Courting Disaster is Jackalope Ranch's weekly column of dating horror stories, observations, how-tos, and more by Katie Johnson. Names of ex-boyfriends, past hookups, and bad blind dates have been changed to protect the guilty.
Sorry, Beyoncé. But hardly any women just woke up like dis.
And the ones who do. . . Well, we lesser mortals hate them with every fiber of our being.
A lot of plucking, primping, and pimple-concealing goes into making ladies look lovely. But for the men who didn't grow up with sisters or haven't had a long-term relationship, this concept is -- much like my expressionless, untweezed eyebrows -- hard to define.
Makeup shouldn't be a lie but merely an exaggeration, an aesthetic emphasis of your best facial features. Go any further than that and you'll end up with what we call "cake face."
Caking on your makeup like Queen Elizabeth covered up smallpox scars isn't doing you any favors, ladies. Your mismatched mug -- because don't get me started on the color discrepancy between your face and your neck -- has a short shelf life, made even shorter by eating, drinking, and getting frisky.
Have no doubt that by dawn you'll be dealing with dehydrated lips, cracks in your foundation, and a makeup-stained pillow for your date to remember you by. How sweet.
Most men don't understand the power of cosmetics. So if you're going to go full drag queen on a Friday night, you can't blame them for being a little confused about whom they're waking up to on Saturday morning.
You want to catch their eye, not catch them off guard. Trust me, in the hierarchy of who notices your flaws first, whether it's a blemish or a bad hair day, it goes: you first, your friends second, and men last.
That's not to say men aren't observant. They notice plenty. Starting with your discarded feminine hygiene products.
Look, there's no shame in getting your period. Hell, as Someecards once put it "For the sexually active, getting your period is like Christmas morning." But that doesn't mean you have to wave that bloody tampon around like it's the damn red badge of courage.
Concealing your discarded vagina napkins in toilet paper or the wrapper they came in before throwing them in the trash falls somewhere between maintaining your feminine mystique and being a civilized human being.
Men, please do the same with condoms. I know I had sex with you. I don't need to be reminded every time I throw a Q-tip into the waste basket.
And, while we're in the bathroom, let's talk about hair. Ladies, you shed. You shed more than my German shepherd, and just like my German shepherd, many of you don't do jack about it. Men love running their hands through soft, silky locks.
What they don't love is stepping on it, finding it on the toilet seat, showering with it plastered on the walls, and pulling it out of drain pipes when the sink gets clogged. You want men to see you as a beautiful being that's out of their league, not Wolverine with a vagina.
And speaking of vaginas, if think I'm going to get into the topic of nether grooming, I'm not. I think Gwyneth Paltrow, Cameron Diaz, and every issue of Cosmo have done that enough already.
You have a vagina. You win. There.