So, Let me Get this Straight...the Rude, Nasty, Wombat has a Beau, and I Don't?

Ah, the fickle finger of fate has, once again, presented itself as a pointer finger to the rude broad and as the middle finger to me.

This is not a post about a specific date or date request (but one is coming). This isn't even a post about a gentleman caller. This is a self-reflective post about my single status.

So, I've long held the belief that nice, kind, gentle, sweet, caring, compassionate, benevloent women (like me) are often passed over for crazy, cruel, mean, "screw-you, buddy" broads whose faces always look like they just walked into a room that smelled like limburger cheese. For years I've held conducted very official internet, pop-culture and personal research that has reinforced that conclusion. I've calibrated the P-values of my research and have come to one conclusion: the meaner a woman is, the more likely she is to fall in love.

Today concluded my research.

I was in the salon today, getting my nails done by my absolutely fabulous nail tech. Right next to us, the stylist (who is also a miracle worker and can sling a mean flatiron) was working on a young wombat's hair. This young wombat, shaped like an egg and resembling post Princess Fiona, might have been pretty, if not for the vibe of hater that radiated around her, much like the stink lines in cartoons. I'm guessing she was about 25 years old.

Anywho, the stylist (who has won several awards and is very well-regarded--in other words, several steps up from the Kool-Aid color basement treatment) did a beautiful job curling and wrapping the wombat's hair so it would bounce and flow.

The wombat, however, was too impatient for the stylist to finish his job and took her hair down before it was ready. The stylist, without getting upset, was able to fix the mess she had created and the wombat's hair was absolutely beautiful. It moved. It flowed. It fell down in lovely tresses, radiating class. It said, "Hello. I'm not really a wombat, I just happen to resemble like one."

Her response:

"Oh my God! What have you done to my hair?" As she pouted, snarled and ran her wombat fingers through her now-deflating mane. "You made me look old. I look like I'm over thirty," she squawked, in a salon full of his customers. "You added twenty years to my life!"

I quipped, "Speak for yourself. I'm over thirty and I look damn good."

So the people in the salon tried to tell the wombat that her hair was gorgeous (which it was).
I must add, the hair was the best looking feature of this broad.

As she continued this tirade, she was also snatching her hair up into a CVS Goody hair clip. By the time she walked out, $125 later, she looked like she was auditioning for the part of a house negro in Roots.

So, back to how this connects to me.

After the wombat shoved off, of course the entire salon debriefed about her tirade. In the debriefing, I heard that the wombat has a boyfriend.

Now, here's the deal: the wombat has a paramour, yet I'm blogging, in bed by myself at 11:00 pm on a Friday night? Ah, yes, fate has given me the finger once again.

So, I have come up with two new guidelines:

1) Be cruel. Cruella De Vil, puppy-stealing, dream-crushing cruel.
2) Be rude and demanding. Off with their heads, it is.
3) Be crazy. Maybe I should get a pig, name her Misery and work on my croquet swing on a pair of ankles.

Evidently, men like having their balls in the vice grip of an egg-shaped wombat.




Evelyn Parkside