Picture a big, fuzzy lion sitting belly-up to the bar. Not the type of lion who wants to slice a gut and snack on a digestive tract — instead, she wants to get pissed on whiskey and occasionally purr positivity into lost soul's ears.

But no, she doesn't want to go to your church. And no, she doesn't want to toss your husband's salad.

Let's back up a minute. I'm not trying to blow my horn's wad, but people seem to like me. My likability isn't directly my fault. Aside with various holy waters as a child, I've been drenched with a magnetic personality, so I've been told. I have an ear that sincerely hears and a hole that spews somewhat sage advice.

When I try to be a bitch, people laugh.


Once upon pre-childbearing hips ago, I would frequent the bars. My best friend said she hated accompanying me because too many people talk to me. Sure, I'm kind and smiley and I'll indulge strangers (we're living in a society), but I won't actively seek out conversation.

A few months back, this sweet lady at Target asked me if I could keep talking — she wanted to close her eyes and listen to my soothing voice. (What?) I was under the impression I sound like a dude who got nailed in the nuts. Or Big Bird with a black lung.

Others ask me random shit like, "Are you that girl from CSI?" (Yes, but I grew 2 feet last night); "You're like a live Betty Boop" (You're like a live Meg Griffin). "You look like Bettie Page" (Nope, just the hair). "You're totally a Leo, aren't you?" (Totally).


All flattering, but my Catholic guilt doesn't allow me to process compliments like a normal human. I throw one back at them and then get stuck in a long-winded conversation about how Costco Lady's husband is cheating on her with her male neighbor.

After a couple recent uncomfortable meetings, I hereby declare that I'm taking a break from strangers. Delivery dudes. Cashiers. Passers-by. People in the freezer aisle. Bar flies. Transients. New moms.

Ever since I pooped out a child (the scientific term), these relentless moms at playgrounds who "hate mom groups" cling to me like bar-floor toilet paper to dirty Chucks. After five minutes of engaging them, I'm "a cool mom." Can they hang out with me?

These poor bored moms rarely leave the house. And they don't hesitate to tell me their life stories — from mental ailments, medical history, family dynamics, sexual fantasies, the color of their kid's vomit — all within a span of 10 minutes.

It's like I'm in a nightmare date and I can't wake up. They usually hate women, "but I like you, so can we be friends?" "Can we go to the museum? What park do you live by? Do you want to go to church with us? Will you do my husband while I watch?"

This is what I'm dealing with. I work full-time and have sparse life with my husband and sweet child. I can't remember if I have friends because they all dumped me for my lack of presence in their lives.

So, no, we can't hang out. And no, I don't want to reverse cowboy your husband while you and your neighbor get the popcorn.

But I'm too nice, so I oblige and here we are. I've got a swinger in my pants and it's my damn charm's fault.

So as I attempt to avoid eye contact with humanity for a long time, in the meantime I guess you can follow me on Twitter. So long as you leave your husband's junk out of things.

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