baserinstincts

Vex Money

Vexed (adj.) - 1. Irritated, distressed, or annoyed

2. troubled persistently especially with petty annoyances
The concept of “vex money” was explained to me by my mother and is just one of many jewels given to me by her that I treasure.

All of the women in my family, on both sides, are fiercely independent.

There weren’t really many men around and the women made getting by without them look so very easy (and in fact preferable). I guess I always sort of had the idea growing up that men cramp your style (except during a couple of boy crazy phases during junior high and high school).

Anyway, one day as my mother was cooking (something that didn’t happen often so I remember it well) she said to me “Desi, never go out with a man unless you have money.”

I made some comment about that defeating the purpose and she just repeated herself more forcefully. “Even if he’s taking you out, you should not be going out with him if you’re broke. You must always have your vex money!” It was her way of telling me to make sure I had an out if my date ended up pissing me off.

I laughed it off then but it stuck with me.

My mother’s sound advice proved itself as such again recently when I was on a first date with a seemingly very sweet guy.

This sweet guy just seemed to be a little too fond of liquor for my taste.

For one, I could tell when I met up with him that he’d already been drinking for the better part of the evening.

It wasn’t long into the date that he was slurring his speech and talking in circles. He was amused by everything and as for me, well I wasn’t amused in the least. I suggested to him gently that he slow down a bit. He waved me off and ordered another martini.

Now had I not followed my mother’s advice I’d have been shit out of luck as far as getting home. See, he had promised to send me home in a cab whenever I was ready to go. But as the night went on, he got so trashed that I don’t even think he noticed when I just left and hailed a cab my damn self.

Now I know that on the whole women are independent and doing more than well for themselves. But there are still quite a few who depend entirely on a man in social situations. I mean depend on them enough to leave the house with an empty wallet and no way to get home.

It would be nice if sometimes we didn’t have to worry and let them take care of everything and yes, on occasion you can find one who’s happy to without being a creep.

But the truth is you just can’t put your stock in a man to take care of you. And yes that includes a simple dinner and cab home.

And what if he does turn out to be a creep or worse a lecherous bastard? What if he tries to feel you up (assuming that’s not what you want)? What if he’s on something or in my case extremely drunk?

Do you really want to leave yourself at his mercy?

You could end up like my cousin who got asked out on a date by a seemingly sweet guy. They had a great time. And when the check came he waited quite obviously for her to pull out her wallet (this same guy incidentally was with her some time later when his car got towed…he borrowed a couple hundred dollars from her to get his car back and she hasn’t seen a dime of it yet).

So I never assume a man is going to pay for me or make sure I get home safely.

And I always carry my vex money.

My Own Private Hillary

I feel for Hillary.

I’m not saying that I am a Hillary supporter per se.

I, in fact, didn’t vote for her in the primaries.

I do wonder, however, just how much of her perceived shortcomings and personality flaws have anything to do with her as a person.

Or does she get a bad rap because she’s a woman?

I sought to find out why Hillary inspires such strong feelings and such strong rhetoric.

I came across this article and it really brought it home for me.

There are many interesting points but this quote really summed up what I was looking for:

“Some of the more common adjectives hurled at Hillary are familiar to any high-achieving female. And, sure, the woman known in high school as “Sister Frigidaire” faces all the glass-ceiling, woman-in-a-man’s-job, underestimated, underpaid, overworked gender guff that also frustrates senators Olympia Snowe and Mary Landrieu. But what makes our reaction to her far more extreme? More than any other public figure, Hillary forces us to acknowledge that the path to power for American women is not all that clear, more an odyssey than a march…Ask your friends if their fear and loathing of Hillary has anything to do with her being a woman, and you’ll undoubtedly get a denial.”

It must suck to have people doubt your capabilities for no other reason than you were born with a slit.

And I truly feel that that is the gist of it. Hillary’s less admirable characteristics wouldn’t really be a big deal if she were a man.

And I know just how she feels.

I got promoted at work this past week.

It boggles my mind that in the four years this location of my company has been doing business, I’m the first woman to hold the position I hold now.

When I first began work in this department, I entered into a serious boys club. Having worked primarily with women for the entirety of my work history, I had quite a bit of adjusting to do. But adjust I did and I eventually earned the respect of my co-workers.

Well, most of them.

I found my victory (beating out two male candidates) to be bittersweet.

“Congratulations sweetie,” one coworker, who was now in effect my subordinate, said to me. “I’m so proud of you.”

Proud of me? I wondered if he would have said that if any of the guys had been offered the job. He made it sound like I beat the odds or something.

There was nothing for him to be proud of.

I worked hard to get where I was. I was the most knowledgeable and qualified candidate.

Period.

Another coworker, one of the guys who’d applied for the position as well and again was now my subordinate, quipped about how sexy women in power were and alluded to being willing to offer me sexual favors in exchange for a raise or promotion.

Was I in the twilight zone?

Just today, one of the guys almost bumped into me and then remarked snidely “Oh, I don’t want to hit the first lady.” A political debate ensued between him and another coworker, during which he states emphatically “America doesn’t want a female President.”

America, for him at that moment, was our department and that female president he resented so was me.

There was my boss (well he’s no longer my boss as we’re on the same level now), who tried with all his might to convince the panel not to vote for me (or so I’m told…the particulars of post-interview deliberation are not to be discussed once interviews are over but the scoop inevitably always leaks) saying that I was unreliable and that I was “too emotional”, but publicly, in the weeks leading up to the interviews, he was the absolute pillar of support.

And then there’s the Big Boss, who made no secret of his doubts on whether I could handle the job, even as he was offering it to me. I had to wonder if he’d have hit any of the male candidates with the same spiel.

And so instead of feeling great about my career and more confident in my abilities, I ended up feeling dubious and anxious.

I got over it though and decided the best revenge would be to prove them all wrong (bloody ignorant naysayers, the lot of them).

This speaks to a much bigger issue of course. Women in the workplace still don’t get the respect (and in many cases, the money) they deserve, even when they prove themselves, their brilliant, competent selves, time and time again.

Brilliant, competent women in the workplace are called bitches. Crazy bitches.

Brilliant, competent men in the workplace (and even men with talent that’s mediocre at best) are called CEO’s.

Bush Revolution

I don’t shave my bush anymore.

There was a time that, and certainly more for whichever guy I was with more so than for myself, I’d diligently shave every week before graduating to dreaded Brazilian waxes every month (incidentally, if you must wax, I recommend J’adore Day Spa in midtown, great work for less than half the price of J sisters).

The effect was nice at first. I marveled at the smoothness of it, the utter exposure making me feel innocent and dirty at the same time.

But I got over that shit real fast.

Ingrown hairs are neither cute nor fun to have and it seemed I was prone to them despite my best efforts to follow the salon’s instructions. I misted with azulene oil and exflolited everyday. But inevitably, my cooch went from pretty and smooth to looking like an adolescent smack dab in the middle of a bad acne breakout.

And that’s before the itching starts.

The horrible, intense itching that will have you very tempted to put your hand down your pants in public places without shame. The itching that makes you walk funny or duck behind objects that you hope will obstruct the view as you reach under your skirt.

So why is a bald pussy so glamorized?

I read somewhere that beauty is pain. Oh well, guess I’ll be an ugly duckling then because after maybe a year of this I asked myself why I was torturing myself this way, especially when most men really don’t care if you’re bald or not. Sure they’ll notice, and yeah they like it and are excited by it but I’ve never once had a man say to me “Oh you’re not shaved, well then I just can’t fuck you”.

And if any of you ladies have heard something so vile, you’re better off without him.
If he doesn’t want you for you, bush and all, then do you really want to give it up to him?

The answer for me is no.

Take my hairy pussy or leave it.

If I’m ever reincarnated as a man…

…someone please remind me not to hang out of the window of my car(at 3 in the morning no less), yell “Hey girl” at a woman passing by and expect her to swoon.

Smile!

I know I run the risk of sounding like an angry black woman here.

But this is something that’s bothered me for ages.

An incident this morning on the train (ah yes, again with the lovely MTA) kicked off the whole thing.

So it’s about 4ish. I’m sitting and waiting for my train to
come. A gentleman comes along after awhile and he sits next to me.

I don’t look up but I can see out of my peripheral that he looks normal
enough.

He says good morning.

I mutter a barely audible good morning in reply.

He turns his head, his whole body even, toward me and, clearly
catching an attitude, repeats in a much louder voice, “I SAID good morning.”

I then, instantly annoyed, turn my head and torso toward him, look at him
dead on and said in the best angry black woman voice I can muster at 4
something in the fucking morning, “I SAID good morning as well.”

He retorts, “OK,that’s more like it.”

What the fuck?!?!

I mean if he was trying to get laid he just lost any slim chance he had to begin with.

I’m sure many other females have had this experience.

You’re having a not-so-bright-and-shiny day.

And it shows.

All over your face.

You walk by some man, who seems to think your sole existence on earth is to
smile at him as you go by and he says to you, “Smile.”

Am I the only one who finds this intensely annoying?

If I felt like smiling, then I’d smile.

I smile quite a lot in fact and all who know me can attest that I am generally a jovial sort of chick.

But I have my days, as anyone else does.

Give me that.

If I want to walk around with a screw face on well then that’s damn well my prerogative isn’t it?

If I don’t particularly want to engage in conversation with a complete stranger on the New York City subway at 4 in the morning, well you can understand that can’t you?

The thing that makes me bristle the most about this is that a man would never, ever say “Smile” to another man.

Another man can be angry, and men (and women) will just leave him be.

But I’m a woman, and so I must smile.

Some of y’all take this Adam’s rib business a bit too literally.

Woman is not an “extension of the man”. She’s an individual in her own right.

Meaning, if I don’t know you, especially if I don’t know you, I don’t owe you shit.

Not even a fucking smile.