MADER'S RANTS Women Dressing May 8, 2004 - Last Friday night was the date of my biweekly romp with my “friend with benefits.” I have talked about her before, and since she hasn’t threatened me with bodily harm for doing so, I feel free to do it again. The events happened as follows: She calls me at 6:30 and says “Come on over. It’s early. I have to grab a shower, but the door is open so just come on up.” I arrive, meander upstairs and park myself on her bed. Then I start making phone calls while she rinses off the day’s ick. While shaving in the shower, she cuts her foot. Not a small nick, but a gusher. Like a bullet hole. I have no clue how she cut her foot while shaving her legs and since I have a penis, I don’t ask those kinda questions. So she stands there naked, drying off, spurting blood and doing first aid with toilet paper, talking to me as if nothing in the world is wrong. This is the same woman that offered to shave my genitals for fun. I’m sorry, but if you can’t shave your legs without nicking your foot and springing a leak, you’re not coming near Mr. Happy with anything sharper than a cotton ball! Then, she goes and sits at her vanity and begins to do her hair - naked. No small feat since she is blessed with really thick hair. She puffs a cig, at the same time she brushes, combs, fluffs and blow dries, then fluffs some more, the blood continuing its unabated flow from her foot only distracting her long enough to slap another piece of toilet paper on it. This rhythm continues: puff, comb, brush, fluff, talk, dab at foot, puff, comb, brush, fluff, talk, dab at foot. It’s a wonder of dexterity, coordination and addiction. Did I mention she’s still as naked as the day she was born? I’m aroused, concerned, and queasy. On top of that, I’m amused. I’m seeing all the work that goes into the show I get to enjoy later. Think of it as sitting back stage while David Copperfield sets up before his act. The hair alone took a half hour. Then ya gotta do the make up. It’s eye liner and shadow and this strange mid-evil eyelash thingy ya squeeze the eyelashes with. Hell if I know what it really does. It looks like it could be used by the Marquis De Sade or to shell peanuts or maybe open beer bottles. If ya use the torture device too soon though, you smudge the eye makeup which means ya have to redo the makeup a second time...or a third...or a fourth. Finally, the face is on and the hair is sorta dry. Now we start the highly complex task of finding underwear. Then we decide we aren’t going to wear underwear; we are just going to wear a pair of hose. Before we put on the hose we have to find a Band-Aid. We mend the foot, put on the hose, then look for pants. It’s not a short task because w have two closets full of clothes, people! Tan pants too big. Black pants too loose. “I look poochy,” she says. “My butt’s baggy.” We don’t like the feet in the hose. Stop. Cut the feet off the hose put the now feet-deficient hose back on. Why wear hose at all if they have no feet? Why not just free bird it? Ask me the meaning of life and I would have a better chance to explain it. None of the pants work. How about jeans? Jeans match anything. I’m a huge fan of jeans... tan jean, black jeans, blue jeans. Her period is starting, and she is feeling bloated. What if the jeans don’t fit? Everything else is too big, then maybe the jeans will be just right and not too tight. Hmm, what do you know? I was right. But what top to wear with the jeans? The red top? The blue top? It’s not the right time of year for this top or that top. Oh God, please just stop and pick a top! She settles on what looks like a handkerchief with ties on it. It’s a bandage with sequins. Thank God for boobs, ‘cause nothing else is gonna hold the thing up. On a brighter note, she can’t wear a bra. She moves too fast and eeeeeeevvvvvvvvvvery one gets a show. Some days, it’s good to be me. Now shoes. Lord, help us. Too black, too open, too fluffy, too big a heel, not fun enough, doesn’t match the top, too narrow a heel, straps, no straps. Finally with much fanfare and hoopla, she picks a pair of black sandals with little pink flower thingies on them. Why they work with the outfit, I haven’t a clue. If my life depended on “grocking” (which is a term for what does and doesn’t work with women’s fashion), I would’ve been a corpse long ago. We return to the hair. It’s dry, but do we want it up? Down? Off too the side? A little in the eyes? “What do you think, honey?” I’m short. I’m not stupid. I’m not walking into that mine field. I’m a guy. I’m happy it’s on your head and not your back. You want more depth, call someone with a vagina. I’m not trying to be mean or insensitive I just know a no win situation when I see one and I’m cutting my losses. Now for the jewelry. We need a watch. The watch doesn’t actually work, but it looks good and that’s what matters. Again I know not why. Earrings, bracelets, a necklace you could use as a wind chime. I’m told they match and, just like algebra, I don’t question it. I just say, “Okay.” Last but not least, a purse. A raft to choose from. Just plug in the shoe paragraph here but replace the word shoe with hand bag. You think this rant was long? From 6:30 to 8:45 this operation took. We over ran Iraq in less time! You just had to read about it. Ya got off light. Stop your bitching. Later, Mader P.S. I really do enjoy her ;-)