the books are to remind us what asses and fools we are.

I’m a whore for many things, but my first love, the one I’d gladly prostitute myself out for is a decidedly unsexy affectation. My brothel? Is the bookstore.

 

But this diatribe isn’t about the touch of paper to my skin, the allure of erotic verbage, or the intrinsic charm of a glasses-perched-on-the-tip-of-his-nose kind of nerd (my favorite kind). It’s not even about fishnets (I know, I’m surprised too!).

 

Rather, this is about the black-sheep section of the otherwise sparkly perfection known as [insert favorite bookstore here]. The shelves that cause me to stomp my Louboutins (lie: Jessica Simpsons. don’t judge.) in exasperation and quote a mildly reworked Shakespearean iamb. A plague o’ both your houses? Actually, I’ll settle for a mild malady directed at the self help section, you know, just the kind of thing that erases the existence of the most lobotomized of shelves while leaving the remainder of my lovely tomes intact.

 

Self help? I’m of the all-aboard kind of endorsement. In fact I abhor nothing so much as those that refuse to take their future, fate, or fortunes into their own hands. And if you need a literary kick in the ass, a yellow brick road of words and phrases to guide you to the love, life, job, partner, body or temperament of your dreams?  Rock on and read that book, sister. Because honestly?, Dr. Phil, Suzanne Somers, and  Steve Harvey are totally modern day Moseses leading daily expeditions to the promised land through jazzercise and twangy life lessons (does sarcasm come across in words of the written variety? Let’s hope).

 

No, it’s actually not the idea of perhaps unqualified persons of little societal value spewing fortune-cookie-esque advice that makes me want to go all Fahrenheit 451 on the over-populated section (i swear. it’s not). It’s nothing more, or less, than a conundrum of the antique variety: I am guilty. Guilty of judging books…by their covers.

 

Or. Perhaps more accurately: their titles.

 

10 Stupid Things Men Do to Mess Up Their Lives? Why Good Men Behave Badly? Owner’s and Operator’s Guide to Men? The MANual? How to Train a Man? Men Are Dogs?

 

Seriously?

 

Seriously.

 

To which I say. Fuck. You.

 

Because as much as a rite of passage and introduction into the sisterhood of womanly wiles as it is to form joint feminine ranks against the decidedly scruffier sex, I can’t help but think, if the tables were turned, the book shelves flipped and the offending titles augmented by the addition of two little letters, well, we’d raise hell.

 

10 Stupid Things (wo)Men Do to Mess Up Their Lives? Why Good (wo)Men Behave Badly? Owner’s and Operator’s Guide to (wo)Men? The (wo)MANual? How to Train a (wo)Man? (wo)Men Are Dogs?

 

Yup. We’d be pissed. And rightfully so.

 

Because even though women have had an over share of unequal treatment throughout well, forever, the answer, the solution, the impetuous for equality can’t be degradation of the kind we’d surely never endure.

 

But we laugh. And train men like animals. And talk to them toddlers.

 

We think making them look weak makes us look strong.

 

But it doesn’t, we don’t.

 

We look stupid. And silly. And vain.

 

 

job of the day: critic.

 

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~ by rubylocks on February 3, 2010.

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