Archives For Humor

My friend Dawn, who writes the blog Tales from the Motherland, invited me to a big blog party where we all flood the Interwebs with happiness and gratitude.

I met Dawn when I went to BlogHer. It was a magical meeting – we recognized one another in the lobby of the Hilton and screamed like hyenas. So, in honor of that cacaphonous connection, I’m writing this post.

The catch: We are supposed to come up with 50 things in 10 minutes.

People who read my blog know that even writing a post in one hour was hugely challenging. But I got amped up on caffeine and decided to Just Do It.

Here are 50 things that made me happy in 2015:

 

1. My kid, Little Dude. He’s a great big funny soul with a lion heart.

2. Music. I’m married to writing but I cheat with music.

3. My Brooklyn baseball hat.

FullSizeRender (3)

 

4. A great shade of red lipstick that doesn’t make me look like a deranged old lady.

5. This laptop. My partner in crime.

6. Writing. If I didn’t write my soul would implode.

7. BOOKS.

8. Books.

9. Did I say books?

10. Colors. Especially purple, but all of them. They make life interesting.

11. Patti Smith. She was a skinny, picked-on outcast who reinvented herself as something else. That sounds familiar…

12. My Guardian Angel. Bless.

11181221_112334669114768_9135750397875154779_n

 

 

13. Eminem

14. M&M’s.

15. The incredible birthday mixtape blog hop that Lizzi created for my birthday this year.

16. Good hair days.

18. The fact that I can be rebellious and defiant and skip a number if I want to. Freedom. Fuck you, #17.

19. Laughing. I do it frequently. It fights aging.

20. Orgasms. Ditto.

21. Flirting. Especially at a red light. Long enough to be fun, short enough to make a clean getaway with no complications.

22. Math. This year and every year. Give me a complex math problem and my brain lights up like a pinball machine.

23. My rock tee collection.

IMG_7162

 

 

24. Weight gain. Which is also something I loathe, but with it came breasts. I’m a REALLY late bloomer.

25. Blanket forts. My kid is King of the Blanket Forts.

IMG_9328

 

 

26. Lenny Kravitz. Still. Always

27. New York City. I had way too much fun there this year.

28. That my kid fell in love with art this year. A pivotal experience.

IMG_6873

 

 

29. Libraries. Nerd Central. Liking Star Wars doesn’t make you a nerd. Hanging out at the library does.

30. WordPress. They make me feel like a rock star. They recently included me in a New Year’s Blog resolution round up. 

31. Spotify. Whatever music I want, where I want it.

32. My new car – a Nissan Rogue. I know nothing about cars, and I totally I bought it because I like the name “Rogue.”

33. My guitar.

IMG_6577

 

34. The high school kids who recently let me join their band.

35. Roku. I may never leave the house again.

36. The fact that nerd culture is now cool. It wasn’t always.

37. Superhero pajamas.

11891171_119832365031665_6231250025159449758_n

 

38. A black slouchy beanie that my kid says makes me look like one of the Seven Dwarves but is incredibly warm.

39. Kurt Cobain. Specifically, a documentary about him called Montage of Heck.

40. The kind of movie that you get a movie hangover from. See number 39.

41. I’m grateful for teenagers, and for being emotionally stunted enough to still feel like one.

42. The fact that my kid has not found me on the Internet. When he does, I’m fucked. For now, I can say whatever the hell I want on my blog and Facebook page, and I do.

43. French fries. One of the true great vehicles for ketchup.

44. Green drinks. They taste like swamp in a cup but I feel pretty great after I drink them.

45. Jason Bateman. He’s handsome, hilarious, and twisted.

46. The Sisterwives meetup in Dallas.

47. The fact that people READ WHAT I WRITE. And comment. Thank you.

48. Travel. That I live in a world where I can do it freely. This year I went to Nashville, Dallas, and am about to leave for Portland, Oregon for the holidays.

49. My mistakes. Holy shit, I made some HUGE ones this year. But the upside is, I won’t be making those again. And they give me something to write about. People love a good debacle not of their own making.

50. This song. Chills.

 

What things were you happy about in 2015? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Join me on FacebookInstagram, and Twitter  so I can have friends without leaving the house. 

 

 

If you’d like to join in, here’s how it works: set a timer for 10 minutes; timing this is critical. Once you start the timer, start your list (the timer doesn’t matter for filling in the instructions, intro, etc). The goal is to write 50 things that made you happy in 2015, or 50 thing that you feel grateful for. The idea is to not think too hard; write what comes to mind in the time allotted. When the timer’s done, stop writing. If you haven’t written 50 things, that’s ok. If you have more than 50 things and still have time, keep writing; you can’t feel too happy or too grateful!

When I finished my list, I took a few extra minutes to add links and photos.

To join us for this project: 1) Write your post and publish it (please copy and paste the instructions from this post, into yours). Click on the link below to join the party. 

Share your happy thoughts, your gratitude; help us flood the blogosphere with both!

 

Linkey thing here: http://www.inlinkz.com/new/view.php?id=592585

2009pitchfork_freaks

 

“You HAVE to come with me next time!” my college BFF slurred drunkenly over the phone from Little Rock, Arkansas. She was having a musical epiphany at a 3-day festival and called to let me hear some obscure band play over her iPhone.

No, actually, I don’t. I don’t want to go anywhere where I contract hepatitis from a porta potty.

The Internet has killed the retail music industry. Now, we must spend a gazillion dollars travelling to festivals to hear obscure genres like “sock puppet poon tang” and “tropical beaty bop-pop-a-roonie”

Music festivals aren’t for people who actually like music. They’re for people who want to get chemically annihilated in a humongous crowd while trawling for similarly wasted sexual partners. People who eschew silly amenities like food and water to camp out in the mud for a week. People who like to experience music as tiny insects a mile away, performing songs you have to watch on a Jumbotron. Sort of like watching them on YouTube, only far less comfortable.

Here are some of the music festivals I WON’T be going to. EVER.

 

COACHELLA

After you sell a lung to pay the $1000 to get in, it’s only a 50 mile hike –  in a 150-degree California desert sandstorm – to the festival entrance.

If you actually want to see a band, be prepared to stand for 12 hours in the blistering heat. Just be prepared for the Douche Brigade to come muscling their way to the front at the last minute. The 6-foot dude in a velvet patchwork top hat will plant himself right in front of you. Natch.

Coachella is a great place to feel body-shamed, in case you don’t already have that hangup. People train ALL YEAR for their “Coachella bodies” so they can wear as little clothing as possible. It’s crawling with skinny models dressed in Urban Outfitter’s finest. Fashion is foremost to these fringe-laden, hula-hooping, drugged-out hipsters.

If you do opt for clothing, Native American is de rigueur, which is French for “I look like an asshole.” You may not see any bands, but you’ll see oodles of molly-stoned millennials in Navajo Indian headdresses groping each other.

 

 

BURNING MAN

“The Burn,” as its cult devotees refer to it, is not really a music festival. It’s a week-long art festival which allegedly provides spiritual enlightenment in an obscure corner of the Nevada desert.

Event promoters describe it as a “radical experiment in self-expression,” but it’s 70,000 loonytunes camping out in the desert while engaged in Bacchanalian drinking, drugging and sex. Newbies are greeted with “WELCOME HOME!!” by seasoned burners with names like “Captain Pajama Pants.”

Burning Man is the antithesis to Coachella’s gym-honed perfection. Here you get leathery old bare-assed hippies, ravaged by time and psychotropic drugs. Middle-aged, middle class men in particular love to drop their inhibitions and their pants at Burning Man, so be prepared for a veritable cornucopia of naked testicles drooping like turkey wattles.

If you ARE dressed, you must be in a costume. Otherwise some self-righteous druggie perv with herpes on his lip, dressed as the big rat from Chuck E Cheese, will lecture you on participation.

I’d love to trip balls in the desert and dance around dressed in nothing but a python and duct tape over my nipples, but I have a life, a kid and I job. I can’t pencil in a trip to the desert to get so high I shit myself.

The grand finale of this hippie-flavored shindig is the burning of the actual 60-foot wooden Burning Man. I enjoy a good orgasm of flames and destruction as much as the next pyro, but I’m not interested in being asphyxiated while 70,000 frenzied stoners perform the hippie version of a Ku Klux Klan rally.

Not if I have to sign a waiver that reads:
“I acknowledge and fully understand that as a participant, I will be engaging in activities that involve risk of serious injury, including permanent disability and death.”

 

 

ELECTRIC DAISY CARNIVAL

If you’re wondering who the hell listens to that soulless, inhuman, repetitive nonsense known as “EDM” (electronic dance music), they’re all here.

Electric Daisy Carnival is a souped up, super-size rave, for people who don’t realize that raves have been over for two decades. It was cool when it was an “underground secret warehouse” culture, but like anything else that’s been commercialized, it’s a ferocious, brutal appropriation conveniently adapted for mass consumption. It’s rave folklore packaged for your 14-year-old kid.

Electric Daisy Carnival is a stage in a parking lot, full of kids with suckers in their mouths and gas masks on, getting obliterated. For three days, the same three minutes of music plays on repeat. Teeny boppers sporting knee-high fake fur and tutus have no clue what they’re listening to. All they care about is taking selfies as they flash peace signs and make duck faces.

And then there are the “Bros.” The frat boys who once inebriated themselves to Dave Matthews Band are now wearing neon tank tops with “TURN UP” in block letters and careening around to Deadmau5. The ‘roided up bro culture loves aggressively loud music they can break into gorilla-ish fights to.

And the line up? It sounds like porn. All these DJs have sex-toy names. Max Enforcer, Dirtyphonics, Gigamesh, Delta Heavy. I don’t want to listen to music made by people who sound like menacing dildos.

The EDM industry is a music industry cash cow. They’re repackaging old techno as something new and selling it to an audience who doesn’t know any better. Of course the music sounds good when you’ve lined your nasal passages with pure crystallized MDMA. I could play “Gangnam Style” in a room full of EDM fans blown up on Molly,  and by the second verse I guarantee each and every one of them would be having the time of their lives. By the end of the song I could convince them it was actually a symbolic anthem regarding the struggle of a divided Korea.

You can do ingest all the drugs you want, but for fuck’s sake, don’t let those substances convince you that Electric Daisy Carnival is the event of a lifetime. You’re just ball-hair blasted and listening to a glorified Mrs. Pac-Man soundtrack.

 

Would you camp out in the woods at these events? What music festivals won’t you be attending? 
When did I get so old that these festivals are no longer fun? 
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

 

 

Join me on FacebookInstagram, and Twitter  so I can have friends without leaving the house. 

ferrismuseum

 

Anyone who believes that their high school years were the best years of their life has probably repressed those heinous memories and replaced them with delusional fantasies. Or else you were head cheerleader/captain of the football team.

Congratulations! You peaked in high school. Everything was downhill after that.

 

In the 1980’s I would have donated my spleen for a high school experience that even remotely resembled any one of John Hughes’ teen movies. I spent my high school years double dipped in emo, sobbing my black eyeliner off to New Order songs. I even faked being vegan.

As an adult, I realized that these movies are culturally iconic masterpieces which contain essential adult life lessons. Everything I need to know about life, I learned from a John Hughes movie.

 

Fun is Essential

Ferris Bueller knew this when he played hooky from school, in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Fun is a powerful respite from life’s challenges. Life is short, so PLAY!

Of course, we can’t all end up atop a parade float in downtown Chicago, like Ferris. Instead, go swimming in icy cold water and experience the exhilaration of hypothermia! Spend the entire day speaking only in quotes from The Godfather. Run around in a forest, pretending to be a magical creature and beat other people with a latex sword.

Just try not to do anything than lands you in jail or the ER.

And leave the gun – take the cannoli.

 

Be Unique

In Pretty in Pink, wrong-side-of-the-tracks girl Andie Walsh dresses in her own unique, if not bizarre, style.

For the love of God, DON’T GOOGLE PRETTY IN PINK! I’ve warned you about Lady Google, have I not? Google is no longer a search engine and is now the gateway to a pornographic den of iniquity.

Back to Andie – yes, she often dressed as though she was impersonating her own grandmother. And her homemade prom dress at the end – is she going to the prom, or taking the helm as Captain of the USS “What the Fuck?”

BUT- she is an original.

I googled it for you. Because I love you.

I googled it for you. Because I love you.

 

The suburban fashion police patrolling my neighborhood want me in Lululemon and Louis Vuitton. I prefer shopping at Hot Topic for rock tee shirts and superhero underwear.

Like Andie, I dress to express my individuality. Most importantly, I feel safe knowing that Spider Man is guarding my crotch.

 

Perfection Sucks

“Screws fall out all the time, the world is an imperfect place.” So says teen delinquent John Bender of The Breakfast Club, in this classic quote.

Perfection is unattainable, and chasing after it is boring. People with messy, beautifully flawed lives seek adventure. Those women at the supermarket who are perfectly coiffed and accessorized at 9 am? BORING. Imperfection gives people character. Every time you fail, you get stronger and more enlightened.

 And epic failure gives you something spectacular to write about.

 

Age is Only a Number

In Pretty In Pink, Andie defies societal attitudes towards age. Her best female friend is the quirky, 30-something record store manager where she works. At home, Andie has a complete role reversal – she is the “adult,” caring for her father.

We are who we are inside – not the number assigned to us because of birth year. I prefer life through youth-colored glasses. Which is a nice way of saying I never matured past 15.

My only concern is that in another year or two, my 12 year-old kid will totally outgrow me.

 

You’re Stronger Than You Think

Andie is devastated when rich heartthrob Blaine retracts his prom invite. Yet she plans to go herself, “so they know they didn’t break me.”

You have more strength and resilience than you realize. You may think you can’t handle it, but whatever it is, you CAN. Face life’s challenges head on, like Andie preparing to march her bad-ass self into the freaking prom, SOLO.

Don’t let it break you! Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger! And whatever kills you – well, you’re dead. So it’s irrelevant.

 

Good Man/Bad Boy

So, you’re madly in love with a man whose neck tattoos scream “I may not cook meth but I know a guy.” Marrying him is risky, no doubt.

However, a good man CAN be a bad boy. And bad boys are FUN.

John Bender was the quintessential bad boy hottie. But his vulnerability is a precious gem glistening underneath the gymnasium floor of The Breakfast Club. When we finally recognize his desperate need to be loved, we see the good man who will eventually claw his way out from under all that pent-up pain and cry-for-help rage.

 

Life Is Right Now

We spend our lives waiting for that amazing thing that’s going to happen someday. But life is right now – a whole chain of small, glorious, ‘right nows.’ John Hughes depicted ordinary people in everyday circumstances, living small, beautiful moments.

One of my favorites is in Ferris Bueller, when Cameron, Ferris’s best friend, loses himself by staring intently at a painting in the Chicago Art Institute.

Or maybe it’s the tender kiss over a birthday cake at the end of Sixteen Candles.

Simple, small moments as light as breath, as constant as a heartbeat.

 

 Don’t Let Your Heart Die

All the characters in The Breakfast Club hope desperately not to turn out like their parents. And yet, it’s inevitable, says eccentric outcast Allison. Because “when you grow up, your heart dies.”

DON’T LET YOUR HEART DIE. EVER.

Keep your heart as alive and full of magic as when you were a teenager. Have crushes. Stay up all night.  Get drunk and vomit all over your friends (okay maybe not that one).Take chances. Dream. Love.

Love is the ultimate expression of life. The protagonists of all John Hughes movies are united in their quest for love. And in his movies, love wins.

It’s an ideal worth living for.

 

*This post is dedicated to my sweet Lizzi, who reminds me all the time that #LoveWins. Really. 

 

What was high school like for you? Was it anything like these movies? 
Have you learned any useful life lessons from a movie? Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Join me on Facebook so I can have friends without leaving the house! I’m also on Instagram

lion-blog revised

 

Little Dude recently received the date for his bar mitzvah, which will be in November of 2016.

We’ve decided to fly 150 people to Africa to go on a Wildebeest Migration Safari on the Serengeti. For the ceremony, LD will arrive on the back of an elephant surrounded by authentic members of the Maasai tribe.

The tribal leader will cry out the opening lyrics to “The Lion KIng,”

“NANTS INGONYAMA BAGITHI,

SITHI UHM INGONYAMA!!!”

 

I’ve hired animal trainers to help reenact the opening scene to the movie. Little Dude will be dangled over a cliff by a wizened baboon as the rest of the animal kingdom bows to him.

From there, he’ll recite Hebrew prayers so we can return to rented huts for champagne and bagels.

 

Jk.

 

A bar (or “bat” for girls) mitzvah is a Jewish coming-of-age ceremony. It celebrates graduation from Hebrew school and marks a child’s emergence into the adult world of Judaism,

Blah blah blah… everyone knows it’s really all about THE PARTY!

 

A photo album is made, just like a wedding album.

This is a typical staged photo from a 1960’s bar mitzvah album:

WLnCEWg

“Son, today you are a man. I present to you this family treasure. Your Grandfather, myself and now you will enjoy these fine ladies. Go forth and MASTURBATE.”

 

 

I recently shared on Facebook that one of my students had a Sweet Sixteen which cost her parents over $60,000. She hosted 300 people at an upscale, celebrity-studded restaurant in Manhattan. Each of her two dresses cost about $2500.

Her parents even hired Fetty Wap to appear. Fetty Wap, which sounds like the act of slapping someone in the face with a flaccid penis, is actually a super hot rapper with a slew of hits.

Nicki Minaj wasn’t available. She was booked for a bar mitzvah that day.

 

nikki minaj 2

Rich Catholic boys everywhere are now converting to Judaism

 

 

The truth is, even if we were billionaires, it would not be my style to throw a million dollar bar mitzvah for my kid.

Okay. Hold up.

If we were BILLIONAIRES, I might splurge and pay to restore what used to be CBGBs, and is now a John Varvatos store, to its former seedy glory as CBGBs for the night. And have the party there.

The point I’m trying (and failing miserably) to make is that it’s ludicrous to throw such extravagant parties for children. It stinks of entitlement and conspicuous consumption.

And all that money! Instead of throwing a 4 hour party, you could feed an entire starving Ethopian village.

 

Multimillionaire David H. Brooks spent TEN MILLION DOLLARS for his daughter’s bat mitzvah. The party was dubbed, “Mitzvahpalooza,” because Brooks had a stage built, brought in jumbotrons, and installed special concert carpeting.

He hired old AF musicians Steven Tyler and Joe Perry from Aerosmith, The Eagles’ Don Henley and Joe Walsh, Fleetwood Mac’s Steve Nicks, and Tom Petty. And since this was allegedly a party for kids, he also hired DJ AM, Ciara, and 50 Cent.

Kenny G serenaded the guests on sax during cocktail hour.

Kenny FUCKING G? I would have had to get naked wasted to block out the soulless horse excrement that Kenny G passes as music.

I wasn’t even a little bit sad to read that five years later, Brooks was found guilty of insider trading. He was sentenced to 17 years in prison but I still think his biggest crime was hiring KENNY WANKING G.

 

 

A huge trend is creating elaborate videos for the bar mitzah invitation. This one I posted below is MORTIFYING. I HAD to share this with you. It went viral, which now completely ruins for me the entire concept of “going viral.”

I don’t believe in being judgey about how people spend their money, or especially about kids and how they look or sound.

HOWEVER – I hereby temporarily retract that belief.

This kid is a chubby tone-deaf ginger with a voice that sounds like someone tied rubber bands around his balls. The icing on this cake of shame is that he strips to almost naked at the end.

This video doesn’t fill me with Judaic pride. It makes me want to tie this dingleberry to a chair and shoot him repeatedly with a BB gun.

 

Look, I can appreciate that kids want to mark their Judaism in a passionate and creative way. But these over-the-top theatrics make a mockery of the religion.

And distastefully extravagant affairs, of all kinds, seem to be merely a show of affluence and pointless one-upmanship. They’re driven by parents who want to prove that they’ve “made it” and exploit their children’s rites of passage as the vehicle

 

 

Most families, upon receiving the bar mitzvah date a year in advance, start planning in a frenzy. The mothers in particular go crazy, not just interviewing caterers and florists and DJs but also booking face lifts and personal trainers.

I won’t be hiring strippers to pole dance around my kid at his bar mitzvah. I recognize that he’s been working hard, attending Hebrew school since he was 8. So it will still be a celebration of all that he’s accomplished. But not something I need to start planning a year in advance.

I have, however, been threatening – for years – to perform Napoleon Dynamite’s entire talent show dance in front of a crowd.

Little Dude’s bar mitzvah might be just the place.

 

What the hell is going on with these parties?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

 

Ooh! I have a Facebook page! Come over and like me so I can have friends without ever leaving the house.

I’m also on Instagram

Women Drivers SUCK

September 17, 2015 — 85 Comments
Dangerous Driving

\

Look, lady in the parking lot,

I understand the frenzied pace of your suburban itinerary, as you hurtle from Nordstrom’s Anniversary sale to an anal bleaching appointment.

So why don’t you put down the cell phone, and use BOTH hands to wrangle your tricked-out Yukon XL Denali out of a tight parking spot? You forked over a lotta money to have motorized cup holders and tri-zone climate control. Why risk banging up your land yacht?

I’ve never EVER seen a man pull that move

I’m not saying there are no bad male drivers. But I’ve NEVER witnessed a man multitask at the wheel that hard. Women are famous for their extra car-ricular activities.

To be fair, I have seen men shave on their way to work. And I once saw a man in a fur collared overcoat brushing his teeth while negotiating the Belt Parkway. But this was Brooklyn, where proof that evolution can go in reverse lives strong.

I’m guilty of multitasking at the wheel, but only for the essentials. Finding a suitable playlist on Spotify, or downloading porn.

Women also get territorial over desirable parking spots. Men don’t circle over parking spots like vultures hovering over a desert carcass. Parking lots at upscale supermarkets in suburbia are treacherous. Put a gaggle of frenzied housewives in a crowded parking lot at dinner time and it becomes the gladiator amphitheatre at Pompeii.

 

Since I am a woman, it begs the question, does my driving suck? Well, let’s just say I’m an “aggressive” driver. Not in a hostile way. In a “slice through traffic because I have places to go” kind of way.

I always seem to get stuck behind these kind of people:

What a nice and sunny day, Martha, let’s drive super slow and listen to Enya.”

But Harold, this woman behind us seem like she’s obviously in a hurry. Shouldn’t we rather pull over and have some tea instead, so she can pass?

Oh, fuck YOU, Martha. I’m sick of your shit. Fuck your tea in its fucking face.”

 

I’ve gotten into more than my share of accidents. Not because I’m careless as much as distracted. I have gotten into accidents pulling out of my own driveway on three separate occasions. All because I forgot to open the garage door first. Oopsie.

I also have a tendency to side swipe the garage door jamb as I’m backing out and clip the passenger side rear view mirror. I’ve ripped that sucker off a few times. It has been suggested to me that I have some issues with my spatial sense.

Which is why I’m known as being “hard” on cars. I would never drive recklessly, particularly if my kid is in the car. But I’m not a baby about banging up against a curb while parking at a strip mall. I have things to do! Slurpees to buy! It’s just the front bumper of my car. It will survive.

 

I actually love to drive. I got my first car when I was 30,  which is also when I learned to drive. As a teenager, my first car was the bus.

Living in New York, there’s really very little need to own a car. My Ex got me my first car for Christmas when we were dating, so I could drive to his house in New Jersey. I went to driving school in the city, so I drive like a New Yorker. Which means I ignore lanes and cuss like an Armenian taxi driver.

I’m also a virtuoso parallel parker. That’s the only kind of parking that exists in Manhattan. Why do all the suburbanites get their dicks in a blender over parallel parking? How hard is it to:
1. Pull up next to the car in front of the spot.

2. Back up, aiming for the center of the spot.

3. Once your car is actually pointed at the center of the spot, straighten out.

It’s easy peezy, lemon squeezey. Why must Drivers Ed make a Wagnerian epic out of parallel parking, complete with those whore cones in some byzantine configuraion?

 

Perhaps women would get better at driving if they actually DROVE places. The majority of suburban women I know will drive locally, but that’s about it.

If I mention that I’m driving into the city with Little Dude for the day, women will ask me, “Alone?”

“No. I just said, I’m taking my kid.”  “But you’re driving YOURSELF? No MAN is driving you?”

 

What IS that? Is that some kind of learned helplessness? This whole phenomenon where women don’t want to drive long distances? It unnerves them if they have to drive over a bridge OMG and get on major highways.

Does having a labia prevent you from merging onto a highway?

I’ve driven long distances countless times. I can do the drive from New Jersey to Boston, which is where my BFF lives, with my eyes closed. As a matter of fact, I’ve driven it with my eyes closed.

Driving is freedom. I can throw my kid in the car, put on music, and go anywhere. I’ve done road trips as far as from New York to Florida. It’s unthinkable to me to depend on a Y chromosone to get places.

 

The idea that women drivers suck is not just a stereotype; or if it is, well, stereotypes exist for a reason, don’t they? It’s a globe trotting cliche. In South Korea, there are female – only parking spots, which are wider. They’re also outlined in pink and have a miniskirt logo.

 

People speculate constantly as to why men appear to be better drivers than women. One common belief is that men are better at focusing on a single task, while women are the better multi-taskers. although, not actually IN the car. There’s also the theory that men have a better spatial sense, which works for me and that ever widening smear of white garage paint on my front right bumper.

Personally, I think men are better drivers because they tend to enjoy the actual task of driving, whereas women just want to get to wherever they’re going. For men, it’s a journey. For women, it’s a destination.

In other words, it’s the opposite of how both genders feel about sex.

 

Do you think women drivers suck? How good of a driver are you?
Can you parallel park?
Are there any warrants for your arrest for unpaid traffic tickets?
Talk to me. I’m listening.