The Chicktionary, Part II

This is an updated list of the kinds of women you will find not only on your college campus, but for you twenty-something women out there, all the people you’ll find in the business world. (Read Part I here)
 

You’re not really sure were she matriculated from, but you’re know it was a Big Ten school whose health center distributed the morning after pill for free. You know this species only through friends, who also know her only through friends, who only know her as the girl who followed them home for an after-party but ended up passing out while taking a dump in the bathtub. You only ever see her at the bar, and you’re usually avoiding her desperate attempts at eye contact so she can introduce you to the guy clung to her side. She claims he’s a football player but it’s very very apparent he’s a cab driver.

The morning after a night of drinking and you vaguely remember reaching for that last taquito from Taco Burrito King, and are chained to the toilet for a good two hours we all feel a little ashamed. But nothing like the shame a Hungry Hippo feels in the morning, especially when she scrolls through the digital camera and there is plenty of photographic evidence that after the bar she dumped an entire jar of salsa into a margarita glass, covered it in red hot Cheetos, and consumed the entire concoction in under ten minutes. She’s also known for munching on raw pasta noodles, drinking the hot liquid cheese when she’s run out of pretzel, and on some very very very rare occasions even picking out food she dropped in the trash can minutes before and consuming it.

Always identifiable by her incredibly slim frame, this creature can be found with a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a cell phone up to her ear in the other. During the summer she can be seen wearing the always fashionable oversized cocaine sunglasses, and during the winter she doesn’t go anywhere without her Burberry signature scarf and black leather boots with hooker heels. Formally addicted to cigarettes, she’s found a new addiction and that’s a sugar-free, fat-free, vanilla mocha latte with extra foam. You never see her actually consume anything that not in that Starbucks cup, and there’s no proof that she has eaten anything in solid form. Someone in the office may have claimed to see her eat a cheese cube once, but the only thing we know if for sure is that her snit smells like coffee beans.

Her maternal instinct kicked in way before anyone else’s in your graduation class. And while she’s not rocking the pregnancy wagon anytime soon, when she does she’ll be ready. Her motherly characteristics seem to play into your current singles scene too much for comfort. For instance, she’s started to lay a foundation for motherly useless facts and dispenses them while the drink orders are being taken: “Oh don’t get the rum, stick with vodka, it makes you more regular,” or, “Blue Moon comes with an orange slice and the vitamin C will help boost your immune system.” Next thing you know she’s carrying nap-wipes in her purse, and holding a tissue up to your nose saying, “Just blow—but not too hard, you could go deaf.” And while in college everyone was worried she’d leave with the liver of a 35-year-old man, now she’ll barely touch the alcohol and only go to smoke-free clubs out of fear she might damage however many viable unfertilized eggs her ovaries are packing.

Feet aren’t pretty. Let me just say that right now to be clear. I can barely even look at the feet in an advertisement—and those have been airbrushed. But every day in the theater, try as I might not to notice, I am surrounded by the ugliest feet. These beautiful dancers with their 3% body fat figures have the most incredibly disfigured looking toes imaginable. I can only describe it as midget hands, plagued with arthritis—some toes have gnarled under while others have grown out crooked and are attempting to overlap their neighbor. Then there are the toenails, and man if I were a guy that would be the deal breaker for me. Ever meet a really attractive girl who’s rocking the one funky toenail that you know must have pure fungus growing underneath to make it that shade of vomit yellow? It would take a 99 cent slab of pink polish to make yourself a little more marketable. Invest!

While every man enjoys a good romp in the sack, they also enjoy a little dirty talk. A little pornstar talk now and again is always encouraged by the opposite sex, but occasionally there are women who start dishing out the dirty chatter too early in the game. Maxim magazine claims that men love to hear women say randomly in their ear, “I’m aching to go down on you. Let’s get out of here.” But I’m pretty sure that they’d be completely unprepared for, “Baby, I want to taste your unborn children in my mouth.” …And what was supposed to be a fun and satisfying roll in her 600 thread count sheets has made you feel like you were getting fucked… in a barn.

This gem uses the “status update” on her Facebook to make sure all friends and acquaintances know that she is doing something utterly fabulous and you’re not. It’d be fine if she’d just keep it simple, but she is very careful to include as many unnecessary details, as if she’s got to prove that her life is more satisfying than it actually is. So instead of an update like, “Packing for Mexico!” she will type, “Trying to condense new clothes into three suitcases! Then it’s off to my bf’s and my new time share on the white sandy beach of La Playa Del Carmen!” Trust me, if she has to make feeble attempts online to make her friends feel like their lives are inferior, she’s hiding something, like herpes or getting knocked up by her hairy-assed boss.

Not as blatantly drunk as The Janowski, but equally socially retarded. While the company she works for has blocked their employees from checking their personal email or MySpace, they haven’t yet blocked the matchmaking sites, so she’s constantly checking her profile on Lavalife, eHarmony, Match.com, LazyMeetingLosers, etc. Oddly enough, none of the men she meets online work out. Not the fireman who turned out to be an ex-con. Not the doctor who turned out to be a pig farmer. Not the pilot who turned out to be Nick Nolte. And yet she continues to believe that he’s out there somewhere—she just needs to find the right web address. Her fridge is always filled with Lean Cuisines and her head is full of emptiness.