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July 23, 2004
Help Me Help You.
I heard that Prince drinks his Merlot from a bendable straw. First of all, I’m still talking about Prince so his show was that good. Secondly, I’m so excited I have something in common with him. I don’t do it with Merlot, but I do use bendable straws regularly. Habit I picked up during the old orthodontic stretch. When Coral gets up to get a drink, she asks if I’d like one and when she comes back without the straw, I look at her crazy. She rolls her eyes, but her ass be turning right around to get me one. I yell, “Pink please!” and she comes back with a yellow on purpose. I don’t like liquids to actually touch my front teeth, especially the fake one which surprisingly hasn’t budged even though the dentist man said it was a temporary replacement that should only last two weeks. It’s been over a year and a half. I assure you it will fall out at a most inopportune time. Well, every time is bad for your tooth to fall out. Prince is a genius if this rumor is true because he’s minimizing the staining on his teeth. And I do love some pretty teeth.
Enough about Prince though. This is more about you, Mister.
Okay, so I’ve done a fair share of dating in the past couple of weeks, months, years and I know some straight men have to read this website and I’d like to help you with the ladies. I want to help all y’all, actually. Ladies and gentleman, cats and dogs and lil’ children. There’s just some shit you should not do. Please. We want to like you so much, but when you say or do stupid shit, we tell our dads and roommates and then they don’t like you which, in turn, makes it harder for us to like you.
I know when you’ve snooped around in my medicine cabinet. What are you some kind of drug fiend? I don’t have any anti-convulsants, anti-anxieties, anti-depressants, no medical marijuana. And I don’t use the term “vikes” so get the fuck out of here, crack baby. If you’d like a big ass bottle of Clinique Happy from four years ago to drink yourself into oblivion, go ahead, but you should ask first before you go snooping through my things. I got shit going on in there. Don’t worry about what I do with that big ass jar of Vaseline. I have brand loyalty, okay. Purposefully, I’ve rigged that arm to the door of the cabinet to jangle a certain way specifically to knock shit down and I hear you in there snooping, so stop it. As much as it is a joy to have my bathroom attached to my bedroom, it’s really annoying for when guests visit. Lots more shit to hide, I mean, clean up. Ladies, don’t let a man go up in your bedroom while it’s fucked up. They act oblivious, but they notice everything. Ironically, the same dude that will notice I wore these shoes twice in a row is the same dude that doesn't know that Paris Hilton's hair is sometimes fake. Why do guys not know how to recognize fake hair? It's so annoying to me. HELLO! Hair today, gone the next. Don't you see?
If you drop me off at my house, please have the decency to wait until I get inside the house before you peel out. Screeching your tires and shit. I mean, I’ll be damned if you roll off and a mother fucker can’t find her keys. This shit has happened to me. And like an asshole, I sat on the front porch in a mini dress, shivering, waiting for backup. Food coma setting in. Eyeliner all run the fuck over into the corners. Knees getting ashy. (No, calling him back wasn’t an option because then what? I’d have to stay at his house and ain’t nobody humping around tonight. Oh no.) You should be walking me up to the stoop like 227, but I understand the parking situation. Trust me. When you walk a lady to the front door, she thinks about this shit and she says good things about you to her friends. “It was like, he had manners or was raised right. He walked me to the door. Said he had a great time. Said he’d call. Girl, it was crazy.” Yes, that’s how far away we’ve gotten from chivalry. We now get excited when you do shit you ought to be doing because your mama taught you better that. I’m not going to blast you on the Internet or compromise my Christianity because my mama taught me better than that, but don’t be an asshole. Wait there. To this day, when I drop a girlfriend or a dude friend off, I wait. And I give a courtesy honk if it’s not too late in a residential. This is optional.
When you see a fresh batch of the prettiest flowers on my dining room table and YOU didn’t get them for me, don’t ask me any questions. You don’t want to know the answer. Just assume they belong to my roommate and move on about your business. Even if they did belong to Choppamyroommate, you still don’t want to know the answer because then what? You still didn’t bring them over. And I don’t want to make my stank face. I really don’t. I can’t control it sometimes either so this is a fair warning. You could bring a bunch of wildflowers over here (for little old me?) and then you’d know the answer for yourself and we wouldn’t have these problems. As my friend Shondrella would say, step up your game. (If you're a dude, and you just rolled your eyes to this statement, you've got a long way to go in the Nice Guy department. I'm not saying you should have to get a lady some roses, but fuck dude, it doesn't ever hurt.)
If I’ve taken your keys away because you’re drunk, I’m trying to help you. Don’t bother me for hours about the wheres and the whys of the keys. Go lie down in the guest bedroom. Take this Advil, drink this whole bottle of water and most importantly, shut the hell up. The lady upstairs is in a Medicaid commercial. She’s old and she tattles, so please help me help you, bitch. And don’t be calling the police talking about I kidnapped you, jackass. I don’t want any police up in here. Police and Real World people do not mix. Trying to lure me in for no mugshot. I didn’t even do anything! Okay, Dan Renzi was doing some shit, but his mugshot did look rather nice for a mugshot. Hi Dan. Trust me Ned the Wino, you’re destroying my evening as well. You think I want to sit up here and listen to your drunken babble for another two hours while you sober up? No, I don’t. You think I want to give you my last $40 for a cab ride just to turn around and fetch your ass in the morning so you can get your car? No, I don’t. I just want you to arrive alive. And why are you drinking that cheap ass beer anyway? What, are you at the Kenny Rogers revival tour?
Um, when Jeopardy! is on, you no longer have control of the remote. I don’t know how you got the “mote” in the first place. Never a clicker, by the way. I’m dead serious, and you’re pissing me off. If I miss any of the first round, I’m doomed because Lord knows I don’t know shit about the second round. Put it on channel 7 and don’t be all surprised when I display my disappointment in you. It’s my one half hour with the television where I need silence. You can talk through Six Feet Under all day because I’ll catch it again. But Jeopardy!? Do you want to break up? What’s this about? And I’m not uncool about shit. You can watch The Simpsons all day. Two episodes back to back. I don’t give a fuck. You can watch that Cinemax late at night where they pretend to hump even. I don’t care. Just don’t mess with my Jeopardy! You could make it easier on yourself if you just come over after 8.
How about keeping your shirt on in the community areas of the house? I don’t need my roommate walking into the kitchen in the privacy of her own home looking at your chest hair while you scratch your butt, moving the Tabasco sauce from one place to another looking for something to eat in my refrigerator. This is not a hostel. Are you hungry? Just ask me and we’ll solve the problem together. But first, put your shirt on. How’d that come off anyway? I surely didn’t take it off of you. It’s midday, what do I need your shirt off for?
Yes, I know my roommate has a great set of New York boobs. I see them. They are rather glorious, I know. You, my dear, don’t see them. Matter of fact, you can’t see them. Why, does she even have breasts? That’s what you’re supposed to say. No. You say nothing at all. Period. But nothing, dude. You were just noticing what? It’s not even about insecurity in regard to my boobs. It’s about appropriate conversation and that ain’t it, honey. You know what? I don’t give a fuck if you like Carmen Electra’s, Pamela Anderson’s, Britney Spears’, and don’t even say a word about Halle Berry’s. Just keep that shit to yourself. If I ask you whether or not you like some lady’s boobs, you’re allowed to answer and I won’t give you shit. It’s not a secret test. I really just want to know. Similarly, I will not jump off of the couch in joy when Justin Timberlake or Brad Pitt’s butt and abs and teeth and face flash across my screen. Not a peep out of me. You, boo, are the hottest thing happening here at Casa de Melissa.
And NO. You cannot smell my underarm area. No, I said. I sleep with a knife under my bed, okay.
Posted by melissah at July 23, 2004 01:30 PM