Just DanDI

An unaging fine whine.

G.R.I.T.S March 26, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — justdandi @ 6:34 am


To begin with I almost rear end any vehicle with this typology on its bumper. I could easily get out of this ticket as there is usually a gun rack blocking their rear view mirror. Being a girl-raised in the South I have had some interesting experiences dating some male bumpkins. Since Southern women are plagued with stereotypes by the outside world I figured I would give the men their own little dose.

First off there are the hunters. If they can’t bag it or shoot it…they will marry it.

Hunters:

-Don’t wear camo fishing. The damned fish are in the water…you aren’t “hiding” from them.

-Don’t wear camo outside of the woods. We see you and you look ridiculous.

-Don’t spend all of your money on guns. Having one makes you Republican enough.

-That lift kit on your truck does not make your penis look bigger.

-Telling a girl your “feelings” after drinking a case of natty light does not make you a romantic.

Next up…Cadets (the ones who DON’T EVER enlist in our armed forces):

-Nobody cares that you spent four years navigating monkey bars…we did that shit by fourth grade.

-Don’t launch into Power Ranger mode when you see another guy wearing “the ring” and scream, “Class of 1982, Delta Company!” Just don’t…

-I don’t give a shit if you were the founding member of the Alpha Sigma Sigma fraternity.

-Quit decorating your homes/vehicles with Bulldog regalia…it isn’t going to help your football team.

-I know you “played” military for four years but let’s be realistic…the only battle you’ve ever won was against your lunch lady.

-Picking up a chick is not “coming in HOT!”, don’t scream, “HIT THE SILK” when you fall out of your truck, and taking a shit does not require screaming, “EMPTY QUIVER!.” You never enlisted so you should seriously quit assigning military phrases to civilian stupidity.

Locals:

-Don’t wear topsiders…especially when you don’t own a boat.

-I don’t care if crocs are comfortable…you look like a jackass.

-Visors are to be worn by middle aged women who are screwing their tennis instructors.

-When you offer to take a lady out for a drink it should not include solo cups and live bait.

-Don’t buy a dog bigger than you.

-My head is about a foot north from what you are staring at.

XOXO,

Just DanDi

 

The Settlers March 17, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — justdandi @ 4:16 am

The Settlers

No, I am not referring to those cute looking pilgrims that crossed the ocean for their glorified squatting project (it’s a damn shame there wasn’t a housing authority back then).  I am talking about THOSE couples.  You have met them.  Some of them are your friends.

Settlers are people who just want to get married.  It is always interesting being around a couple that has settled.  Their body language and general demeanor around each other reads more like “She’s Not That into You,” than “The Notebook.”  Hell, I don’t even think Dr. Phil could help them.  They are determined.  They look like they would rather chew their own arm off than hug the person they are dating but the white dress is picked out and the skanky engagement announcement magnet has been sent.

Now, there are ways to tell if you have a girlfriend headed down this heavily trodden path.  One of your girlfriends might have traded her revolving bedroom door for a minivan if she:

  1. Is a go green vegan and “falls in love” with a deer hunting Cadillac Escalade driver.
  2. Can’t even boil water but discusses how she perfected her mother-in-law to be’s chicken casserole recipe.
  3. Was known as the “queen of keg stands,” but now tibbles champagne with her foreign boyfriend.
  4. Buys a Vera Bradley handbag.

The last one may be out of line.  But damn those things are ugly.

Perhaps you have dated a settler.  You might think a man settler is quite the anomaly.  He exists.  Believe me.  I have dated him.  The man settler will either be one of two ways:

  1. He will go along with anything you say.  If you walk like a dog, and talk like a dog he might sew a tail on his ass just to be with you.  He has no personal opinion, has no ambition (except to be with you), and suffers from a severe lack of backbone.  You never really get to know this guy because he will mold himself to be whoever you want him to be just to marry you.  Don’t fall for it.
  2. He will try to mold you into what he wants.  This one doesn’t care who you are.  He will “train” you to suit.  I once dated a guy that refused to cook.  So I did all the cooking.  Then he refused to clean.  So I did all the cleaning.  I did this until I realized the jackass was “training me.”  The last time I cleaned for him was right after I packed my things.  You can’t turn a Greta Garbo into a Betty Crocker.

When confronted with male settlers…RUN… I don’t give a shit if he does go on Oprah and jump on couches proclaiming his love for you.

Things are a little different for our female friends.  Of course we all want our girlfriends to be dearly happy but if she begins rationalizing her boyfriends Star Wars figurine collection…organize an intervention…before the Yoda wedding magnet arrives.

Always,

JustDanDi

 

Misery & Co. February 8, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — justdandi @ 3:37 am
Tags: ,

I’m not sure about you, but I used to have the distinct pleasure of sharing my life with that one person; the “just a” guy friend.  Now for most women the guy friend is your first line of defense.  He is your complete and total idiots guide to the male psyche.  Your friend is always available to chat; he is open and honest with you about everything.  Until he realizes he will never, ever get in your pants.  When he learns this he will no longer be friendly and fun.  Frankly, he will piss you off. 

I will call my friend Bob (don’t confuse him with the shit-eating grin; I just mowed my lawn with my penis guy).  Bob has wanted to get into my pants for years.  In the beginning he was a pretty good guy pal, reliable and always willing to listen.  It was pretty easy putting him into the friend zone.  The term “visually repugnant,” comes to mind.  Either way, I enjoyed talking to him about anything and laughed with him often.  Every girl has to have that one (not gay) guy friend to confide in right?  Wrong.  He thought we were living out “When Harry met Sally.”  Boy did I throw a monkey wrench into his plan. 

Bob was a great friend until I met my “one.”  For the sake of this blog I will call him James.  James is different from all of the other guys I dated.  Not just for who he is, but for how I feel about him as well.  I’m guessing this is more obvious than a trailer park hooker because Bob picked up on it pretty quickly.  Bob’s demeanor towards me turned cold, fast.  He started looking at me the way a male dog looks at its owner after being neutered.  Not so nice. 

He couldn’t win in the friend zone.  His next step was defense.  Immediately Bob began making sour comments to me about my boyfriend and the future of our relationship.  He quickly became sarcastic and condescending about any happiness I had in my life.  The weird thing is, during this time period Bob became engaged.  Did this make him any happier?  Hell no.  He wouldn’t be happy with Anna Kournikova as his personal masseuse.  He would complain about her fluffy, over photographed dog.  I’m sure of it.

Bob got married.  Finally, finally I could rest at ease that his morose, melodramatic case of PMS was over.  At first he seemed socially acceptable.  There was that obvious “I just got married” aura surrounding him.  You know, hand on wife’s back at all times…other hand uselessly gesturing into space.  Did he keep up the Brady routine?  Hell no.  The first night out with the guys this asshole begins caressing my back and trying to tickle my leg.  I was not amused.  I am not Tickle Me Elmo.  

Soooo.  What to do with Bob?  Do I hire a midget henchman to take out his balls?  It’s tempting.  Tag his crotch on Facebook with the known name of every chick I know he’s slept with?  Perhaps.  I’m thinking about taking the passive aggressive approach.  Bob is an extreme-right conservative.  I’ll probably just sign him up for every gay magazine known to man.  Man on Fire Monthly?  FreshMen weekly?  Watch out Bob.  Gay pride America will be knocking at your door.  I’ll be laughing my ass off at your mailbox.  Tickle that. 

Until then I’m,

JustDanDi

 

There goes the neighborhood January 9, 2010

Filed under: Being DanDI — justdandi @ 1:42 pm
Tags: , ,

Since October of last year I have been living in this awesome house close to the beach, a couple of good pubs, and great sidewalks for running. I live in suburbia. Yeah I said it. Suburbia. In a cul-de-sac to be precise.

For the first few days of my move in I didn’t see any sign of life from my neighbors. Looking back, my choice of words in the driveway probably didn’t get me off to a good foot. “Let’s light this joint up!” This to me means “turn on the lights.” And, “Shit! I dropped my bowl,” when my dish flew out of the passenger side might have been heard by all. I’m not sure yet.

Eventually they came out of their dwellings (in droves) and began their inquisition. Did I have kids? No (Strike one). Was I married? No. (Strike two and three). I’m not quite sure but I think that Homeowners Associations write pamphlets about people like me. They damn well should. Any good realtor would scope out my recycle bin (it looks like I party with Guns and Roses) and advise against relocation. That’s right. I lower home value.

For starters I run all summer in spandex shorts. I have my young, gorgeous girlfriends over for drinks. I wash my car in my bikini without apology. I have (on more than one occasion) ended up returning home by cab. Loudly.

How am I sure that they don’t like me? I live in the South. And not one of my neighbors has ever brought me a covered dish. When the wives see me out and about their general course of action is to duck and run into their homes like I am a Jehovah’s Witness.

I am still planning my pool party. No, I don’t have a pool. But Wal-Mart does sell the small plastic ones and I can invite my friends over. I think that it is this mentality that keeps them from paying me a visit. It sure as hell doesn’t keep their kids out of my yard though.

At least once a week I come barreling past the stop sign (I refuse to believe that is a legal sign) down through my neighborhood and have to slam on brakes, put my car in park, and move a scooter/toy gun/plastic ball thing so that I can pull in my driveway. I see how living out here can anger people. I am quietly wondering how many more toys I can pick up before I start wielding them as weapons against property like Tiger Woods’ wife.

Aside from the children there is the construction. Ahhh yes. You don’t live in suburbia unless they are building something totally unnecessary near you. To my neighbors delight this construction happens to be a new elementary school. This snazzy new learning facility is being built directly in my back yard. It is huge. I am pissed. Anywhoo.

When I first moved in I was toting my precious dachshund (Lily), driving my new mustang, basking in the glory of singledom, and enduring an economic recession. Nothing about that has changed except for my relationship status. Oh! And the recession might go away, but I don’t think that will help their property value.

Either way I’m,

Just DanDI

 

The Devil in the White Dress December 1, 2009

Filed under: People are Fascinating — justdandi @ 8:54 am
Tags: , ,

You know how it happens. We all do. It begins with a phone call: “I am getting married!” and ends with a question, “Will you be my bridesmaid?”

What do we all end up saying? “Of course, I would love to!” If you are single this is followed by intense Facebook research into the groomsmen. If you are like me, in a relationship not headed towards the aisle, you usually hang up and find the nearest bottle.

This particular bridezilla was marrying my best (guy) friend. Since I could not be a Groomsmaid of honor and hang out with my favorite group of boys (believe me, I asked) I was relegated to the other side of the aisle. Yeah…It was like crossing over to the dark side.

Being a bridesmaid wasn’t too hard to rationalize. All I needed to do was buy a dress and show up on the big day right?

Not so much. I got a phone call from the bride the night before a 4am flight telling me that I had to go down to the dress store to get fitted the next day. After much explanation, “My grandmother just passed,” and “I have to fly to Texas” the seething bridezilla was still not satisfied. She was fuming. All I heard from the other end was an endless stream of obscenities about how the maid of honor was, “supposed to handle this and she didn’t” and “I am under so much stress,” “don’t have the time for this,” “you need to come over here right now (10pm) and get fitted so I can order it.” Did I mention that my grandmother had died and I was leaving at 4am? Right.

After 2 hours of listening to her snort fire on the phone I managed to beg her to, “Just order it in my size.” I happily gave her my credit card number and pressed the red button on my blackberry. Success!

The dress was 250$. Half of her bridesmaids, like me, are ketchup soup eating college students. When I realized this I immediately warped into Ebenezer Scrooge mode muttering things under my breath like, “The only gift I’m getting you is my presence.” I hatched plans against her. My cunning mind told me that, “One day, one day you will register for your wedding gift, a 250$ gift card, and send the info to her, and only her to buy it.” I still haven’t deviated from that plan.

Time goes by and after a few more phone calls from the newly deemed “she-devil,” a 50$ dress alteration, and a couple of strong drinks to help me deal with it all, the big day arrived.

I showed up at the church promptly at 4pm as told. This is when the real fun began. I peered out the window as a black van approached and skidded on its brakes. If anyone had a sense of humor they would have sent my guy friend in a hearse. The snarling she-devil took one step out of the van and turned on her heel to bark orders to the passengers (her mother and the maid of honor). Yes, there was a bonafide bridezilla on the loose. I suppose no one considered calling the Coast Guard to rein her in.

So there I was, locked in the wedding parlor for hours without any offer of food or drink. Had I planned ahead I would have found a way to smuggle a flask in my dress. I don’t think Cheney himself could have envisioned a better form of torture. Her gift registry should have included valium.

By the time we made it into the church I was in need of a miracle. I walked down the aisle at a veeerrryyy sloooowww pace. I figured my friend needed the extra 5 minutes to reconsider his plight. Poor guy had no idea. I kind of felt like one of Elizabeth Taylors lawyers. I’m sure they try to be optimistic about her weddings too. In the end I don’t remember very much about the ceremony except for looking at her and saying, “Deliver us from evil,” with more conviction than I have mustered up in my 26 years.

In the end, my experience with the devil in the white dress taught me many things. Next time someone calls me and tells me they are getting married; if I feel like the question is coming up I will bundle up a sheet of paper, scratch at the phone cover, and yell “HELLO!” “HELLO!” until I have properly considered my answer. Then I’ll run for the bottle.

Until then I’ll be,

Just DanDI