Okay, Stupid

Dating is hard. Meeting new people can be a challenge. First impressions can be tricky.

That being said, I recently signed up for the free online dating site, OKCupid and I think it may be that I do not completely understand all the rules of engagement, like that you’re not supposed to use your real first name, but especially when it comes to messaging.



I’m not particularity fantastic at it.

My only other experience with online dating is the app Tinder. This has allowed me to, with simple swipe of right or left, choose a prospective partner based almost solely on physical attraction. However, I wanted to take an avenue where I could know a little more about another human being besides how close they are geographically, if we have mutual Facebook friends, or if they’ve ever been in close proximity to a tiger—seriously, there are a lot of guys on Tinder posing with tigers.

After a couple glasses of pinot, I began the process of creating my OK dating profile. For a recently single individual, this exercise forced me to take stock of my assets. I answered dozens of questions ranging from topics such as: relationships, ethics, sex, drug use, and preference in pets. The questionnaire sparked a quiet introspection facilitating a wine soaked pause wherein I pondered various aspects about how I feel about the world, what I am doing in it, and what exactly I’m looking for.

First I was all like:

What might I have to offer?


Then I was all like:

Who wouldn’t you want DIS?!

After THAT, I threw together a little blurb about myself with a genuine attempt to be honest and straightforward, all the while trying to make myself sound appealing. For example, I did not include the fact I eat chips for dinner at least once a month. Or that last night I feel asleep in my clothes listening to Sam Smith’s acoustic version of Latch ON REPEAT (I recontextualized this into describing myself as a, “Lover of music”).

It was more work than I had expected, but after a couple hours my online dating self was ready for the world.

Being the punctilious human being that I try to be, I had this notion that I would—whether it be a yea or nay— respond to each and every message I received. It’s rude to just not respond right? Oh, how naïve I was. As opposed to Tinder where both participants must “like” the other in order to begin messaging, OKC is an open market where ANYONE can message you. The messages I’ve received have ranged in tone and approach from: the mundane (Hey is for horses!), sweet, complimentary, poorly spelled, oddly capitalized, neg filled, or obviously formulaic.


S-Sure… thanks.



Beg pardon?





Listen, I don’t pretend to be a perfect conversationalist. I know I might come off here sound all high and mighty as I criticize these individuals for their approaches, but like, REALLY?



96% NO. (4% Please don’t)

I’m sex positive. Some of these gentleman are just asking for what they want, however, there are some instances where I feel that the sender of these messages has very little, if any, consideration for the fact that an actual living, breathing, human being with complex emotions is receiving them. For example, a long ago deleted messagewas a simple: handjob?

My reaction was thus:

  • Is handjob one word? Oh… it is… well, I guess the hand and job work together creating a single term. Huh, you learn something new every day. LANGUAGE!
  • Dafuq? I’ve spent all this time making myself seem like a fun, interesting, dynamic person and you go ahead and reduce me to some king of handjob dispensary? This is the first message I’ve received from this individual and he’s just jumping right in to ask for a handjob? How exactly is this working for him? Does he just send the same message to every single potential match in the hopes of getting a handjibber in the single transfer washroom at Wendy’s at King and University (this is where I imagine these handjobs are happening).
  • A handjob? Really? You’re going to just put yourself out there and ask for a sexual encounter and you ask for the most basic (kind of saddest) act that I can provide you and it’s something you can essentially do on your own? If this is the direction you want things to go, I mean, aim higher, man, just… aim higher.

“He’s just getting to the point, what’s wrong with that?” one friend responded after I relayed the story. So much. So much is wrong with that. As a heterosexual female identified person who does not want to be sexually objectified and would like to be able to find potential sexual partners in a space where I am comfortable, a lot is wrong with that. I don’t like when men catcall me on the street, yell at me from cars, or try to touch me inappropriately, so why would I tolerate it’s equivalent on the internet?

I propose an Elevator Rule. If we were both waiting for the lift to take us to our respective floors and you wouldn’t articulate this sentiment to me, don’t type it. If you wouldn’t risk the consequences of my reaction if you say, asked me to go down like the elevator, don’t press send. There’s nothing on my profile that indicates this is the kind of first interaction I’m interested in—and I’m not judging anyone who is—it’s just, personally, I’m looking for a little tact, and a little less aggression.



On my profile, it lists that I respond “Very Selectively”, but for the gentleman requesting the use of my hand, I couldn’t help myself, and answer:




From all the phrases that can be yelled out in the night whilst engaging in intercourse, “I’M SORRY!” is definitely the worst.

A gentleman and myself are having sex in the missionary position and I decide to raise my leg up and over onto his shoulder. Miscalculating the speed and distance this act will take, I end up smacking him upside the face with my shin.

Like, really hard.

I cannot get the look on his face out of my mind: Think of a mixture of pain, confusion, and a little bit of disappointment. I know everyone has different expectations when having sex, especially the first few times you’re getting to know what they’re into, how they move, and how exactly you’re going make it work between the two of you—but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t expecting to have to wear a helmet just to fuck me.


Picture 23

Insert”safe sex” joke here.


I would really love to say that I’m a delicate, sexy, graceful lady—but we know that’s not true—who can execute a sexual interaction with perfect timing, grace, and full control over my body. But the unfortunate truth is that since puberty, I’ve been awkward as fuck.

Possessing long limbs that tend to have a somewhat limited communication with the mind that supposedly controls them has produced some causalities. Ask the banister in my apartment I constantly crash into with my hipbone. Ask the corners of the tables I knuckle into like some kind of Neanderthal. Ask the long stemmed wine glasses I no longer own because I’ve swiped them clear across the room. I’ve never met a coffee table I haven’t tripped over.

This is pretty much how I get around.

But before this moment I wasn’t hurting anyone, except myself. Now that’s all changed. I’ve almost concussed some poor dude. What am I capable of now that I’ve moved from inanimate objects to live human beings?

I’ve become a monster.

Condoms: Let’s Just Stop Pretending I Asked You to Put It On because, It’s Like, So Fun For Me

I grew up in a small town and came up through the Ontario Catholic School’s sex education program where abstinence was the only kind of safe sex, and “condom” was a dirty word.

When it came time for the Fully Alive chapter on sexuality, hysterical laughter ensued as we opened our booklets to labeled illustrations of the male and female reproductive organs. Our teacher, Ms. Pursa had a strategy to stifle the giggling, instructing us to repeat the terms to make us more comfortable. The chorus eleven year olds began, “Penis. Penis. Penis. Penis. Vagina. Vagina. Vagina. Vagina.” For all intents and purposes, it was pretty effective and educational.

Picture 20

In Grade 6, this shit was hilarious.

Since then, I’ve had the opportunity to get up close and personal with those once abstract body parts. Drawing from my experiences as a straight woman who most certainly does not practice abstinence, I’d like to continue in my grade school teacher’s tradition on sex education.

So let’s all say this together, “Nobody likes condoms. Put it on anyway” I repeat, “Nobody likes condoms. Put it on anyway.”

Maybe I shouldn’t generalize. If I’m missing a demographic of folks out there who get their thrills from correct, safe, and consistent condom usage, I apologize. Also, fucking good for you.

However, I am not driven into an erotic frenzy when I hear that distinctive crinkling of the Durex package, nor am I writhing with pleasure as that latex sheath rolls up his member. And yet, I have found I am theone who is asking for the condom. Even more than that, I have been in situations where my partner is actively trying not to use a condom. I thought I was alone, but when I brought this up with my female friends it seems this is not abnormal. One friend exclaimed, “Oh, I hate that!” Me too.

These instances include: Things are hot and heavy with a guy and then all of sudden he just tries to go for it with YOLO intensity, and I’m the one that has to stop the action, as I fumble around in my purse and he mumbles that he, “doesn’t like condoms” yeah, because this is the best moment for me too. One articulate gentleman asked me, “Can I just stick it in?” Great try buddy, you almost convinced me. And don’t get me started on the much-referenced game of, “Just the tip.”

I don’t like that game.

As a person with a vagina and uterus and everything (which I can label if need be. Thanks Ms. Pursa!) condoms are my friend. They protect me from pregnancy. They protect me from STI’s ranging from the inconvenient sort like gonorrhea or Chlamydia that can be taken care of with a dose of antibiotics, to a life long (albeit manageable and too often stigmatized) diagnosis of HIV or Genital Herpes. Either way I’d just rather not take the risk.

I care about my body and my safety. I care about protecting the bodies of my partners. So to all the men who try to get around using a condom my question is, “Why don’t you?”

Especially if this is a hook up or one night-stand. It’s like, “I just met you and this is crazy, but let’s have unsafe sex even though I could ruin your whole life, maybe?”



No. I don’t know where you’ve been. You don’t know where I’ve been.

“But I can’t feel anything.” You might say. “I can’t come with the condom on.” You protest. Well, okay there are other things we can do, that I can do to get you off. Let’s stop acting like I’m trying to punish you. I have to credit sex columnist Dan Savage for pointing out a contradiction: how can it be that the same man that claims there is little to no feeling with the condom, but then not even notice when it slips off or breaks? You didn’t even notice, and yet somehow putting it on is a death sentence for pleasure? Dan articulates the point better than I, and if you aren’t reading his articles or listening to his podcast, you should be.

I get it. I don’t have a perfect record in this regard. I’ve been caught up in the moment. Condoms don’t especially add anything to my experience either. But waking up in the morning wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake, dragging my sorry ass to the doctor explaining how I know better but here’s what happened, and waiting for test results imagining the worst outweighs our night of fun. I’ve been lucky. I haven’t had to deal with worst-case consequences. And I intend to take the steps necessary to prevent any harm coming to me.

So instead of making me the only one responsible, let’s try to remember that we both hate condoms and put it on anyway.

Not A Good Girl, and I Know It

I have this fantasy.

I’m out on the town, at a bar here in Toronto, and in the corner of the room is none other than rapper, actor, and songwriter Drake. I catch his eye and even though he’s usually all like, “No new friends” he waves me over to join him.

He's got his eyes on me.

He’s got his eyes on me.

I take a seat next to him. Introduce myself. We clink glasses. I say something witty and charming and he leans in. Then this is the moment I get close and over the music, I whisper in his ear…

“What do you mean when you use the term ‘good girl?’ Don’t you think there’s a way to describe your ideal woman without stripping her of her autonomy?”

He orders me a drink, noticing my G&T is getting low and says, “That’s so fascinating. Tell me more.”

I reference the songs, Mine and Hold We’re Going Home where the usage of the moniker is thrown around without consideration about the ways it polices women’s identities, bodies, and behavior in the fear they are marred with the conception they are somehow not “good” or “proper” enough.

“Don’t you think this term reduces woman into a concept? If you’re looking for someone who’s genuinely nice, polite, and respectful, why not just say good person? Why must we sexualize this?”

And then he’s all like, “Shit, I never thought about it that way. I’m really not sure why I feel that need to box women into reductive terms like this. Maybe I shouldn’t reinforce harmful stereotypes about femininity.”

Then I’m all like, “Aubrey, I’m so glad we can talk about this. The next round’s on me.”

I understand this is unrealistic, but…

What does it mean to be a good girl?

I looked it up on the internet. I truly didn’t realize how big the question really is, and I feel that not everyone is intentionally trying to undermine women when they call someone a “good girl.”  But like I “said” to Drake, it’s not doing girls much good.

According to the webs,  good girls don’t smoke, party, swear, hook-up, or have any sort of fun. They have to stay away from “bad boys”, want to have “white weddings” and are “easy on your expenses“.

I even took Seventeen’s online Quiz, “Are you a Good Girl?”

I got “Wild Child”

Through all the the definitions and criteria from various sources, I found the most prominent theme in the definition of the good girl is linked to sex and promiscuity.

Continuing in its tradition of rampant assholery, Misogyny Today, urg…I mean Elite Daily churned out this steaming turd of an article, 5 Signs You Have Found A Good Girl.

It states that once, for a dude, you’re finished with the  “multiple one night stands” it is only then that you’re ready to find this fabled, “good girl.”

I have to admit, a lot of the article is just about finding a good person who you can get along with and  is nice to your family and friends, which is just what you would want from any ideal partner right?

However, these were not the most coveted signs of dating a good girl: sex is.

“You know you have found a good girl if she is holding out on spreading her lovely legs. We can estimate that the average time for a good girl to hold out on giving you any type of sex is about a month to two months. However, if you see her waiting it out, you should interpret that as her really liking you and that a “one night stand” does not exist in her vocabulary.”


So, wait… Men can run around and have experiences that lead them to the point of wanting to, what, get married (ugh) but if I’ve ever had a one-night stand or casual sex, heaven forbid more partners than you, this excludes me from being a prospective partner that you can possibly love and respect?

Let’s say I’m this woman you’ve decided to throw away your philandering ways for, and have deigned to consider a marriage with. You want me to make you wait for sex because that somehow communicates that I’m what… MORE into you?  Shouldn’t I want to have sex with you? In my own time and pace of course, but personally, a month or two seems long.

Also, what if you’re bad at it?  What if I invest several weeks into this only find out that you suck in bed most likely because you don’t any respect for women so you never really took the time to figure out what works for them? What if your penis is weird? Maybe I’m missing something here, but wouldn’t you want someone who is experienced, confident, and willing to express her affection for you physically?

But I’m not a good girl, and I know it.


Why Dating Has Made Me a Terrible Person

Example #1:

I’m out on a date with a man. After we grab a drink and some food we start walking in the direction of his place. My inner monologue is running: I wore nice underwear right? Susan, why can’t you remember what pair of panties you’re wearing? Get yourself together.

We run into a group of his friends on the street and start they start chatting. This is the moment I realize he has a long piece of cheese dangling from his chin. When did we eat cheese?

Coming out of a million year relationship, my first impulse is to wipe it off his chin without asking, just you know, “I got it” sort of thing. But I am not this girlfriend or his mother, so that would be weird right? Right? Be cool. Just, fucking be cool.

He and his friends are talking about…fucking something. Cannot. Concentrate. Can only freak out about how to tell him he has food on his face.

Listen, I’m a nice person, and as a nice person I live by the general rule that when someone has some embarrassing shit on their face, butt, leg, or whatever I’ll tell them. Is your tag hanging out? I’ll tell you. Eyeliner a little smudged? We’ll have an aside. You know why? Because if it were me, I’d want you to tell me.

I learned this lesson the hard way years ago: waiting in line for the washroom at a club my friend was DJing for, the girl in front of me had what looked like chalk on her backside. I politely told her that her shirt was dirty and even helped with brushing it away. She said thank you, went on about how she appreciated me telling her, but once she was in the stall I look over to the mirror and realize….  the red lipstick I’m wearing smeared all over my chin.


Why didn’t she tell me? What is wrong with people?! It was at that moment I vowed I would NEVER let someone I know walk around like that.

But then I did.

I can only imagine his friend’s impression of me standing there completely silent and wide eyed as I’m thinking, okay so they haven’t said anything about the cheese, are they expecting me to say something about the cheese? Would it be weird if I said something now? Oh my god it’s been like a full three minutes. If they aren’t going to say something do they think I’m a bad person for not saying anything? Who are these people? Rub your face, maybe it’ll make him wipe his face. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at them. Where do I usually look when people are talking?

And then they leave. We keep walking. Okay, so if I say something now then he’ll be embarrassed that he had an entire conversation with cheese dangling and then he’ll think I’m an asshole. Should I just kiss him right here on the street to get it off his face? He’ll think I’m crazy. Just be cool.

I would like to say I stepped up to the plate and told him. I would like to say that as a person who I am about to have SEX with, that I had the social graces to inform him.

But I can’t. The cheese fell away somewhere on our walk, relieving me from all responsibility.

He’ll never know. But I’ll know.

Dating has really made me a terrible human being.

Pretty Hurts: My Date With Helga

I had a boyfriend for six years, but then we broke up.  After which, I spent a month and a half of doing nothing with my vagina but washing it. In that time, the situation got a little, well… hairy.

Picture 25

This pussy is out of control.

Not that there’s any problem with this look of course for all you women who want to get down with your bushy selves, but I was looking for a bit of a change.


Waxing fucking hurts. A lot. Even when done correctly. I had avoided this for sometime (re: six year relationship I-got-a-little-comfortable-and-lazy). Don’t get me wrong: I kept things clean and neat down there, but nothing as drastic as a wax. However, I’m going out with my friends the next night, and you never know what might happen.

Returning to the salon I used to frequent some years back, I ask the receptionist if Mi still works there. I loved Mi. She would turn the lights down low, put on some calming music, and work efficiently and quickly as she talked about how much she hated her husband. It wasn’t as though she was bitter or angry, it was just a simple fact: she hated that guy. “Like, we don’t even sit in the same room to watch television anymore. He’s so stupid.” I would laugh as she worked. “Do you have kids?” I once asked. “Noooo. I’m not having kids with him, he doesn’t even kiss me on the mouth.”

The receptionist said no, that Mi had left a while ago, and I wondered what happened to her. Was she was still living with the husband she despised, sitting in separate rooms of their childless home, each watching their program of choice?

“But Helga can help you.”

Helga is an Eastern European lady in her mid fifties with long purple shellacked nails and died blonde hair with dark roots. She takes me into a dimly lit room in the back and asks, “What do you want?” I tell her I want a Brazilian and she barks, “Take off your pants.”

Now, my usual experience is that you get moment alone to take off your pants and slip under a crisp white sheet. But Helga’s all business. I’m taken aback for a moment, but then realize she’s going to see it anyway, so why not just get to the point?

I lay down on the bed, and she exclaims, “Oh, you’re so skinny! Like a model!” giving one of my hip bones a light tap. Her work is aggressive, straight forward, and nothing short of terrifying.

She takes my hand and places it on my right thigh, “Hold the skin!” This isn’t an unusual practice to offer a hand, but it’s obvious that Helga doesn’t think I’m doing a great job as I clench before each strip. I can only imagine what kind of horror movie it sounded like from outside the door as Helga yells, “Stop moving! Hold the skin Susan! Skin has to be tight!”

The first strip she takes she holds up to me exclaiming, “See. See.” It looks like what a Muppet would if it was run over by a semi.  And I do see Helga, I do.

She rips off another strip, slapping the newly naked patch of flesh asking, “So, you want to have a sexy new look for your boyfriend?” At this point, I’ll tell her anything she wants if she just makes this pain stop. “No, no boyfriend” I say as she assess my remaining pubic hair.

“Can you put your legs over your head?” she asks. I’m not sure if she’s asking this question in reference to the wax, or the no boyfriend thing.

Regardless, my answer is two-fold: Yes. Yes I can put my legs over my head, and Why? Why do you need to know?

She laughs and tilts my legs up so my knees are on my chest, I close my eyes, hold my breath, and come as close to praying as I have in a long time in the hopes she doesn’t wax off my asshole.

She didn’t for the record. I still have an asshole.

After a quick sprinkle of baby powder, it’s all over. Helga washes her hands as I quickly dress in the corner.

“Now you’ll get a boyfriend”, she chuckles.

I would like to reiterate this is the first time someone has come into contact with my genitals for a month and a fucking half. To state the least, I didn’t think it would be a curt middle-aged woman. But she did the job, although she did leave me feeling a little raw.

I buy a bottle of aloe vera and Pinot Grigio on my waddle home. Why do I do this to myself? What did it matter that I had some hair down there? I don’t know why I fall into the traps of the ideal Western beauty?

A quarter of a bottle of aloe and a half of the Grigio later, I stare between my legs and realize I look the part of the little girl. Who has no idea what’s she’s doing.

Being an Unlady

I am many things.

I am a straight identified, white, middle-class woman in her late twenties. I am a sister, daughter, aunt, friend, lover, writer, feminist, bad dancer, shower singer, great sauce maker. I drink, smoke, and swear. I wear make-up, my hair long, eyebrows plucked, legs shaven, and nails painted.

But I am not ladylike.

Woman, hell yeah. Feminine, sure sometimes. But ladylike… I’m not so sure.

I used to think it was a compliment, something to strive for. However, my understanding of the term and the ways in which it’s been applied in my life has never done me any favours. More or less, it’s been a way that seems to attempt to prescribe, dictate, and modify the way I speak, move, and act in the world—ways that just aren’t like me.

However, being a writer, I decided to consult the Merriam Webster Dictionary to see if I am—literally—ladylike.



: polite and quiet in a way that has traditionally been considered suited to a woman


Polite. I am all about being polite. I try to be a nice person. A well-mannered person. I always try to make those around me as comfortable as possible. I say my pleases and thank-yous. I open doors for people. I try to be punctual. But none of these things have to do with the fact that I was born with a vagina.

Quiet. I’m quiet sometimes. Like say, when I’m asleep?

Definitely at the library.

Or when I’m on the streetcar listening to Miley Cyrus’ Wrecking Ball on my iPod for the sixth time in a row, my internal monologue running, Is the way she’s sexualized harmful objectification or is this truly how wants to express herself? She’s so clearly an example of the virgin/whore tropes that pervasively influence the way women are percei– ALL YOU EVER DID WAS WR-E-CK ME. YEAH, YOU WR-E-ECK-ME!

I can even be quiet AND polite at the same time when I offer my seat to someone who obviously needs it more than I, all the while Miley making me feel the feels.


Goddamn it, Miley.


The term “traditionally” seems to cover all matter of sins in this case. What kind of tradition are we talking about here? The kind where women should be seen and not heard? Where they can’t vote, drive, or seen out in public without a chaperone?

Nope, no thank-you.

I think of examples like the recent emergence of #YesAllWomen where stories of misogyny and violence against women are shared. What is it about how we’ve “traditionally” told women they haven’t been able to speak up about this? I can think of times in my life where I’ve had a group of men catcall me from a moving vehicle, or I’ve been addressed as “sweetie” or “honey” by a male superior. In those moments, my voice is taken from me, the position of power is shifted, and this definition of “ladylike” confirms how society socializes women to quietly and politely ignore this.

So no, I won’t just be quiet and polite because someone might think I’m some LOUD broad.

1:  becoming or suitable to a lady

I feel like this gives me nothing.

For example, “becoming of suitable to a lady” could mean something completely different to Mary Crawley from Downton Abbey or rapper/actor/entrepreneur Ludacris when he states that his ideal woman be “a lady on the street and a freak in the bed.”

How about when “lady” is turned against women when professionals are described as a “lady doctor”, “lady cop” or “lady writer” as though the fact they are female undermines their abilities and skills? Ugh.



2:  resembling a lady in appearance or manners :  well-bred

The term “well-bred” always makes me think of cattle. Maybe because I grew up in a small town.  I guess traditionally speaking, it means that someone is from a long line of gentrified and high class people. But it also essentially means the people who fucked to make you dictate whether or not you’re the equivalent of a blue ribbon heifer or just another sultry Holstein.

I’m from good stock, you know.

Side note: Dear parents, did not mean to compare you to cows. Just trying to make a point.


3 a :  feeling or showing too much concern about elegance or propriety <ladylike embarrassment at not being the wife of a real doctor — Lewis Vogler>

I feel like whomever wrote this entry was like, “Silly women and their elegance, Geez.”

I can’t for the life of me figure out why this woman is so embarrassed. Not a REAL doctor?! What kind of fake doctor is she keeping company with? Like, Dr. Dre? Dr. Scholls? Dr. Dolittle? Or is it just some man with his PhD in Marine Biology? The horror.

Dr. Dre doesn't want to be with you either lady.

Dr. Dre doesn’t want to be with you either lady.

I’m more concerned about what flavour of Ms. Vickies I’m going to purchase than whether or not it’s “proper” for me to buy them at 2 a.m, or if my crop top is “elegant” enough for this 7-11.


b :  lacking in strength, force, or virility


I pride myself on being physically strong. Ask anyone I’ve helped move. Seriously, I may look like Olive Oil, but I’ll move those boxes like Popeye.

What about women who give birth to children? People came out of them. PEOPLE. My mother gave birth to four children WITHOUT drugs, I was ten fucking pounds, and she’s the most graceful, feminine, polite person I know.

I’ve had a strength and force to move to a new city, get out of bad relationships, pay my own bills, help friends through struggles, overcome deaths and illnesses in the family, get an education… and all these things seems pale in comparison to women in the world that are like, REALLY strong, take Hamida Gulistani an advocate for women’s rights in Afghanistan.


Can’t be virile and be ladylike?

I am virile. Ask my vibrator. I enjoy sex. Like, a lot.  Have you listened to Beyonce?! What about the song Blow? It’s essentially my anthem.

Seriously, if she’s not ladylike, then I’m totally fucked.

This is the final nail in the coffin of ever considering myself, “ladylike.”

It’s a definition that hurts us all, placing us all in a gender binary where women are considered “soft” and “weak” and men have to be “strong” and “unemotional.”

And so, as a polite but not quiet, strong, virile, woman with bigger concerns than wringing her hands over propriety and elegance, I am:




< “Sharon gave an unladylike snort”> AT GENDER INEQUALITY AMIRITE?

having qualities or traits that are traditionally considered inappropriate for a girl or woman

If you’d be so kind to join me (and some other great women) here at Unladylike blog, let’s try to see what that might really means.