Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Foxes Vs. Cougars

Yesterday I interviewed at one of the grad schools I applied to. It was intense. It’s for an early childhood teaching program. The chick who interviewed me asked me what made me want to work with small children, and for some reason all I could think to say was “fresh brains.”

I knew that wasn’t the right answer, but that’s what kept going through my head. I figured after she told me that I seemed like a very well rounded candidate, and I accused her of calling me fat, I should probably try to get the rest of the answers right.

The other distracting thing was that the woman I interviewed with looked exactly like the bartender at this bar I used to hang out at in Long Beach. It was this bar a few blocks from my house that I discovered my first week there. The “theme” of the bar as it were was Really Hot Old Men. No, I am not kidding, nor am I remembering a fantasy I had rather than an actual experience.

It was called “The Silver Fox”. No joke. And yes, I spent every evening there.

I looked it up online after the interview just to make sure it wasn’t actually the bartender. It wasn’t… she still works there. Also, I found that, as happens with almost everything I love, The Silver Fox is gay now.

You really can’t go home again.

Speaking of drunken old men, I guess I never really got around to telling you about the swingers party Saturday night.

Honestly? BIG YAWN.

The men were creepy and/or gross and the women… Oh, the women. Watching these sad, middle aged housewives drunkenly dancing around in mini skirts and bustiers with their saggy, stretch marked tummies and big, fat thighs all over the place… it just made me wish I could take a picture of them, create a time machine, go back to the seventies and show the pictures to all the first wave feminists and say “See? See where this is going to go if you don’t knock it off and get back in the kitchen, like, right now?”

I see these women everywhere, but this was a toxically high concentration. The divorcees, the 40 year olds who wear these outfits out to clubs that they think say “I’m still fun and young” and the rest of clearly read as “I stole this from my kid”. We call them cougars, and we avoid being seen with them at all costs. And here I was, in the middle of their lair.

So, yeah, what was supposed to be a super sexy night of debauchery ended up being an experience that made me want to lock myself in the bathroom and sew my vagina shut.

Pretty much par for the course, the way this week is going.