Cook Me Dinner, Dick

Today, I saw a student in my study hall wearing a tee shirt that read: “Cute story babe – Now make me a SANDWICH.”  Really? Really? Are you kidding me? What year is it? 1952?  I could not ignore this, so I asked the young fifteen-year-old shaggy headed male if he currently had a girlfriend.  The clearly expected reply was received: NO.  Then his friend chimed in, “… and he’s not going to get one either wearing a stupid shirt like that.”  These were my sentiments exactly.  I conceded to his friend’s comments, and added that I thought his shirt was “extremely sexist.”  He ignored my interruption, and returned to his Algebra homework. 

However, that’s not even really the sad part of this story.  The terrible thing is that the awful script on this kid’s tee shirt reminded me of a former relationship.  We’ve likely all heard the saying that women are to be barefoot and pregnant.  For one ex-boyfriend, I modified this common expression to “women are meant to be sucking dick and making sandwiches, right?”  He would laugh when I said this, and reply, “Damn straight.”

In addition to his frequent sexist comments, which led to my modified expression, this dude had a shit ton wrong with him.  Crazy (me) attracts completely and totally bat shit fucked up beyond all recognition crazy (almost every single man I have ever dated).  To begin, he was dumb – box of rocks dumb.  While I was an honors student, I think he may have needed to complete specially modified course work.  He used to carry books with him all over the place though.  I later realized this was just to give the appearance of intelligence, and he never actually opened these books or turned a single paper page.  At one point, his stacks of books were all dedicated to his “study of herbology.”  This meant two things. One: he got high a lot.  Two: he carried around an old hemp purse of mine, which he called a satchel, and collected dandelions and other weeds in it.  Just damn weird.  At another point during our time together he began carrying a canteen with him everywhere – to science class, the football game, the cinema.  At least I could be assured I would not suffer from dehydration while dating him.

Once for my birthday, he gave me a Grateful Dead CD sealed in Saran Wrap.  I asked him why it was packaged in such a way.  He said it was because he had bought it from a used music shop.  But, oddly enough, my brother had recently lost his same Shakedown Street CD.  I put two and two together, a skill I think he may have been incapable of.  From the receipt of that gift, however, I learned a very valuable lesson:  Do not try to have intercourse while Jerry Garcia is playing in the background; the rhythm is just all off.

Years later, I have also learned to not date sexist assholes.  I can’t believe this is a conclusion I had to come to through trial and error.  This should have been a given, and I hope with all my heart it’s something my daughter will know without requiring similar experience.  Today, everyone – everyone – knows that I wear the pants.  This is true to such an extent that it’s surprising I have not physically grown my own testicles.

Maybe I will purchase some iron-on letters this week so I can arrive at school wearing a tee shirt that states: “Eat my pussy and cook me dinner, dick.”  I really don’t see how it would be any more inappropriate. Sexism is not cute or comedic.  Those tee shirts belong on the shelves at Kohl’s and Wal-Mart as much as women belong restricted to the kitchen and as much as I need a man who carries a canteen at all times.