So researcher Carin Perilloux conducted a study on how men and women perceive attraction.  You can read the details here. Bottom line, the researchers found:

“Essentially, men who rated themselves high on attractiveness were more likely to overperceive women’s interest. The more attractive they actually were to women, however, the more likely they were to underperceive.”

Then there was a evolutionary psychology explanation for this phenomenon.  I tend to hate evo psych, because it doesn’t take into account the effects of culture and excuses men’s poor behavior by implying they are mindless automatons helplessly in thrall to urges encoded in their DNA. As if there were not thousands of years of civilization separating us from our caveman forebears. MENZ R DUMM.

But I have a funny story that relates to this study, which is really the only reason I brought it up in the first place.

During the spring of 2005, I was studying abroad in Paris.  One day I was having lunch in the university cafeteria.  (Side note: you could get a carafe of wine with your meal. EUROPE IS SO MUCH AWESOME.)  I was alone, which raised my chances of being hit on 1000%.  This older professor type was sitting across from me, and asked me to pass the water pitcher or something.  He noticed I had an accent and so I fell into my little song and dance routine of “Oh yes, I’m an American college student, here for the semester, Paris is beautiful, I didn’t vote for George Bush, etc etc, etc.” I was totally happy with making small talk, since well, I was there to work on my French.

At this point, I need to note a few details about him:

• He was short, around 5’5″ (I’m 5’10″).
• He had one of the most impressive comb-overs I have ever seen. And by impressive, I mean completely horrifying.
• He had a wall-eye, so at first I wasn’t even sure he was talking to me.
• He was at least 60 years old; I was 21.

We’re chatting away in French, and I’m being friendly and engaging, for a couple of reasons.  Most importantly, it’s the beginning of GWB’s second term, and I want to reverse, in my small way, the impression that Americans are brain-dead, reactionary cowboys.  Or that we’re fanny pack toting, white tennis shoe wearing obese tourists who yell in English instead of learning a few words in another language.  I have seen these people in the flesh and it’s horribly embarrassing. And again, I want to work on my French, so I take pretty much any opportunity to do so.  Finally, the possibility that he would hit on me seemed miniscule. Oh how naive I was.

After about 10 minutes of me praising the food in Paris and condemning the politics of the American commander in chief, my geriatric conversational partner finishes his meal and says something like “You know, you are very pretty. Would you like to go out for a drink?”

The Frenchwoman who had been not-so inconspicuously eavesdropping looked alarmed.  This was the ultimate in THINK FAST.  Not only do I have to turn this guy down, but I have to do it politely and IN ANOTHER FUCKING LANGUAGE.  I’m not above being bitchy, but it’s a real headspinner to have to switch from friendly mode to scorched earth mode.  Also I was probably a little drunk; see aforementioned carafe of wine.

Oh, the lies I wove.  I can’t recall exactly what I said, but it was some verbal tap-dancing like “Oh, that’s a nice offer, but I’m going to Italy this week and after that I’m going home, so really, I just can’t, but thanks though.”  IN FRENCH, BITCHES.  He seemed to accept it though.

After he left, the Frenchwoman leaned across the table and whispered to me, “Bien jouee.” (Well played.)  One of the best compliments I’ve ever had, to this day.  From a Frenchwoman, no less, and those gals are harsh.

I am cynical and bet that I will get comments saying that I should have gone out with him since he did me the honor of asking.  To that I say, SUCK IT HATERS. Would you go out with a bald woman 3 times your age just because she asked? I think not.

More seriously though, I think ugly men overrate their attractiveness because (GROSS GENERALIZATION ALERT) men don’t spend as much time evaluating their looks as women do.  They just don’t.  I can go into a room of women and instantly know where I stand on the comparative attractiveness scale. Do men do that? I don’t know, but I doubt it.

But of course, an ugly man will still get laid if he’s rich.  Since women are gold-diggers. Evolutionary psychology says so.

Thus, today was Hangover Day.  Hangover Day used to be Hangover Morning or Hangover Hour, but that was back in college when my liver was stronger.  It could benchpress its own weight!

Hangover Day is also Moping Day, and Bored and Lonely Day. I think it’s because I hurt just a bit too much to actually do anything, but I can still think about all the ways in which I am a dysfunctional human being.  And because I am still hungover, I don’t have the energy to actually do anything to address these issues.  It’s a vicious cycle.  The most productive thing I did today was go to Rite-Aid to buy TP.  (I actually really like browsing in [large, well-lit, clean] drug stores.  It’s like a cheap Sephora.  Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that Sephora is like an expensive drugstore.  Whatever, buying beauty products is a good way to feel better.  Especially those Biore pore strips.  I love Biore pore strips.)

Also, a Boy hasn’t returned a Call, and I am mindfucking that to death.  Stooopit Boys.  I would be much saner without them.  I have been whining about that one to just about everyone I know, including the crazy singing dude at the Ditmars stop on the N.  I would very much like to turn off the part of my brain that goes, “ZOMG! WHY has he not called me back! He hates me! Is he dead? Tied up in a basement by a psychotic ex? Did he see my ass fat?  Whyowhy?” over and fucking over, like a goddamned hamster on a wheel.  It’s so obnoxious.

Useless day.  I’m going to put on a face mask and go to bed.

I went to the Brooklyn Book Festival yesterday, which once again confirmed how much hipsters annoy me.  But I didn’t have any cash with me and I was mostly just hanging out with a visiting friend, so. Anyway, I did see one guy, probably the author, selling a book called It’s Just a Plant: A Story About Marijuana for Children.

Now, ok, I agree the drug laws in this country are beyond ridiculous, but it’s not exactly the hill I want to die on, and I don’t want the future, hypothetical fruit of my loins to die on it either. But that’s neither here nor there, as I’ve been amusing myself by making up the rest of the story:

“Sometimes, when a mommy and daddy are really stressed or bored, they might like to toke up. And that’s OK! Unlike vodka or crack, marijuana is a plant! That means it’s all-natural and good for you!”

“If you find the ends of roaches or empty baggies around the house, remember: throw them away! You never know who might be raiding your house next.”

“When people smoke marijuana, they get high. And then they get ‘the munchies.’ This means they want to eat! Make sure you have snack food out or the pizza delivery guy on speed dial before you smoke up.”

“And always remember, kids — don’t spill the bong water!”

Other books in the series:

It’s Just a Tap: A Children’s Story About Cruising for Sex

It’s Just a Van: A Story About Cruising for Children

What Did Sherlock Holmes and Sigmund Freud Have in Common: Cocaine Through the Years

perhaps a history series:

Slaves for God: Saving the Dark Continent

Get With the Pogrom! Ethnic Cleansing for Young & Old

Dragons Really Do Exist! A Child’s Introduction to the Klan

MediaMatters has the transcript and a video.

Not to call Tucker Carlson a liar…ok, I will, because it just seems rather unlikely that in the mid-80s, at the height of the AIDS hysteria, that a man would have just “grabbed” him out of nowhere. The foot-tapping signal that got Craig busted has apparently been around for decades.

And leaving to get a friend and coming back to beat the guy up? It’s not self-defense at that point. It’s assault.

Then there’s the adamant denials of gayness from b0th Scarborough and Carlson at the beginning of the clip. Jesus. How pathetic. It’s like, god forbid you even say the word “gay” without first swearing up and down that you aren’t gay, will never be gay. Get over yourselves, men.

And the Clinton reference….it was how many years ago now? And you people STILL won’t let it die. Let. It. Go.

Finally, I have to say that what bothers me about this whole thing is that people are so squicked out by a guy touching their foot in a bathroom stall, but women have to put up with far, far worse routinely.  And it’s just part of the status-quo.

I’m not saying that I’m drop-dead gorgeous, but there are blocks in my neighborhood that I can’t walk down with two or three yahoos whistling at me.  Every day, there’s some dork honking at me as he drives by.

Instead of a cop assigned to sit for hours in an airport john,  why don’t they go after cat-callers?   At least they’d be a lot busier.

Pronunciation: 'gA-d^&n-"froi-d&
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French gai, of Germanic origin; akin to Old High German gAhi quick, sudden + German , Freude joy
1 : When your friend comes out to you and you’re think, dude, I knew you were gay five seconds after I first met you;

2 : The hand-rubbing, cackling glee felt upon news that a Republican politician, with a history of supporting anti-gay legislation has plead guilty to solicitation in a men’s airport restroom.

I mean, it’s really almost too much for me to handle. I’ve been practically orgasmic with schadenfreude for the past few days. I mean, getting picked up for solicitation is a terrible way to get outed, unless of course you are a hypocritical, sanctimonious asshole who has made a career out of oppressing the very population he vehemently disavows. So my sympathy is rather non-existent.

So, I am rather looking forward to watching him burn on the pyre of public opinion. Also, it’s rather hysterical that he expects people to apparently believe he was just asking that cop for some toilet paper.

I may have previously mentioned that the Girl Roommate is a little crazy. Luckily, she’s crazy in an entertaining way, not anI-have-to-sleep-with-a-knife-under-my-pillow way.  A few days ago, we were both hanging around the apartment, watching TV, and she announces that she’s going to give herself a colonic.  Because “Ah’ve always wanted one, but Ah’m too cheap to go get one, so I got this stuff that my mom drank before her colonoscopy.”  Also, you can lose up to three pounds.

Yes.  I live with a girl whose life-long ambition, apparently, is to give her lower intestines that new fresh car smell.  I think my life has descended to new depths of absurdity.  I mean, not only does it sound gross and exceedingly uncomfortable, but I’m pretty sure the human digestive system, barring disease or physical damage, is actually quite efficient at expelling…waste.  But who knows?  Maybe she really needed that dime she swallowed back in 1987.

So, that’s how it came to pass that I was sitting on my couch, watching my roommate drink a bottle of cherry-flavored saline laxative.  And then get on the phone with her mom, because “Ah’m drinking this stuff, and Ah think it’s the right one but it doesn’t make me puke and you said it made you puke.  I could drink this all night!”

I love my mom, but one of the tacit rules underpinning our relationship is that THERE SHOULD BE NO DISCUSSING OF THE POOP! NO NONONOnononono! NO!

I went to bed while she was still on the couch, complacently flipping through Entertainment Weekly.  I didn’t want to witness the “poop party.”

The world’s oldest father, Indian farmer Nanu Ram Jogi says, “I eat all kinds of meat – rabbits, lamb, chicken and wild animals.”

Dude’s 90.   90.  My grandparents are younger than he is.

BARF.

I’m fighting a mental war with myself to go back and edit what I have.  I am almost a third of the way to my word goal, but I know what I have is disjointed and inconsistent.  But that way lies madness.  I keep telling myself that.

(Sadly,  Hottie Barista Boy doesn’t work here anymore, as of two days ago.  Sadness.  Thought it is funny how totally deranged I sound when I talk to hot guys these days.

Hottie Barista Boy (HBB):  Hey, how’s it going?

Me: Uh.  Good.

HBB: I always see you working here.  What do you do?

Me: I, uh, I write.  Stuff.

HBB:  That’s cool.  So, it’s my last day here.

Me: Oh.  Uh.

HBB: Yeah, I’ll be working at Chase next door.

Me: Mmph. Uh.  I gotta go.

HBB: See you around.

Seriously.  It’s totally pathetic.   I think I need a mojo transpant.)

I haven’t made it to the gym for the past week and a half. I tend to feel like shit when I don’t work out, but I haven’t been getting up in time to make it to the gym, and I hate going at night because it’s crowded and full of people and I HATE PEOPLE. Ok, not really, I just hate the ones who like to show off their packages in spandex shorts and weight belts and stand around getting in my sweaty way.

And I lost my cell phone last and even though I have a snazzy (read: expensive) alarm clock, the cell phone alarm did a better job of waking me up. The alarm on the replacement phone is suck-ass.

(And I think I’m still traumatized by spending roughly eleventy billion hours on hold with Sprint over the course of four days. Fucking customer service outsourcing. Rage.)

What else sucks now? Oh, my roommate hasn’t paid me yet for his share of this month’s astronomical utilities bill. Which will be taken out of my bank account oh, tomorrow. And I can’t exactly demand the money, because he hasn’t been paid yet for his new job and according to him, he has 60 cents in his checking account. Fucking AC. I hate AC. I don’t even use AC and I’m subsidizing my roommates’ use. UPDATE: Dude paid me. Just in time.

I’ve been overeating, too. Which makes me feel like crap. And then I eat some more.

Today, I found a rip in a favorite newish sweater. Of course I found the rip after I left the house.

I stubbed my two left pinky toes two days ago. There was a lot of blood. I’ll see if I can post a picture later. It’s still really owie.

I’ve been totally unproductive at work this week, too. When not dealing with totally annoying fucktards of co-workers.

And if I were a Together and Functional, Emotionally Healthy Person, I’d go eat some whole grains and tofu and go meditate on something or other. Do some yoga. But, I’m not. I’ll probably just go eat Haagen-Daz and read a trashy romance novel after work.

I woke up around 6:30 am to about an inch of water on my bedroom floor; water was pouring out of a leak under my windowsill.

My day didn’t get any better after that.  Though for once, I’m glad I don’t work in Manhattan.  Apparently it was complete chaos.

Anyway, I expect the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to gallop down Queens Boulevard any day now. It’s not called the Boulevard of Death for nothing, after all.