Dear Every-Dude-Who-Ever-Felt-Me-Up-Before-I-Hit-25,

You boys should get down on your knees and thank Jesus you saw these tits in their prime. They’re just not the same prize-winning perky little things they used to be.

You’re welcome.

Sincerely,

Mela’s-31-Year-Old-Tits

In the morning, when you wake me up, caress my hair away from my face and say, “Hey pretty girl.”

That’s it, really. That’s all I require.

Just “Hey pretty girl.”

“Every dude in this bar is wearing a polo shirt.”

She scanned the bar. Which also happened to be in a basement, making it both really dark and a bit of a fire hazard.

“There does seem to be a disproportionate amount of polo shirts in here,” she said. She made the weighing scales motion with her hands, one hand up, the other down, up and down, up and down. “That should be a key factor in our assessment of bars: the ratio polo shirts to t-shirts. Disporportionate polo shirts. What do you think that means?”

“I think it means all these guys are east coast,” I said.

“Is that bad?”

“Yeah, dude. It means these boys come from breeding,” I continued. “They’ve been bred. It means they went to private schools for high school and then moved on to the Ivy League, or even worse private liberal arts schools in Maine, like Bowdoin.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Exactly.”

Girls from west of the Mississippi have not only never heard of colleges like Bowdoin, we think that they are gay. Just like polo shirts.

“I see,” she said. “These boys are pedigree.”

“Dude, exactly. Pedigree. And we don’t have any of that where we come from. The only Pedigree we have is dog food.”*

“These people are dog food,” she said.

“Yup, this is a total dog food bar,” I said. “Dude, I think my big ginormous purse is a turn-off. I think it’s scaring boys away.”

“What?”

“Look at that girl over there, she looks really cute, but then she has that ginormous purse, and that just says ‘I’m high maintenance,’ and that’s a problem for these dog food people. I think I need to leave my big purse at home, it’s definitely working against us.”

I decided to continue talking because this monologue seemed to be animating my mojo.

“Plus, I think we need to look really engaged, like we didn’t just come here to scam on boys, like we came here for the obvious ambience and each other’s engaging company. Like when I just laughed really huge and loud, that looked like we were really intriguing and didn’t give a fuck about the boys around us. That makes boys want you. When you don’t give a fuck about them.”

“Right,” she said. “Like when I did that weighing scales move with my hands, that looked really engaging. Boys looked at us and they didn’t know if we were talking about a math problem or a new algorithim or what. They would have to come and talk to us.”

“Exactly.”

“Let’s leave.”

“Yeah, I feel like we need to leave before some boy from Bowdoin tries to diss us because we aren’t dog food.”

“Do you need to use the ladies’ or anything?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back.”

I walked over to the ladies’, which was really a joint men’s and ladies’. Some dude in a pink polo shirt snarled at me.

“The line starts back here,” he said.

Oooooh. I bet he gets laid left and right. I decided I didn’t need to use the ladies’ that badly.

“Dude, let’s leave,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s leave.”

I guess we showed them.

*In my reteling of these events, the dialogue is sometimes punched up a bit to make me sound funnier than I really am. I never do this for her. That’s because it’s my blog. If you want the version where she’s funny, you have to go to her blog

Or, he did play soccer for Mississippi State and it was a club league, because the NCAA doesn’t have men’s soccer.

Sometimes you’re wrong about the soccer players you make out with.

 You know how it is.

God, Mela can be such a self-righteous bitch sometimes.

“The night will not end this way. I will not allow it.”

A Sweet Young Douchebag at the bar had just asked her if she was a lesbian. Prior to inquiring about her sexual preferences, he complimented her breasts.

One can understand how that combination of comments could put one in a foul mood.

Then the Douchebag said to her, “It looks like my friend (Sweet Young Soccer Player) and your friend (Sweet Young Mela) like each other, and they’re going to be talking all night. You’re going to be really bored.”

You can see how we decided it was time to leave, and how one would not want the night to end on such a note.

Fortunately, that’s when the Hollywood Producer showed up. He was warning us to clear the way, as he was so drunk he thought he was going to fall over the railing outside the bar.

We found that to be quite charming.

“Wait,” she said. “What cologne are you wearing? I’ve made out with that cologne before. Can I smell you?”

Things progressed nicely from there. We both smelled his neck and debated the scent. I for one had never made out with that scent. She decided to make out with the scent again, in order to determine if she had,  in fact,  made out with said scent before. It was a very important bit of recon.

Plus, my Sweet Young Soccer Player spotted that we hadn’t actually left yet, and he came over and made out with my scent, which I found to be interesting, as I wasn’t wearing a scent. But he didn’t seem to mind.

I asked said Sweet Young Soccer Player why his douche of a wingman said such bullshit things to my wingman, he answered, “I don’t know. Maybe he thought she was a lesbian ’cause she works for a women’s organization.”

He was really sincere when he said it. Bless his darling little heart. It was just so precious.

Not really.

But his blonde-haired, blue-eyed, soccer-player-for-Mississippi-State, Southern-accent-that-caused-him-to-say-the-Fourth-of-JOO-lah-little self made it quite precious. And his hands in my back pockets. That also helped. And his upper body, which was oddly very well-developed for a soccer player (red flag, we discovered later). And that when he put his hands on my waist it made me feel really skinny, because they were big hands. All those things helped the preciousness.

Let’s be honest, that last one helped the most.

When we left (which we had to do because Scent-Man claimed he produced the Oscars, in addition to revealing his criminal record), his attempts to have text-sex with me until 5 a.m. were less precious. I don’t put out on the first text and I don’t have unlimited messaging, so not only were my morals being compromised, but he was running up quite a phone bill for me.

It was even less less less precious when he picked up where he left off at 1:30 p.m. the next day when he woke up. Seriously. At 1:30 on a Sunday afternoon, I’m not going to be giving any text blow-jobs or anything.

These are the things we will put up with from a soccer player.

Except that according to Google, MISSISSIPPI STATE DOES NOT AND NEVER DID HAVE A MEN’S SOCCER TEAM.

I said, MISSISSIPPI STATE DOES NOT AND NEVER DID HAVE A MEN’S SOCCER TEAM.

Is this the new M.O. at bars? Because if that’s the case, my wingman has pointed out that we could have some kick-ass dating personaes. Like we could be FBI agents who chase aliens and explore paranormal activity. Or nurses from Seattle Grace Hospital in town for a conference. And at the end of the night, we could drive ourselves into the Grand Canyon.

But only if it means we can make-out with soccer players and Hollywood producers. Because I’m not driving myself into the Grand Canyone for anything less than that.

Grown men are funny little creatures. They play with big toys and lots of money and they like to own things. They don’t really fight except over things they want to own, like land and resources and women, because those things give them more power than the other guy. If you take his house, the land it sits on, his access to water and his wife, you’ve pretty much made him your slave.

Big Business Boys are like that.

Nothing personal, Boys. I have to say that. It’s my way of taking back a little power, of regaining my footing. If I don’t belittle you, then I’m stuck staring down the reality of my subordination.

I think the Big Business Boys regard me as an oddity, but I can’t tell. Some of them give me a fair shake, some of them write me off immediately, all of them make verbal note of my minority status in their world. The last group rarely mean any harm. It’s natural to point out an aberration.

In every case, they always prove that if the world were a strip club, we could take over in a matter of seconds.

We are their most valuable commodity, and we will never be in short supply. Demand will never decrease. Men will always pay.

How we let you Boys take over the selling and the buying of us, I’ll never understand. Why we still seem to think that hiding our bodies under suits that look like yours is the only way to get ahead, I’ll never understand either. Actually, that one I understand. You still control the buying and the selling. Hence, the topography of our bodies commodifies us. Therefore, we hide it.

I usually picture the Beginning of Things like this:

At some point early on, you Boys started to get surly. You started to make rumblings about taking over the next village and so on and so forth. We looked at each other over the gaggle of babies in our midst, and the homefires we were tending, and rolled our eyes.

“Bless their hearts,” we said. “They’re just full of piss ‘n vinegar, now aren’t they? It’ll pass.”

And now we are looking around at our power suits and our burkas and head scarves and we’re like “WTF?”

But if the world were a strip club, you Boys would be on your knees. That is dependent, of course, on women regulating the industry. You Boys can’t be in charge of the buying and selling.

We all know that would never work. There’s too much to take care of, what with the world peace and global warming. We can’t be running around naked all the time. You Boys would bust a blood vessel, and we can’t have you overwhelming the Emergency Rooms. We’re going to need those for the 75 percent of the world that’s malnourished.

But don’t be surprise if you see my suits turn into dresses and my stare become just a scooch more lethal.

I’m sick of your shit. I want my piece of the pie back.

The below job description was posted on Craig’s List today at 5 p.m. We have already received a number of responses. For example, the young man who owns a Honda sport bike (hate sport bikes) and said that he is:

6′3″, 210 pounds, 34 inch waist, former college athlete.

Then he said that we should send him pictures so he could decide if we were a good match for him. If we were, he promised to reciprocate with his own picture. Which I’m sure would feature him with no shirt on.

There are two responses that are possible soul mate material. They will need to be reviewed before action is taken.

Seeking Two Single Men With Motorcycles, OFFER GOOD FOR SUMMERTIME ONLY

Employers: Two comedically-gifted-cute-as-a-bug-in-a-rug girls seeking summer flings to accompany them on outdoor weekend adventures, happy hours, barbeques, sex-filled evenings and other such summertime-like events; please come equipped with own motorcycle, extra helmet and acceptable degree of normalness.

Scope of Work: Summer Fling should be fun and engaging, enjoy presence of others and taking creative outings during time off, including thinking of ideas for creative outings, such as kayaking, etc. Summer Fling should expect to do all kayak paddling by self. Summer Fling should not be opposed to mild to moderate public displays of affection, as key part of summer fling is holding hands at happy hour and while walking. Summer Fling should be prepared to have fun at all times and cause zero strife. Summer Fling should be virile, confident and a scooch domineering, and understand that domination cannot take place out of bedroom. Summer Fling will also take assigned girl on regular motorcycle rides; however, if Summer Fling is only equipped with bike, Summer Fling must ride assigned girl around on handle bars as condition of contract. If no form of bike is available, piggy-back rides are an acceptable alternative, although Summer Fling will still be expected to provide helmet.

Compensation: As described above, Summer Fling will be enriched by one of the two comedically-gifted-cute-as-a-bug’s ear girls.

Duration of Contract: Contract expires at 11:59 p.m., Labor Day, 9/03/07, or after last Labor Day barbeque, whichever comes first.

Please apply in comments section.

“Dude, I’m getting really serious about this,” she said.

It never occurred to me that she wasn’t.

“I even Netflix-ed a documentary on it,” she said. “That’s insane.”

Bitch, please. Everyone Netflixes documentaries about their life calling. How else are we supposed to find out it’s our life calling if we don’t watch documentaries about it? Why do you think I’ve seen Tomb Raider 12 million times?

Honestly.

“Ok, but I don’t think they want me. I basically have none of the skills or background that they require,” she said.

Again, bitch, please. Since when does anyone not want us? And who do they think they are anyway? The king of England? Because he wants us too.

The FBI is dying to take us.  

We do not actually possess any of the experience, education or skills the FBI considers to be the necessary foundation for entering the academy, as she pointed out. However, we find this to be nothing more than a bullshit detail. “Foolish consistencies are the hobgoblins of small minds,” said Ralph Waldo Emerson. And that’s exactly what we think of the requirement-shit. FOOLISH CONSISTENCY.

That is how you get the attention of any rogue FBI/CIA agents that may be cladestinely monitoring your Internet activity. You write in all caps. But seriously, everyone knows that. (NOT REALLY, JUST US.)

“I’m actually planning on going to an FBI career fair tomorrow,” she said. “How insane is that? That’s not ok. Why am I so obsessed with this? And what am I supposed to wear?”

“Ok, what you wear is totally key,” I said. ”I actually feel like we both need to go and wear vintage spycoats and big sunglasses and fedorahs and run around hiding behind pillars. Then, we can go up to them and be like, ‘Did you see us just then?’ and if they say no, then we can be like, ‘That’s right, bitches, where do we sign up?”

Jesus, that plan is brilliant.

“I don’ t know,” she said. “I feel like a black suit and an overly-starched white shirt are in order.”

“Possibly.” Then I remembered that Nancy Drew always word plaid skirts and knee-high socks and realized I may need to change my whole approach.

“Ok, but the training for the FBI is really hard,” she said. “It’s basically like becoming a marine.”

Why does she always have to be so pragmatic? This is about thinking outside the box and USING OUR COLLECTIVE GENIUS TO CONQUER OBSTACLES.

Because I can’t raise my heart rate or sweat. Ever. Hence, marine training is out.

“Can’t we just be desk officers or something?,” I asked. ”Do you really have to be in the shape of a marine to Google stalk people?”

“I don’ t know, but I think it would suck to be a desk officer. We want to be field agents.”

“Hmmmm, yeah, I think we’d have to work our way up to that, and I can’t do that,” I said. “I just want to be a field agent. No working my way up or whatever. Maybe we could be like Mata Hari.”

Mata Hari was that saucy little belly-dancing whore who used her belly dancing skills to bilk secrets out of French and German officers (depending on who was paying) during World War I.

We love Mata Hari.

“Maybe we could just start the Seduction Unit,” I said.

“I don’t know about that,” she answered. “That seems like a risky business with all the disease in the world.”

“No, we don’t have to actually sleep with anybody,” I said. “We can just wear really well-fitted suits and low-cut shirts and use our feminine ways to get men to tell us all their secrets and then later rule the world.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that,” she said. “There are some very slimy men in the world and we might have to seduce them.”

“That’s the thing, we never have to come in contact with them. This is all dependent on really well-fitted suits and low-cut shirts. Cleavage and female sexuality is the most ignored, under-used resource in the world. If we ever got it together and started using our sexuality to our advantage, we would rule the world in like five minutes. Men know it too, that’s why they keep trying to cover us up and demonize our hymen. BUT I WOULD NEVER LET MY FEMINIST VIEWS COMPROMISE MY DEDICATION TO THE JOB, ONLY FURTHER IT.”

On that note, she went back to being pragmatic.

“Ok, it also says that you almost always work alone, unless you are on a major case, and very few agents work their way up to that. So no partners,” she said.

“So we can’t be posted together?” I said. “I don’t know how I feel about that. I feel like our seduction powers are depleted if we are away from each other.”

Sometimes it takes more than one cleavage. On the really tough ones, anyway.

“Also, they don’t really want French speakers,” she said.

That’s bad for us. We are French speakers. And English. We speak English fluently.

“I can’t believe they don’t have a place for French speakers,” she said. “You can’t tell me that French people don’t commit crimes.”

French people are also really into cleavage too, from what I hear. I don’t know where I heard that from, but MY SIXTH SENSE WHICH IS OF X-MEN-LIKE QUALITY tells me it’s true.

“Ok, when you go to that career fair, tell them about the Seduction Unit,” I said. “I feel like they would be really in to that.”

“I’ll be sure to run it by them,” she said.

“Also, hide behind a pillar when you tell them. Then ask them if they knew it was you. That will show them how covert you are.”

See? We are good.

Of course the FBI wants us.

EVERYONE WANTS US.

First let me undo the top three buttons on your shirt.

Now I’ll lay my head on your chest.

It’s much better that way.

Shut the windows and turn the AC on, please. It’s hot. The thermostat says it’s 80 degrees in here.

Who really wants to do it when it’s 80 goddamn degrees?

Seriously.

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