I’m not that kind of girl

It should come as no surprise that I’m not the kind of girl who has a gaggle of gal pals with whom she gets together every Friday evening for happy hour and spills her guts about sex sex sex over a pitcher of margaritas (do they come in pitchers? ladies? help me out) and then spills her other guts into a paper-[and worse-]clogged toilet in the ladies room later that night. It should also come as no surprise that I don’t have a “sisterhood” of womyn with whom I self-righteously scarf down cheesecake and moan in ecstasy with each creamy bite that I, like they, loudly proclaim is “better than sex”.
I’m not a girl’s girl. I don’t talk about Aunt Flo (a term that makes me see red, so to speak). I don’t talk about orgasms. I don’t read self help books. Or knit. Or do anything crafty. I get along much much better with men, always have, and always will. Men have said to me, “You’re like a guy. You don’t think like a girl.” I take that as a compliment, considering the source.
Of course, this doesn’t mean I don’t like women at all. Some, I do. I’m just extremely selective when it comes to forging friendships with those of my gender. I know what I like in a girl (and yes, I mean “girl”, because the women I like actually like being called “girls”) (and please, spare me the angry feminist email telling me I’m “wrong” and enlightening me about how the word “girl” is pejorative and denigrates women). I don’t have a list of criteria or requirements; I just know it when I see it.
Recently I’ve had the misfortune of being in very close proximity to two women (I refuse to call them “girls”, since I don’t like ’em; see how that works?) who have no chance of ever being included among those I consider friendworthy. I won’t expand on why they are not worthy and why they are deserving of selection only for ridicule. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself (see, I like girls who think) (and guys too).

  • At the gym, 15 April 2003, 6:52 a.m.; Young woman wearing a SOFA, to her “personal trainer”, upon failing to properly complete the simplest of lifts with a weight: “The problem is the weight’s knocking into my bracelet, and it’s distracting me.”
  • In Union Square, 7 May 2003, around 4:30 a.m.; Slender young woman in summery, semi-“boho” ensemble, including these shoes (the ones positioned at 5:00), to her guy friend:
    She: “Do you like my slippers?”
    He: Yes. They’re very dainty.
    She: What does that mean? Cool??
    He: (Defined “dainty” for her.)

Need I say more? No. They said enough.
There is oh so much more I still could say, but I won’t. Besides, it’s time to cook dinner for my hubby. He gets sooo mad if dinner isn’t on the table at 6:00 sharp!!!