Women have a sick, sixth sense to know when something’s up. Perhaps men do too, but I can’t speak for them, having been a girl all my life.
A while ago, I looked through a man’s phone. I’m not proud, but I was right. I found a sexual invitation text from a woman so vulgar, even I won’t type it. I spun through the house like the Warner Bros. Tasmanian Devil demanding an explanation, but was met with admonishment for looking in the first place.
We were both right. And wrong. I shouldn’t have looked, but goddammit, it was so repulsively inappropriate, that I gave my intuition a strong pat on the back. Right after my head stopped spinning like Linda Blair’s and my laser-shooting eyeballs shut off.
I wouldn’t want anyone looking through my phone, either. But there’s no ‘there’ there if someone were to. I delete the porn, particularly if I’m in it;)
To be clear, this wasn’t a cheating thing, it was a respect issue. He had a large neighbor friend inexplicably sleeping on his couch 3 days, who thought it was an okay thing to say to him. I don’t blame her, I blame the guy.
Absolutely wrong? Kinda wrong? Kinda right? Or absolutely right in acquiescing to my intuition?
Florida summers are challenging to anyone’s self-esteem. Pretend to be happy for anyone whose hair looks good. It’s the LOL! way..Most of us look like either Sammy Hagar or Tom Petty, depending upon your curly or straight hair. I should open a Scrunchie kiosk.
For those unfamiliar with August in the Sunshine State, imagine swimming through air with a snorkel. Actually, you’ll need SCUBA gear to breathe, but ‘snorkel’ is just plain fun to say..
One only need to look at theme park family faces to appreciate the miserable heat. Everyone at “The Happiest Place On Earth” looks like they were weened on a pickle. You’ve never experienced under-boob sweat until you’ve waited in line to get on Space Mountain in summer.
And then there’s the clothes. Being naked is still too hot, but unless you live at one of our area nude wrinkle farms, we have to wear something. Shorts are too short, yoga pants don’t hide cellulite, and let’s face it, we all hate our arms.
C’mon fall. A couple months of cooler temps, low humidity, ergo, great hair and a flattering wardrobe. Until then, these are 2 shower and 3 shirt days. Concrete respect to roofers, landscapers, dry cleaners and everyone having to make their living in our flacid penis-shaped steam room state. It gets better.
Whining in air conditioning,