Today was the closest thing to an epiphany I have ever had except for the time I saw Mischa Barton at the supermarket and my whole world was turned upside down because I came to the harsh realization that my former girl crush Marissa Cooper, now had thighs that chaffed. Growing up is difficult. I went to a meeting this morning and had to stifle my inappropriate language, pretend to be charming and eloquent and pimp the shit out of my little bitchy blog. It was like a scene out of a movie. I waltzed into the big fancy office with my writing portfolio, deflated chutzpah and 3 too many statement pieces in my outfit. I repeated the mantra I had assigned myself for the event “No cussing, no crude hand gestures. Charming and chipper. Charming and chipper.” I have since realized that mantras aren’t really my thing.
As I sat before a powerful and ultra intimidating woman (hey gurl) I immediately was overwhelmed with nerves and anxiety. In a seemingly cut throat business where favors are non-existent and sugar-coating is only limited to the donuts in the office kitchen, I was thrown off by his first question. “So Jackie, who is the bitch behind The Bitch Bible? What does she stand for?” Ummm…. “Me? You? Everyone? Love. Life. Glitter. Human Rights?” Fuck my life. She inquisitively nodded her head, evaluating my answer. “What kind of girl are you?” Immediately I wanted to bust into a Britney ballad and start belting out “I’m not a girl, not yet a womaaaaan (not now woah) ALL I NEED IS TIME (and an agent) A MOMENT THAT IS MINE, WHIIIILE IM IN BETWEEN.” In hindsight that probably would have best described what kind of girl I actually am but I digress. But seriously, what kind of fucking question is that? And what kind of girl AM I? Naturally I came up with some vague, clever and undeniably punny answer which seemed to go over pretty well. I can shmooze with the best of them. The rest of the meeting was a blur… I tend to tune people out once the conversation is no longer about me. We shook hands, exchanged contact info and assured we would talk soon. Fab.
I took myself for a pre-emptive celebration lunch and couldn’t help but be plagued by my new UNSOLICITED mantra “what kind of girl are you?” I don’t fucking know what kind of girl I am… am I even a girl anymore? I have had my menstrual cycle for double-digit years and pay my own car insurance, that HAS to count for something right? Am I a “girls girl” because I like sparkly clothing, Bravo and brunch with my besties? Am I a “guys girl” because I am unemotional and anything Nicholas Sparks touches makes me want to spoon my own retinas out? Do I have to pick one or the other? OY VEY SMERE. “Who is the bitch behind The Bitch Bible. What does she believe in, what does she stand for?” Fucking world peace? Banning kitten heels? Daytime sequins? Is that something I am even equipped to answer? I only allow myself 30 minutes of deep thought daily so I had to move on and finish my hamburger. I further contemplated and came to the conclusion that I am not the type of girl that can be pigeon holed to some stupid ass label. I am the type of girl that answers questions immediately with applicable 90’s pop song lyrics. So boss lady… If you are really wondering what type of “girl” I am I will leave you this; I can understand how you’d be so confused, I don’t envy you. I am a little bit of errthang all rolled into one. I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother (hi Leo), I’m a sinner, I’m a saint. I do not feel ashamed. I’m your hell (not really please sign me) I’m your dream. I’m nothing in between, you know you wouldn’t want it any other way.