Posts Tagged ‘boys’


1. guy’s girl
That great girl who can just chill and be ‘one of the guys’. She’s into sports, beer, action flicks and doesn’t give a damn what others think.
However, unlike the tomboy, she has her gang of girl mates who she shops with and does girly stuff.
When attractive, this girl is mysterious and elusive. Acts aloof and gives off the ‘cool girl’ aura, like she’s very aware of both guys’ and girls’ worlds.


These would surely be flown on a ceiling fan.



“You’re dad must be awesome.”


“You’re a dad’s girl aren’t you?”

And my personal favorite (from Doug the other day) : “Hungover in Nashville? But you drink more than most guys.”

Ahhh yes, the saccharine sweet sounds of being a guy’s girl.  The girl that gets put in head locks and splits bills and honestly knows what Bucky *fuckin* Dent means without slyly navigating to Google.com on her Blackberry Pearl.  She knows about the German Purity law of 1516 and why it makes Hefeweizen taste so damn good.  She does tailgates and strip clubs, and no not to be a faux Katy Perry lesbian but because her pals knows that nothing they possibly say or do there would make her bat one lash of her DiorShow Mascara-d eye.  And plus it’s just too damn far away to take her home beforehand.

Hi my name is Sara Kelly and I’ an alcohol-,er, guy’s girl.

I know, I know.  What am I complaining about? Boys as far as the eye can see.  Trips to go hang out with *my boys*  Funny text messages from *my boys*  Hugs, and fist bumps and cramming in between 5 of *my boys* on the couch to watch soccer/hockey/football/baseball/insert anything drinking or competitively related here.

You wanna know why I’m complaining?  Here’s a list:

Nicknames: What does a girl call two girls both named Kristen?  Kristen N. and Kristen S. or “Blonde Kristin” and “Brunette” Kristin.  What happens when there are two girls named Sara(h) and you need to differentiate?  One is Sara the other is (and these are things I have been called within the past several weeks) : Cockhead, Lil Ho, Princess Lil Ho, Brakebeater, Playa, Punk, Loser, and my favorite, Nutsack. It’s even better being introduced that way as in, “Hey Sarah, this is Sara, but you can just call her Lil Ho.”

Bodily Functions: Gentleman, would you fart or burp on a first date? Pee with the door open? Would you then laugh?  Would you talk about back hair/nut hair/pimples “that hurt” to a girl who caught your eye at a party?  No way.  Do I get to hear/see/smell experience all of this?  You bet.  And no one thinks twice.

Drinking:  Yes I can drink.  And no, I don’t drink cosmos or appletinis and yes I do drink vodka and whisky and beer and bourbon.  But that doesn’t mean that my liver is the same size as yours or that the extra 5 inches you have on me is just height and that I can make it up in personality and go shot for shot with you for 12 hours straight.  Oh and PS- what happens when 5 guys order beers and you order a vodka tonic at dinner? You get called a faggot by 5 guys…I can’t make this stuff up.

This past weekend in Nashville I was denied entry into the Broadway Brewhouse because I was visibly intoxicated.  *My boys* answser? “Get your act together!”  Sirs, I will get my act together when you stop yelling “Slam that beer!”  It saves us all time when we’re running to get in a cab and you have to get back out to pick me up covered in bloody cuts because my heel was caught in a sewer grate.  Speaking of heels…

Pace: My shoes are 5″ off the ground.  They have a pointed toe box and yeh they kinda hurt, but they match my dress and I’m going to wear them.  I cannot run down asphalt/mudhills/backards/or in front of traffic in them.  And no, I will not wear “flat shoes” with my dress as I was told to do this weekend.  As in, “You’re wearing those?  We’re not picking you up when you break you back!  You’re done for cockhead!”  Speaking of pace…

Food: I can’t eat fried pickles and pizza and dirty burritos and gravy 7 days per week.  I also don’t want to see you do it so fast that your head is spinning a top your neck like a gremlin movie as you open your gullet and swallow a club sandwich the way a Burmese Python would inhale a small asian child that Angelina Jolie hoped to adopt.  Speaking of violent behavior…

Rough Housing:  This past weekend, and pretty much for the past 10 years of my life I have been bitten, slapped, punched, pushed down, fallen on, tackled and ninja kicked. Have you ever been fallen on my a whisky soaked 400lb Southern boy?  Probably not.  Sometimes it was a classic infantile “I like you so I’m going to get to touch you by hitting you” ploy, but the other 80 percent of it was a don’t touch my beer, I’m going to bite your forearm WWF move.  And you know what?  Guy’s girl or not, it still really hurts.  Even further, when you go to work in a pencil skirt with two black knees people either think you are an amateur boxer or a weekend hot mess.

Language: My heritage makes it easy enough to for me to swear or talk in un-ladylike tongues.  When you spend all of your time with guys that multiplies by 10.  An illustrious group of boys that I run around with, known as the Beaters,slowly but surely developed their own talk.  If something requires effort?  “Sounds like work!”  “May I have a cigarette?” becomes ” Gimme that tough stick!” (note: Beaters do not ask for things, but rather take things).  This is fine when I’m amongst them, but if I start saying “Gimme that tough beer” at work functions it will be the downfall of me.  One of the Beaters sisters noted that they “speak in code.”  Scary thing?  I’m fluent in it.

Messing with My Stuff:  Yeh I’m a guy’s girl, but I still have access to things that boys are interested in, and because I’m that guy’s girl, they may take it, steal it, throw it or ruin it without asking.  Think my bras being used as wrestling helmets and my underwear being flown around on ceiling fans.  You get the picture.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that deep down, each one of *My Boys* does in fact love and respect me, but when you’re having a bad day, getting punched while being called Super Ho at 9am makes you sometimes wish there was a girl to say Let’s Go Shopping and watch 4 hours of The Hills today.  It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, you can count on someone telling me to “Stop bitching and grow some balls.”

Which would not be good for anyone.

Especially me.




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