but he seemed so into me when he had his hand up my skirt...

(disclaimer: the reason for the current technical dilemmas occurring on this here blog relate to daniel boud and his legion of groupies and wannabees who were taking up too much space on our server. that man is just too fucking hot right now for his own good. nadstown should be back to normal soon. but, for now, if you have any issues, take them up with the boud. otherwise: cope.)

dear greg behrendt and liz tuccillo,

hi guys.

*waves*

my name is la nadine and i'm writing to you as i find myself in a bit of a tiz about your book, 'he's just not that into you'.

you see one of my beloved girlfriend's recently read your little dating manifesto, and now bitch won't let me psychoanalyse the behaviour of any man i have any contact with because apparently the entire male population of the world is "just not that into me".

my ex-boyfriend who wanted "some space": just not that into me.

the guy i shagged last month who never called: just not that into me.

the guy from the coffee shop who once told me i had great eyes but hasn't even glanced in my direction since: JUST NOT THAT FUCKING INTO ME!

well, DER!

now don't get me wrong, i find the idea of the book to be most interesting and empowering indeed. and admittedly upon first hearing about it i found myself snapping my fingers, jolting my head and saying "amen sister child", as if i was in fact a member of the studio audience when you were interviewed by oprah.

and, of course, who hasn't wanted to grab one of their lovesick girlfriends/me by the designer collar and scream at her: "get a fucking clue, woman, he got married yesterday. TO YOUR SISTER, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"

but, as a perennial single woman i must ultimately find fault with the work or else find myself with nothing to talk about other than my breasts and/or what i had for breakfast*.

because if you take away my fundamental human right to (over)analyse every encounter i have with every male i see as a potential boyfriend/fuck-buddy/man-slave, then what is left to discuss over dinner with the girls? current affairs? politics?

BITCH, PLEASE!

you know we only talk about those things when we're done whining about the bastards who never called even though we gave them the blow jobs of their freakin' lives.

okay, that's a lie. not the bit about the amazing blow jobs. that shit's fo' real. just the bit about my friends and i being empty vessels. we're actually heaps learn-ed and well-read and political and stuff.

its just that we would like to continue bitching and moaning about the men (or women) in our lives as well as agonising over just when the beaze is going to fuck off so miss gillard can have her time to shine, etcetera.

and we damn well know deep down that the sorry bastard's who felt us up and never called "just aren't that into us". but where would the fun be in accepting that as gospel?

AND (hang in there, i'm almost done), of course we don't need a man to complete us. we are intelligent, ambitious, fun-loving creatures.

but, like, sex is fun, hey?

and so, i'm begging you, please recall your book from the bookstores of the world and replace it with something a little more single gal-friendly. may i suggest something along the lines of:

'if he says he'll call, wait until seven days have passed, then wait another seven days just in case, then give him until the end of the month, then tell yourself he's lost your number, then call him cause you're an independent woman and you don't need to wait for no man to call you, then when he doesn't answer tell yourself it is because he's being stalked by the mob and is screening all calls just in case, then start going to all the places you think he might be in the hope that you will run into him, then meet someone else when you're looking for him and repeat the entire process until you are old and alone or married and up-the-duff, then realise you don't need a man to complete you anyway because you are amazing, and you do amazing things'.

catchy, huh?

regards,



la nadine

x


*smoked salmon and avocado on rye, with capers and fresh lemon. drool.