and sat at the table and the woman told him what was going on and the two guys started talking to each other.

Man: Yeah, I’m a major stock-broker. 

Woman’s Husband: That’s cute. I sell multi-bajillion dollar homes because I’m smarter than you and also my penis is way bigger. 

Man: Isn’t that special. I played in the NFL and also I’m pretty sure my penis and my bank account are bigger than yours. 

Woman’s Husband: I get to bang this hot piece of ass across the table from me anytime I want. 

Man: Oh yeah? Well, I get to bang lots of chicks I never have to call again anytime I want. 

I may be paraphrasing a bit. My boyfriend had totally gotten sucked in by this real-life reality show of a situation and he leaned over to me while the men were talking to one another and said, “Those guys are sword fighting right now.” to which I replied, “No honey, they’re pork sword fighting.” 

But, you know what’s even weirder?  Being at the wedding of someone you’ve never met before. And also you’re meeting everyone there for the first time and they are judging you because you’re their good friends girlfriend and so you have to be gorgeous and have a sparkling personality and all of your jokes have to be wedding appropriate and OH MY DAMN, NONE OF MY JOKES ARE WEDDING APPROPRIATE!!!

I may be freaking out a little bit because I’m going to a wedding where I don’t know anyone. And not in a hilarious Wedding Crashers type of way. And when I say I’m  freaking out, I mean compulsively shopping for the right outfit and trying to prepare witty yet wedding appropriate banter ahead of time, and dreading the inevitable outcome, which is lots of drinking to calm my nerves except it only leads to inappropriate jokes and pelvic thrusting someone’s grandfather on the dance floor.

Remember when I said I loved weddings? Me neither.

Any tips? Besides drinking copiously because I’ve got that one covered.

If you ignore that one dreadful experiment with blunt bangs in 7th grade, I never had a truly awkward phase. Mine was not an adolescence plagued by glasses or braces. It’s not like I was drop dead gorgeous or anything, but old women always greeted me with cries of “Oh, aren’t you a pretty thing!” and relatives declared I’d break hearts when I grew older.

All this is to say, I have a love/hate relationship with the word pretty. If you grow up being told you’re physically attractive, it becomes an expectation. Despite my zealous feminist views, I religiously wear make-up, get regular highlights, and dress with a strong retro, girly vibe. I love a good floral dress and red lipstick. I love leaving the house with a bounce in my step, because – damn! -  these shoes look awesome. However, I am starting to hate pretty.

There’s something those old women don’t warn you about and your well-meaning aunt doesn’t prepare you for. Pretty is a double-edged (s)word. As a woman in this country and in this age, my looks are constantly up for discussion. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this sentence starter: “Yeah, I guess she’s pretty, but…” Fill in the blank as you like. The specimen in question may have thighs just a bit too big or hair that curls when it should straighten. For every woman, there is someone, somewhere who thinks she’s just not pretty enough…and, worse, that it makes her less valuable as a person.

Despite the various children’s books and encouraging Mom maxims I grew up with, this hit me hard in high school. Suddenly, pretty became a debate prompt. The boy I’d laughed with in my TAG English classes now felt the need to inform others that he didn’t see what the big deal was about me, because my boobs were just fat that I pushed out too far. Now, of course, I find this somewhat hilarious because A – all boobs are fat and B – why, yes, I have always had excellent posture, thank you for noticing. But as a 14 year-old? I wanted to hide under a sumo-sized sweatshirt for the rest of my life, so that nobody could ever again notice that my boobs had somehow been deemed sub-par. All it took was one comment about my ranking on the great spectrum of pretty to completely change my relationship with what had, up until then, been two perfectly fine mammary lumps.

Over the years, I compensated. I wore a dress or skirt almost every day of high school and diligently curled my hair each morning. Since the age of 14, the number of times I’ve left the house without make-up can be counted on one hand. I shave my legs every other day. I rip extra hair out of my eyebrows. It’s all become part of the routine. I’d like to blame it on that one too-immature boy, but it’s not him at all. It’s society. Society expects me to do these things. To be a woman, one must primp, one must pluck, and never ever ever let on that she actually uses the restroom!

And now, at the ripe old age of 26, I’m fucking sick of it. Why do I have to do all this again? Why, when I have three degrees under my belt and the ability to save a human life, do I care if you think I could stand to lose 10 pounds? It’s just all too much. The amount of time spent on how I look is just exhausting and I’m not even doing all I supposedly should. If I prescribed to every beauty recommendation, whole hours of my day would be devoted to deep conditioning and matching my nail polish to my handbag. Here’s the thing: I just don’t give a crap about any of it.

I see the point in deodorant, regular showers, and well-fitting clothes. The rest of it seems like utter nonsense. Why was my makeupless face pretty at 12, but something so repulsive it must be hidden from society at 26? Why exactly do I have to remove all of my body hair? Last time I checked, we didn’t even start shaving our legs until the 1920s, so how can it now be A Mandatory Facet of Womanhood? Don’t even get me started on the Hair Down There. If you’re lucky enough to ever see Down There, what gives you the right to judge its trimmings?

I understand that physical attraction is a big deal in dating. I get that attractive people can get ahead, thanks to their looks. I’ve read the research. It makes the whole human race sound like the cast of Mean Girls. Because, let’s be honest, it doesn’t last. The picture of young Hollywood loveliness today is going to grow old. She’s going to get wrinkles, she’s going to fluctuate in weight, her magnificent breasts will someday – horror of horrors! – sag. Because that is what we humans do. It’s how Mother Nature rolls.

The older I get, the more pretty begins to seem worthless. I’m never going to win this game. There will forever be someone on the sidelines suggesting that I whiten my teeth or shrink a few inches or magically stop aging. No one is universally pretty. It’s unattainable, like passing the Kobayashi Maru without cheating. If my guy friends can seriously pro/con the attractiveness of Natalie Portman, then we’re all screwed. This ship is sinking, no matter how often I curl my eyelashes. Pretty isn’t a good adjective to identify with. It’s just too transient. Give me smart; give me funny. Give me excellent at board games.

You can keep the pretty. I don’t want it anymore.

- Grace

Ladies. Men just want to dance. Let the men dance.

Straight up y’all, I love getting spam comments. They tickle me pink. I absolutely adore reading through all our Spinster spam and just laughing and laughing for hours….and also there is wine involved. But last week, we got a spam comment to rule them all! The first line was “How to get a man without looking desperate.” Obviously, they had me from hello.

Apparently there are several things we woman do to scare the men away. Ladies, I’m going to repeat that again. You. Are. Scaring. The. Men. Away. How? By being too fabulous. Your fabulosity (I put the full blame on Sex and the City for me using that word) is like looking straight into the sun- it blinds men and sends them running for their very dark man caves. So, what should you do? Well, according to this I-swear-I’m-not-making-this-up spam comment there are 7 things every woman looking for her soulmate should do.

1. Make a plan. Apparently, you can force life to stick to an action plan. If I were y’all, I would go ahead and make a plan to bump into your soulmate at Trader Joe’s tomorrow morning. Otherwise, it will never happen. It’s all about planning.

2. Do NOT have sex with them until you are married. If you sleep with him, he will think you’re a Slutty McSlutterson and will only continue seeing you to get at your ladyparts. Then, when he has used your ladyparts up, he will leave you and marry a virgin. Those are the breaks kid.

3. Dress better. If you aren’t wearing a ball-gown, then you are a slob and no one will ever want you. Business casual? Might as well call it single-for-life casual.

4. You must never get angry. Ever. If you get mad at anything ever then you are failing as a woman. The second you stop smiling is the second you lose out on love for all eternity.

5. Do NOT be smarter than the man. In fact, don’t even be only slightly less smart than the man, you must always be the dumb one. Didn’t you know that men hate intelligent women?   You are there to look pretty and be petted, like a shih tzu. If you say something intelligent or witty or even moderately bright then the man will lose his ability to get a boner for you forever.

6. Be skinny. If you aren’t in supermodel shape then don’t even bother trying. Your best friend should be your gym membership.

7. Try voodoo.

Seriously. The last and most important thing a woman can do to get a man is voodoo. But, when you compare it to all the other bullshit in this spam comment, voodoo seems by far the most legitimate advice. Make of that what you will.

Picture it- you’re 90 years old and living in an active senior living community, you’re widowed but lead a very active and happy lifestyle. You meet a nice widower who lives in your community, you become friends, you become friends who hold hands, you become friends who kiss, you spend all your free time together, you meet his kids and grandkids, he meets your kids and grandkids. It’s lovely. You’re the happiest you’ve been in years and this friendship/companionship/whatever it is makes you feel 30 years younger. Then, one day, he comes over to your apartment and tells you he is in love with someone else and moving across town to her active senior living community.

THAT SHIT STILL HAPPENS AT 90! FOR REAL.

Seriously y’all. I spend a lot of time at my grandparent’s active senior living community and the dating dynamics there are almost identical to the dating dynamics of people my age. Single and dating seniors have DTRs and label their relationships as “it’s complicated”. What. The. Hell. I thought relationships would be loads easier at that age. At least, I thought everyone would approach them more maturely. Not so! My grandmother has literally played go-between for flirting guys and gals in order to set them up.  People are using each other for sex and nothing more, which I have to admit, I’m a bit impressed by. But, I’m still absolutely shocked at the confusion, lust, and angst that go on in their relationships.

I’m shocked because it was my sincerest wish that dating would get easier when we got older because we would be more mature evolved human beings. Not so. Not so at all. Dating will always suck the life force from us and turn strong passionate women into tearful balls of confusion and centered mature men into lusty balls of indecision. Or vice verse. I’ve seen some of those precious older men have their hearts broken by wanton jezebels as well.  My point is, people who tell you that dating is better when you’re older is a liar liar pants on fire. Do NOT believe them.

You may call it wedding lust, if you like, but I know what it truly is: schadenfreude. Y’all, I love a pretty dress more than anyone and beautiful flowers never fail to make me smile, but – seriously – horrid weddings are my jam. I want to see the camouflage cakes and 76ers dresses. I want awkward family toasts and ill-fated bridal party dance routines. Even more, I want to see your poor, beleaguered bridesmaids. Nothing shows a bride’s true colors like the frock she forces upon her nearest and dearest. We think everyone will choose a pretty and universally flattering dress, but it is not so. And that, my dears, is where the fun begins.

Bridal Species (as classified by bridesmaid dresses):

The Trendy Bride – defining characteristics: extravagant ruffles, asymmetrical hemlines, and Tangerine Tango – Oh, darling, we know you’re into fashion. You have the latest it-bag and truly believe it, when Cosmo tells you that leopard print is a neutral. Unfortunately, your bridesmaid dresses reflect the dark side of your passion. You fell in love with that Spring 2012 dress from the Hot New Designer. You picked the color based on Pantone forecasts. As a result, your poor best friends are now decked out in orange ruffled, racer-backed monstrosities. When you look back in six months, not to mention sixty years, you will blush. Nobody outside of Madrid looks good in “Flamenco chic,” even if it is so in right now.

The Delusional Bride – defining characteristic: refusal to acknowledge that bridesmaids are not runway models – You have a dream, dearest, and you go for it. Sure, your maid of honor is eight months pregnant and your sister is a gorgeously curvy siren, but your plans for metallic sheath dresses will not be daunted! As a result, most of your wedding party looks like dreadfully uncomfortable Oscar statues. Don’t you want people to be happy and dance and eat cake? No? Oh, well good, because girlfriend can’t break out her best moves, when she’s wearing three pairs of Spanx and a strapless bra.

The Bride de Sade- defining characteristics: colors normally sported by fungi, four-inch “bridesmaid gift” heels, and an alarming glint in her eyes – This is your day. Yours, no one else’s! But what if someone’s eye strays to your bridesmaids for just one second? Luckily, you have a solution: brown. Not some nice chocolate brown, either. You, you lovely scalawag, have chosen Ace Bandage Brown. Sure, the tag may say “Caramel Latte,” but no one is going to look like a foam-topped Starbucks confection. Be they blonde or redhead, your bridesmaids resemble terminal disease patients, while you glow like a radiant butterfly. Well played, Machiaveilli.

The Seasonally Inappropriate Bride – defining characteristics: pink chiffon dresses and blue-nosed bridal party – Ever since you were a wee little bride-hopeful, you dreamed of your perfect June wedding. Bees would buzz lazily, flowers would drip from your outdoor alter, and your maids would line up in short, flirty little sundresses. Unfortunately, scheduling has demanded you marry in January. In Minnesota. Never fear! It’s still your day, so when you insist on short, chiffon halter dresses and fun wedges, your friends must comply! They can just throw on a wrap, right? The rest of us, however, will be taking bets on which one loses the most external bits from hypothermia. (My vote: always the little one. Her lack of body mass will be your cab fare home!)

The Theme Bride – defining characteristics: cowboy hats, fairy wings, and/or clothing usually seen in 14th century tapestries – You are a unique bride, a snowflake special among special snowflakes. Naturally, you want to show that in your wedding. I get it! Weddings should definitely be personal to the bride and groom. It’s just, when I said personal, I didn’t mean you should deck your girls out in Star Trek uniforms. But, run with it, if you must. Of course, your friends want to dress as their favorite Care Bear. (Dibs on Funshine Bear!) Oh – or better yet! – in period-appropriate Victorian costumes. Nothing says “Bridesmaid to Flirt With” like a whale-bone corset.

Be warned, prospective brides. That old saying is true – karma is not only a bitch, but also a vengeful bridesmaid. If you torture your friends too much, you may end up in a pale yellow, tea-length bandage dress. That’s not a look you want posted to Facebook, however much I may enjoy cackling at the pictures.

- Grace

Do you know that drinking coconut oil in your tea will make you beautiful? Apparently, it will. At least, if all these articles I’ve been reading in fashion magazines, and wellness magazines, and ‘you could be so much better than you are’ magazines are telling the truth. And why would they lie to us? What motivation could they possibly have for lying to us? None, I tell you! None!

And not only should you put coconut oil in your tea (and who doesn’t want to drink oily tea) you should also slather it in your hair and on your body and oh my goodness why aren’t you bathing in coconut oil daily??!!! Coconut oil will make your skin glow, coconut oil will increase your metabolism, coconut oil will make all your fat go away, coconut oil will make {insert celebrity name here} fall in love with you, coconut oil will save your soul!

Seriously y’all, I don’t know if I have room to add one more thing to my daily beauty routine that’s supposed to make my skin aglow and my cheeks perfectly flushed and my eyes shiny and my hair stronger. And I just really wonder how much of my brainpower I’ve spent on concocting a beauty routine? Could I have better used that brainpower to cure a disease or solve the economic crises? We’ll never know because I’m too busy slathering on creams and drinking four cups of green tea with coconut oil in it everyday. True story.

I should probably say something really poignant about a society obsessed with beauty and how that’s bad, very bad, but hypocrisy is not a good look on me, so make of this what you will. It can be something very revealing about our culture or it can be about how awesome coconut oil is. Your choice.

It’s also my favorite sporting event.

Growing up, golf was always a special bond between my father and I. Sure, my brother has a great swing and my sister loves Adam Scott, but Dad and I are fans. We e-mail news stories about our favorite players and record every tournament. If one of us scored tickets to The Ryder Cup, the other would be tapped to come along, no deliberation necessary. On my life list, the top two spots are: Play a round at Augusta and Attend The Masters with Dad. Like any other fan, I spend this one weekend in April glued to television. I pray that drive won’t hook left; I gasp in awe at the speed of the greens. Unfortunately, I also spend a lot of time defending my love of the tournament to friends.

How can I, a card-carrying feminist and well-educated woman, support an institution that is so anachronistically anti-women? Honestly, it’s difficult. This is one of the most gut-wrenching issues for me as a woman, despite how shallow it may seem to others.  As an outsider, it would be easy to recommend I just stop watching it, until Augusta admits women. Boycott that which oppresses us, right? Besides, it’s just a game.

Only…it’s not. For me, this one tournament – this one game – is the live battle between a talisman of my father-daughter relationship and my very passionate viewpoints on modern equality. I wish to cheer for the green jacket’s winner, just as much as I want to rail at the board members bestowing it. Because tradition is all well and good, but sexism cloaked as tradition? That’s not something to defend.

This year, finally, I had reason to hope. One of the unofficial traditions at Augusta is that a membership offer is extended to CEOs of the major tournament sponsors. As of January, one of those CEOs is now Virginia Rometty of IBM. That’s right. A woman. Cue shocked gasps and pearl clutching. Much was made in the media of whether or not a membership invitation would be extended to Rometty, before this year’s tournament. There has been a change in guard of the Augusta leadership, so most assumed this would be the year. After all, in an age where a woman is the CEO of a company so powerful it sponsors The Masters, shouldn’t that same woman be allowed to join the club?

If I ran the PR campaigns for Augusta, I would encourage them not only to invite women to join, but to insist on an LPGA event hosted there. Yes, they are a private club, allowed to make their own rules, but those same archaic rules threaten to turn the sport’s most revered event into a joke. Half the pre-Masters headlines this year dealt with Augusta’s stance on women, not the strength of the field. This is a game filled with brilliant men and women, both amateur and professional. Is there anyone who would argue Annika Sorenstam is less qualified to join Augusta than Phil Mickelson? They’re both living legends. They both deserve equal treatment by this nation’s greatest golf club. Anything less is backwards thinking.

Unfortunately, backwards it remains. Virginia Rometty attended the tournament not wearing a member’s green blazer, but a smart pink cardigan instead. There is talk that invitations take time to be extended to the new CEO, because Augusta is a notoriously secretive organization, which runs on its own shadowy timetable. But…I’m still disappointed. I felt like this was the year. This was the year I could watch my favorite tournament thinking “One day, both Dad and I could be members there.” Instead, this was the year I watched with a cynical eye. This was the year I was too focused on the background politics to notice the azaleas. Next year, if Rometty still isn’t a member, may be the year I don’t watch at all.

- Grace

Do you remember the story of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf”? In it, a bored shepherd boy decided to amuse himself by frightening the townspeople by crying wolf. He succeeds the first two times in scaring the townspeople but when he actually does see a wolf and cries for help the towns people don’t come and the boy loses his flock of sheep.  As children, we are told that story so that we may learn the lesson to never lie.

I’ve always taken this story very seriously and I dislike lying very much. I strive to be extraordinarily honest in all situations and admittedly sacrifice politeness for honesty sometimes. If you ask me a question, expect an honest, if not always cordial, response. In fact, I’ve developed a bit of a reputation in my industry for always “telling it like it is”.  And yet……

And yet, when I was called a “Bitch” in front of several people at my last agency and responded by filing an official complaint, the honesty of my story was immediately questioned.  I was baffled. I was insulted. I was mad as hell y’all. Why was it that without ever having made such a claim before I was instantly labeled “The girl who cried bitch.”? I spent 4 hours in the boss’s office attesting to the honesty of my story. I was questioned again and again. I had to repeat the situation several dozen times. The very boss who once called me “too honest” now questioned the honesty of my story. When I finally told him to ask the people who had witnessed the altercation if he didn’t believe me, they made the entire situation worse by qualifying it and saying that perhaps “I had taken it the wrong way.” that the man “didn’t mean it that way.” I was probably being too sensitive. Someone even had the audacity to suggest that I might be “hormonal”.  Um, excuse me, what other way did he mean it? And for the record, I wasn’t “hormonal” but even if I had been, that in no way means I deserved to be called a “bitch” or that someone shouldn’t be reprimanded for calling me one.  Why does a comment like that deserve to be qualified and defended? Why was everyone so uncomfortable with a woman standing up for her right not to be called a “bitch” in the workplace? I was upset, but I was also leaving the agency so I chalked it up to everyone there being an asshole.  It was easier than me diving into the reason behind people being unwilling to acknowledge that the situation was unprofessional and demeaning. I took the path of least insanity.

But now, I’m wondering, what’s up with that? Why is it that a woman automatically gets labeled “The girl who cried bitch” even if she is telling the truth? Seriously, what’s up with that?

Me! A leg lamp writing award! In four months time, this very spinster will be flying off to California to attend a fancy publishing conference and a black tie awards ceremony. It’s like the Oscars! With more carpal tunnel sufferers!

Of course, being the ridiculous person I am, my thoughts immediately turned to one thing: the dress. There is an old saying my mother taught me: When one gives an acceptance speech to 3000 people, one must look super fly. The chances of me winning are slim, but a good former Girl Scout must be prepared. No one remembers The Girl Whose Dress Was Not On Fire. In that vein, I spent the past week looking for a gown.

That’s a lie. Not looking, but obsessively searching. For seven solid days, I did nothing on the internet but look at evening gowns. If you are going to a black tie function soon, tell me what you want to wear, because I have seen ALL THE DRESSES. No department store lay unchecked, no designer unscanned. I called Kate not once, but three times, for hour-long dress powwows. Finally, after talking myself out of a Marchesa and a Carmen Marc Valvo, I tracked down the perfect dress. Grecian-inspired, emerald green, and on sale!

A question bears asking, I know. Why was I in such a frenzy, when the awards aren’t until late July? Because I am totally nuts, friends. I like to call myself enthusiastic, but – let’s be honest – the word is obsessive, Grace. When I embark on something, be it a new hobby or a gown search, it becomes an all-consuming quest. I must be the best sewist, own every rare Nancy Drew edition, and track down the one gown that will make my wildest dreams come true. The quest is all I think about. If I hadn’t bought that damn gown, the next four months would be spent doing nothing but comparing this color green to another. That way madness lies! I have a deadline coming up and dress shopping is not an excuse my agent will accept.

This bodes poorly for my future. If I ever become a bride, watch out. It better be a short engagement, so I don’t lose whole years of my life to flower arrangements. I’ve always thought planning a wedding would be easy, because I know exactly what I want, but that may be the problem. Knowing what I want leads me to set up complicated Ebay alerts, just in case the perfect pair of Frye riding boots appear in my size (Dorado riding, Bordeaux, 9.5). No matter that I have four other pairs in my closet already – they’re just stand-ins for the real prize. Can you imagine what picking out a wedding dress would be like? Those poor people at Say Yes to the Dress (Atlanta, obviously) would explode from frustration.

Y’all are so lucky you only know me on the internet. Kate and Mae are probably praying that I never meet Mr. Right, if only so they’re spared the experience of being my bridesmaids. My name is Grace and I’m a future bridezilla. It’s lucky this blog is anonymous, don’t you think, poor unsuspecting male population?

- Grace

P.S. I’m currently on a quest for The Perfect Gold Belt for the gown: thin, braided, double wrap. Any leads can be sent to ConfederacyOfSpinsters (at) gmail.com