Guide to Types of Female Hotness

Hanging out with a bunch of guys, I naturally hear a lot of behind-the-scenes guy talk.  At this point, I may be an honorary guy.  Except for my undying love for Johnny Depp.  And my obsession with makeup.  And all the skirts.  And the, you know, reproductive organs…ok, so I’m not a guy.  But I speak fairly fluent guy, and I’m occasionally called upon to interpret for my female friends.  So for the benefit of my female friends and followers, I am posting a Guide to Types of Female Hotness.  I would think this would be fairly easily adapted for male hotness, but there might be physical fights over what category Robert Pattinson goes in (if any), so it might be best to leave it alone.  Anyway, here are the categories:

Sorority Girl Hot


By Absinthe via Wikimedia Commons

This is one of the temporary categories of hotness; some kinds of hotness last longer than others.  It is generally recognized that merely being a sorority girl will convey some kind of hotness on a girl which can overcome the inexplicable tendency of such girls to wear snow- and rain-boots with miniskirts.  This kind of hotness can be recognized by the year-round tan from the tanning booth sessions that Daddy pays for, the inappropriately dark eye makeup and bronzer on almost all occasions, and the inability to make a statement that doesn’t end up sounding like a question.  “So, I was doing my laundry?  And I ran out of quarters? And I had to leave my clothes there while I got some change?”  Celebrity example:  Mischa Barton.

 

Trashy Hot

Image via Wikipedia

This is another major temporary category of hotness.  The window for trashy hotness may be even smaller than that for sorority girl hotness, and is similar but distinguishable in subtle yet distinctive ways.  Trashy hot girls will often have thicker eyeliner than sorority girls, and their hair will generally be more over-processed.  A good rule of thumb is to check the ends of the hair, which will typically be fried to a crisp.  There is also a higher incidence of hairstyles best left in the eighties among the trashy hot.  Perhaps the biggest giveaway is the mother:  while the mother of a hot sorority girl will generally look well-put-together and may be wearing clothing items of camel, taupe, or beige, the mother of a trashy hot girl will often sport even more makeup than her daughter and will almost always be swathed in spandex.  If tempted by the trashy hot girl, taking a look at the mother and realizing how the trashy hot girl is going to look in a few years should do the trick.  Celebrity example:  Britney Spears.

Scary Hot

By chris_nett via Wikimedia Commons

This category is for the girls who, while objectively physically attractive, make guys think they might cannibalize their partners after copulation, a la the praying mantis.  As opposed to the two categories above, girls in this category tend to have extremely pale skin.  They also often, but do not always, have unnaturally dark hair and tattoos.  They rarely smile, instead adopting a nihilistic scowl at a world that is so clearly beneath them and at the little insects that crawl on its surface and call themselves human.  While sorority girls and trashy hot girls will often wear pale or hot pink lipstick, scary hot girls will usually wear dark lipstick in addition to dark eye makeup, and may display various piercings.  They can usually take a man down using the heels on their platform combat boots alone.  Scary hot girls are viewed with trepidation, but also with an undeniable fascination and exude the allure of the forbidden.  Approach with caution.  Celebrity example:  Angelina Jolie, the early years (and, some would say, the later ones as well).

Smoking Hot

By Luke Ford via Wikimedia Commons

Also known as smokin’ hot or, colloquially, bangin’ hot.  Guys, this girl is Too Hot For You and you have no chance with her.  This is the head cheerleader plus the hot babysitter plus that model in the magazine you used to hide from your mom.  This girl walks into a room and the music plays, the fan blows her hair back, and everyone stops what they’re doing and looks at her.  She is hot in a little black dress, jeans and a tee shirt, or the figure-hugging sweats she wears to the gym.  If you are thinking of approaching a Smoking Hot girl, 1)  Don’t.  It’s pointless, and you’ll only embarrass yourself.  2)  Write out what you’re going to say in advance because, if you are able to attract her attention, you will immediately lose the power of coherent thought when her eyes flicker across your face.  3)  Don’t.  It’s a given that she’s already with her male equivalent, a man who could almost certainly put you on the ground in under ten seconds.  But hey, keep hope alive.  Celebrity example:  Megan Fox.

Jessica Alba

By Miguel from London, United Kingdom via Wikimedia Commons

There is a category so rarified that only one individual fits all criteria.  The epitome of hotness, as I have gleaned from my conversations with guy friends, is Jessica Alba.  She has the ability to be both pregnant and sexy at the same time.  While it is generally agreed that she is hotter as a brunette than as a blonde, she is still the standard by which all hotness is judged no matter what her hair color.  She compounds the offense by actually seeming to be really nice, and once presented at an awards show for scientists and technicians at which no other hot people were present.  She, by herself, will raise the hotness quotient of any room to near-tropical levels.  Celebrity example:  um, Jessica Alba?

So there you have it.  Girls, never say I did nothin’ for ya.  I’m not saying it’s fair, I’m not saying it’s right, I’m saying welcome to life with the guys.  If you are among the unfortunate women who were not born as Jessica Alba, I’m told there’s still hope.  You just may have to bring your own music and fan for when you enter a room.  Good luck, happy hunting, and try not to cannibalize your mates!

Breaking news

I can’t look at the headlines anymore; they scare me and make me sad.  So I’m making up a news story of my own, front page above the fold:

Adorable Child Plays With Happy Puppies

Image via Wikipedia

In a shocking turn of events, young Abigail I’msocute approached a group of rambunctious puppies and quickly become embroiled in uncontrolled frolicking.  Ms. I’msocute, 2 years old, was unarmed at the time and appeared unsteady on her feet.  The mob of unruly hounds was observed furtively sniffing at her hands and appeared, according to one witness, to be soliciting treats.

The infant’s mother, Mrs. Amelia Lookatme, could only watch the drama unfold as her child romped, giggled, and shrieked in truly blood-curdling fashion,  at times covering her face with her hands, then suddenly pulling her hands away in jerky, agitated movements and yelling to the puppies that she could see them.  It is unknown whether Ms. Imsocute was later able to identify any of the malefactors for the authorities.  Onlookers described them as unusually small, dark, and fuzzy wuzzy.

Lookatme was eventually able to reach I’msocute and separate her from the unrestrained animals.  She later commented to the paper, “Those puppies were so adorable, I just wanted to cry.”  Both Lookatme and I’msocute appeared to be unharmed, but were clearly affected by the experience.  When contacted for a response, the attorney for the puppies declined comment, merely wagging his tail and gazing soulfully at the reporter.  More on this harrowing attack of adorability as details become available.

I expect a call from the Pulitzer committee any day now.

Little blind girl goes to the art gallery

CC Image courtesy of iambents on Flickr

Remember that post where I said that if you’re taking me on a date, don’t take me to an art gallery because I’m legally blind and I won’t be able to see anything?  I take it back.  I went with Potential Boy Friend to a college art exhibit and found that art has changed quite a bit even since the last time I attempted to appreciate it, or at least I think it has:

 

LBG:  I’m really not sure about this.  I can’t see any of the paintings.

PBF:  That’s OK, I’ll describe them to you.  And some of them aren’t paintings.

LBG:  Photographs?

PBF:  Modern art exhibits.  There’s one that’s a collage of old heating bills in the shape of Paris Hilton.  It’s titled, “That’s Hot!”

LBG:  Very funny!  You are kidding, right?

PBF:  All the yellow highlighted bits that say “This bill is overdue” form her hair extensions.  There’s another that’s just an empty frame, entitled “Occupy This Space.”

LBG:  That I might actually believe.

PBF:  It’s listed for $7500.00.

LBG:  Not buying it in so many ways.

PBF:  Over here is a portrait of a young man in cap and gown who appears to be signing a student loan contract, while a man in a business suit stands over him holding a baby.  Let’s see what the title is–

LBG:  This should be good–

PBF:  Ah, Sale of a First-Born Child.  A striking commentary on a post-modern society.

LBG:  It speaks to me.

PBF:  And here we have a sculpture of a woman in a pose of agony, clutching a large group of children to her while staring at an envelope.

LBG:  Let me guess:  “Final Welfare Check”?

PBF:  Close:  “Niobe’s Child Care Bill Arrives.”

LBG:  I like mine better.  (Peers more closely at card with title of work)  Oh, my God!

PBF:  You totally thought I was making that up.

LBG:  Oh, my God.

PBF:  And I haven’t even told you about the woman sitting in a harness hanging from the ceiling.

LBG:  Don’t tell me.

PBF:  Her harness rises and falls with the current level of the stock market.

LBG:  Oh, my God, get me out of here!

And thus ends the latest installment in the adventures of the Little Blind Girl.  Stay tuned for the next exciting episode, Little Blind Girl goes to the Firing Range!

Mountain Dew, you’ve let me down

CC Image courtesy of Ed Yourdon on Flickr

I stepped out of my apartment today to run across the street and buy a soda at the convenience store.  I’d been doing housework, so I was in jeans and a sweatshirt, no makeup, hair not done at all.  On the way to the store, about a two minute walk, I got no fewer than two wolf whistles, a car horn honk with a remark I’m not going to repeat, and a “Hey, shortie!”  I was thinking, man, these must be some good jeans!

So I bought the soda and walked back toward my apartment–and nothing.  It was like the soda made me drop 20 hotness points.  What is it, guys?  Does a Mountain Dew make you think I’m too high-maintenance?  Did you take it as a sign of unhealthy eating and eventual obesity?  Or did I just walk out after all the traffic cleared up?  A friend of mine used to jog alongside a major road, and she would always get comments and whistles.  One day she didn’t, and she sulked until the next time someone yelled something lewd out of a car.  Man, the pitfalls of being a girl.

The cat vs. the Hair

CC Image by red.dalia on Flickr

A friend of mine, who is beautiful and awesome and brilliant and all sorts of good things, is also the proud possessor of a head of very, very curly hair.  It’s the kind of hair that has so much body that you sort of suspect it of also having an independent mind–you know, working in tandem with the brain under her scalp, but occasionally going off and doing its own thing on, for example, rainy days.  Another couple of friends of mine are the proud owners of two cats with very defined personalities and certain ideas about the hierarchy in the household.  Our theory is that they’re only putting up with us until they figure out how to work the can opener.  In the meantime, though, they like to make sure they can jump on everything in the household in some sort of bizarre, repetitive exhibition of feline dominance.  I’ve given you all the pieces; can you figure out where this is going?

My Curly-Haired Friend was at the cat-owned apartment hanging out one night.  We were just kicking back, practicing Latin (no, seriously, that’s what we were doing.  That’s not at all code for something else).  Curly-Haired Friend was sitting on the floor, yelling Latin declensions; cats were prowling the furniture.  I looked away for a second and then I heard this almighty yowling, and then an extremely Anglo-Saxon shriek.  I looked back, and one of the cats had jumped onto my friend’s head and was attacking her hair!  Just jumped from whatever piece of furniture and seemed to be fighting the hair from six different angles at once.  I think he saw it as an enemy and was trying to subdue it.  My friends and I could have told him that was a hopeless battle, having watched our Curly-Haired Friend fight with her hair for years, but the cats never consult us when they make their plans.

Now, this is not just any hair.  This is Hair with experience, possibly with combat training. The Hair started fighting back.  Poor Curly-Haired Friend was letting out ungodly shrieks from underneath while the cat and the Hair battled it out on her head.  Eventually, the Hair forced the cat to jump off onto the floor, partly assisted by the mere mortals who were weakened by uncontrollable laughter, but mostly it was the Hair.  The cat immediately scooted off to some dark recess of the kind where cats go and licked his wounds, and I swear, I swear, the Hair started purring.  Neither of the cats has ever challenged the Hair’s dominance again.  We had to finish the Latin another night, though.  The Hair told us to.  And you do not mess with the Hair.

True or False?

By Leonetto CappielloPublic domain via Wikimedia Commons.

One of the bad things about blogs is that there are those who know who you are in real life and read your blog for the express purpose of being able to cause trouble for you down the road.  I don’t want to stop writing this blog just because a few people are being immature.  I figure that, if I stop this blog, they’ll just be immature about something else, and I’m not going to live my life according to what other people might think.

So I’m going to make this statement:  Some, but not all, of the information on this blog is true.  Some of it, but not all of it, happened to me.  Some of it happened to other people.  Some of it I’m making up wholesale.  So gather dirt at your pleasure.  You may or may not be reading complete works of fiction.  You want to cause trouble, you’re going to have to find another way.  Pick on my grammar, maybe, or how I use too many commas.  If you’re trying to use my blog against me, you’re already pretty much at that level, so it shouldn’t be a stretch.

In that spirit, I’m going to play a round of Two Truths and a Lie.  Or am I playing Two Lies and a Truth?  Or maybe they’re all lies, or they’re all true.  They’re just here for a laugh, like my other posts.  Take it for what it is, not for what you want to make it into:

1.  I climbed onto the clock tower at one of my old schools and carved my initials in the back of the clock.  I thought it was high time!

2.  I once toured Europe as part of a band.

3.  I have a tattoo of a scorpion on a part of my body normally covered by clothes.

Whatcha gonna do with that?  And for all the readers and commenters and followers who genuinely like my blog, you rock, and you’re most of the reason I’m not just taking this blog down.  I love hearing from you.  Keep it coming!  Feel free to leave a comment with your own contributions of two truths and a lie.  I promise I will never use them against you!

Sonnet to Johnny Depp

Español: Johnny-depp

Image via Wikipedia

Shall I compare thee to Gerard Butler?
Thou art more yummy and more versatile;
Harsh critics pan Gerard’s roles more and more,
And high profits elude him still a while.

Sometimes too weird the star of Brad Pitt shines,
And steady has his skin’s complexion dimmed,
And sexiness does all too soon decline,
Especially when beards remain untrimmed.

But thy eternal fresh face does not fade,
Which frankly freaks me out a little bit,
No wrinkles do thy perfect face invade,
nor senility cloud thy clever wit.

So long as movies play for eyes to see,
So long my ticket stubs belong to thee.

Little blind girl and the magician’s apprentice


CC Image courtesy of nuanc on Flickr

Once upon a time, a friend of mine took a course in magic tricks, and she liked to practice on me.  Magic, it transpires, is an extremely visual art, and the practice sessions could get a little interesting–for instance:

Friend:  Pick a card, any card.  (Little Blind Girl picks a card.) Don’t show me what it is.  Turn it over.  Now put it back in the deck.  (LBG puts card back in deck, friend shuffles enthusiastically.)  Now!  (Friend turns over top card on deck)  Is this your card?

Little Blind Girl:  I don’t know.  Is it?

Friend:  (stares at card, then at LBG.)  I have no idea.  Didn’t you look when you turned it over?

LBG:  Sure.

Friend:  So what did you see?

LBG:  A blurry white piece of paper.

Friend:  (pause)  OK.  Um.  Next on the list is…never mind.

LBG:  What?

Friend:  Three card monte.

LBG:  Huh.  Yeah, talk about guessing blind.

Friend:  You know, when I make jokes like that, you hit me.

LBG:  I’m spirited.

Friend:  You’re a nutcase.

LBG:  What’s next?

Friend:  Let’s see.  (consults lesson) I’m going to make a card vanish.  I’m taking a card from the deck, no particular card, nothing special about it.  I’ll put it here on this table in front of me, pass my hands over without touching the card, and over again–and it’s gone!

LBG:  Gone from where?

Friend:  The table!

LBG:  Is it?

Friend:  You know, you take all the fun out of misdirection.

I’m pretty sure I was not the reason my friend gave up on her dreams of a career in magic. I think she’s an accountant now.  So, you know, making good use of the lessons in misdirection after all.  Still, I’ll always be curious about what would have happened if we had gotten to the trick about sawing a lady in half.  I really think I would have noticed that one.

The results of fashion hubris

Where'd I Leave My Sunglasses

CC Image courtesy of Thomas Hawk on Flickr

This is what happens when blind girls try to be cool:

I recently went on a second date with a guy, my first second date in quite a while.  He’s tall, and I picture him as dark and handsome, and he has a great voice, so all is well thus far.  He asked where I wanted to go, and I said “Anywhere where I can wear flats,” so he took me to a meditation seminar.  Promisinger and promisinger.  Then, after the meditation seminar, we went out for extremely unhealthy food and mocked the seminar presenter mercilessly.  Could it get any better?  Yes, yes it could.

He dropped me off–at my door, after leading me up the steps because he knows I’m legally blind (I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I walk those steps every day of my life and could walk them if I were completely blind).  It wasn’t until then, at the end of the date, that I realized that I was actually wearing two different kinds of shoes!  And I’d been going on and on about what a relief it was to wear flats!  All afternoon!  I tempted the wrath of the fashion gods with my hubristic desire for comfort, and this was the result.

I exclaimed in dismay.  He, bless him, laughed and said…well, on second thought, I’m not going to tell you what he said.  Or what he did, because this isn’t that kind of blog.  But it made up for the blind equivalent of realizing I had spinach on my teeth all evening.  And there will be a third date because, let me tell you, he’s looking very good to me right now.