I am also not, what one would call, "a gal's gal." Women, as a result of years of terror at the hands of mean girls/cheerleaders, scare me. They can say something really nicely but convey the intended message,"Bitch, you 'aint shit," which I disliked enough coming from Dr. Dre. Because of this, my default is to think of groups of women as rhinos that might charge at any moment, I might change my opinion upon getting to know someone, but I find it's better to be safe than sorry and I prefer to keep a safe distance. (For more thoughts on my views on women see: The Women)
I also, am not a gal's gal in the sense that domestic pursuits often allude me. (see: Domestic Angel) The way I cook, for instance, could never be featured in a magazine because I ignore recipes and never can duplicate the same effort twice. Also, as a single woman living alone with a cat, I cook rarely anymore. I am tempted to say I eat a lot of frozen dinners, but that's the lie I tell to make myself seem like more of an adult human, because a lot of times I can't even be bothered to pop in a Lean Cuisine. Instead, my dinner is some odd combination of tuna from the can, microwave popcorn, and jell-o pudding,
So ok, I get it. I need to grow up a little, I can't be scared of women forever--High School is over, right? I have a job, an apartment, and all my teeth--I need to streamline my life. Today, at Barnes and Noble, in an effort to do just that, I bought a "Slow-Cooker Cookbook" because I figured even I can dice some veggies the night before, slop it all together in the Crock Pot in the morning before work, and eat well when I get home. I felt very smug and self-satisfied and adult.
My first recipe choice was Turkey Goulash and despite reading the ingredients carefully and picking them up at Dorothy Lane Market (keepin' it classy) I of course, still forgot like half of the things I needed. I also had to defrost the rock-solid turkey which wasn't supposed to be frozen but weirdly was, so I popped it into the microwave in a pyrex measuring cup that I sometimes use to feed my cat. It all smells pretty good in that cooker though. Sadly, this Goulash endeavor will probably turn out a lot better than my attempt earlier this weekend to not be scared of new groups of women..
This weekend, I went to Cincinnati to hang out with my new boyfriend. I was meeting, for the first time, his group of friends. I was (I think understandably) pretty nervous. I don't care what romantic declarations are made to the contrary, if the friends don't like the significant other, the relationship ends pretty quick. I really liked his guy friends, they were all the things I like about Mike--sharp, funny, laid-back, and warm. In the group of guys and girls, I felt really comfortable. Everyone was joking and laughing, I felt included, etc. However, when the guys went down to watch football and I was left to chat with the women-folk, things went horribly awry. As always, when left on my own in female company, I managed to say all the wrong things. As soon as it was just me and the ladies I instantly felt like I felt when I was the chubby girl in Middle School that nobody liked and the girls made fun of, and I also suddenly became very aware of my arms. When I get nervous, I talk. And shit, did I talk. Hence this exchange:
Me: Cheerfully, to mask my feelings of supreme terror at being in a room with women I don't know. So wow, these guys and their "frat" thing. A little ridiculous, right?
Girl 1: Well you're probably like that about your sorority.
Me: ... I wasn't actually in a sorority.
Girl 2: A look of extreme pity ...Oh. It's really such a great way to network and make friends.
Me: Understanding I'm being judged and trying wildly to compensate and seem normal and well adjusted. I'm not really into the whole "sisterhood" thing. Plus, I want friends you don't have to pay for.
Girl 1 and 2: Looks of offense and disgust.
Me: Realizing this was the inappropriate venue to discuss my actual feelings about sororities and the weird things that happen when you get too much estrogen in a small space. Sorry.
I promise I'm not a bad person. Nor am I a bad cook. I just sometimes get this feeling that everyone is watching me, just waiting for me to fail so they can triumphantly say something to the effect of, "Clearly Annie, you don't belong here." And, clearly...