It's a well-documented fact that I've been called judgmental more times in my life than most who are enrobed and seated on the Supreme Court Bench. Add that to the number of times I've been called "bitchy" or "mean" and if you had a nickel - you'd be a billionaire several times over.
I tend to stick close to home, have never met a stranger and can hold my own in nearly every type of social event that requires smokers to be on a porch or different area. I'm more likely to tell you the truth about that hip hugging pair of jeans that makes your mid-section look like a striped muffin and will let you know when it's time to get a new bra when the girls are orbiting the bellybutton - but I don't see how that warrants me as being mean. If you ask - I will tell you.
With that being said - I have to admit that I'm sensititve.
No one likes being called "mean."
No one relishes the word choice when someone whips out the ol' "judgmental" one and flings it at you like a sharpened rhetoric-shaped frisbee.
And since when did it become okay to not be polite to your family? Co-workers? Friends?
I can remember being in second grade when I first realized how truly heart-breaking it is to care about a member of the same sex. A very plain girl with too-big bangs, bucked teeth and an unhealthy repeated wardrobe of multi-colored tank tops befriended me. A few months later, on Valentine's Day I got a Superman card from my then beau: "You're SUPER!" it said in large red letters over a blue-clad flying man. My new friend rushed to me to show me her card from him "You make my heart SOAR!" it said in the same large red letters. She then giggled and ran off to share paste with my ex while I was forced to sit at my desk and pretend to draw mermaids while my young heart broke like an over-used red crayon.
Many years later found me at a party in a newly minted state of virgin-like singleness. I had just gotten out of an overly long relationship that had stunted me in more ways than one. Spotting my crush-to-end-all-crushes across the room holding on to a bottle of Miller I did what any girl would do.
Hiding in my friend's room and wishing that I could escape through the painted shut windows I hear a knock at the door. My breath escapes as The Guy walks in, sits in a rolly chair and begins talking to me like a normal person. I begin to think that being single was not only possible - but may also be fun. Just about the time that amazingly plausible idea floats across my brain a girl walks in. She's bottle-blonde and, of course, thinner than me and with boobs that would make even post-surgery Dolly Parton drool with envy. She giggles, flaunts and then, to my complete shock and horror, walks over to The Guy and pretends to give him a back rub---- by dropping one large breast on each of his shoulders. The worse part was not the peek-a-boob that The Guy was now playing with me, nope, the worse part was that this bottle-blonde with the DP boobs was a friend of mine who knew of my situation and hopeless crush on The Guy.
Tragic, to say the least.
Not too long after that I was at a friend's house and was having a wonderful time as we often do when we get together. While she flitted around the house and gabbed on the phone another friend and I fake whispered to each other when she'd come near complete with over-dramatized "wshswshswshs" and stage-like cupped hands. Somehow, in the course of "fun" it became clear that she was mad and it was my fault. Huffing on to the couch and then running around like she was way too busy to have me over, I soon left. I said nothing wrong. I did nothing wrong and yet here I was - fodder for anger. To say I was hurt would be an understatement. To say I felt stereotyped into being the token "bitch" would not be.
I do have opinions.
I will not be nice to you if you don't deserve it.
Don't snap at me and expect me to "understand" when you don't.
Don't ask of me what you wouldn't return as a favor.
Don't be ill-mannered.
I will tell you what I think.
I will continue to not enjoy social clubs yet will continue to be disappointed when not included.
I will still look at babies and wonder "what if?"
I will still have issues.
So there you have it - Holly's unfunny and completely true account of the woman's psyche as told by someone with a lumpy uterus, more periods than most novels and hormonally-charged migraines that make Linda Blair look like an amateur.