"You know it has fur," I mock every time my friend describes putting a blanket on her dog while on the beach in sunny San Diego. "But her teeth are chattering!" she whines while probably online shopping for a pink knit sweater and booties for her small whatever-breed-it-is. Growing up in a family that hunts animals for food--you can all calm down, it's Pennsylvania--I have less sensitivity toward pets than your average person may have. This is not to say that I don't love my animals, that they don't have feelings or emotions or wants or needs, but the fact of the matter is they aren't people. My cat was eighteen years old when she died. I had that animal for most of my life and I loved her with all my heart, but even after all that time she was still a pet who had far outlived her life-span and a happy treasure I was willing to let go. By no means am I a cruel pet owner, nor am I a bad person for holding my rank on the food chain. If a deer wants to wield a rifle and feed me kibble and make me sleep on the floor, I'll cuddle that linoleum willingly...I did it enough in college anyway. We now interrupt this daily scheduled bitching to announce that someone who doesn't much care for talking about her own beloved pets, sure as FUCK does not want to hear about your little rat, random person in the supermarket. Alright, friends, stay cool. If I've met your animal, or child (the two can be interchangeable in this case), and have formed a relationship with your animal...or child...I will look at your photos and listen to your stories and suck it up for the sake of our friendship. However, complete strangers wanting to show me photos of their pets is where I draw the line.
The first recent incident of this was while I was waiting at Starbucks and two undergraduate girls in front of me where giggling and cooing over instagram photos of one another's cats while we stood in a line that never seemed to move. They gasped and choked and sniffled at these photos with which they were enamored. When after a few more minutes the line had barely progressed, one girl reached her phone in front of the nose of the handsome man in front of her. "Isn't this the funniest thing you've ever seen?!" she squealed at this poor bystander. With a scrunched face, the man swiveled, nodded, and mumbled something before turning around to give his order. Obviously feeling snubbed, the two girls then proceeded to evade
Top: Ebony (RIP), Bottom: Misty
embarrassment by performing the same routine on everyone
around them. Neither the lady behind the counter nor the young girl and her boyfriend studying nearby had any reaction. "You have to see this! I swear it's the most hilarious thing you'll see today," one of them finally announced to me. "Please do not put that thing near my face. I have no interest in looking at your cat," I said coldly while her cheeks turned a deep red. "Your loss," she growled, "and by the way it's a chinchilla." Having misunderstood that the hilarity was lost on the rest of us, they still decided to place their order under the alias of their pets. I don't remember the names. Muffy and Cooter, no doubt. The second time something like this happened I was in Petco, which is a slightly more understandable setting to encounter people that like to talk about animals. My mother and I wanted to give Misty a bath before the holidays, and not having the facilities to handle a bucking, twitching 50lb dog took her to the nearest self-wash station. When we arrived the bathy-ma-thing was occupied so I waited while Mom went to pay. Unsurprisingly, the nearest employee, a teenage girl with thick-rimmed glasses and eyebrow piercing, came dawdling over wanting to pet our dog. We exchanged brief conversation about the protocol for dog-washing and which shampoo was best, then got right down to the facts. What's her name? How old is she? Is she a rescue? How long have you had her? And so on and so on. I answered each prompt, but looked, the whole time, at my dog instead of the girl hoping she would understand my pain and pee on the floor. When the young lady finally ran out of questions she stared at me, willing me to ask her about her dog while I craned my neck to see if my mother was on her way to save me. "This is Duncan." She shoved her phone at me. "Cute. How old is he?" "Duncan. Duncan is three, but he has as much grey hair is Misty here." (My dog is 11yo) "Poor fella," I chortled, trying to fit in. "Duncan," she repeated as if I hadn't caught it the first three times. "Yeah...Duncan is such a rascal." Where was my mother? Testing chew toys? Hiding in the car? I waited angrily as Petco employee continued to tell me unsolicited stories about Duncan, until I finally had ingenious and diabolical idea to 'accidentally' let Misty off her leash. In an instant she was free, and off she went, my noble steed, running toward the hamster cages. "Oh shoot! This one's a rascal too!" I shouted as I went chasing down the aisle after her. By the time I returned so had my mother who was, of course, now being shown photos of Duncan; it took all of me to not leave her in that predicament. Thirty minutes later when we had finished washing, drying, and fluffing our pooch we were ready to leave when the girl returned. Knowing she only had the sweetest intentions, I nudged my mom, "Crap. Say something nice to her. I don't know how to be nice to her." "Merry Christmas, sweetheart. And Merry Christmas to your puppy too." "Duncan." Thanks for clearing that up.
Pets are a great topic for first dates or for awkwardly long car rides, but talking about pets is barely less generic than discussing the weather. Caring about the weather, though, is at least something I can relate to. I find it so difficult to muster up the energy to feign enthusiasm over something I simply do not care about, which can be problematic since people tend to care very deeply about their pets. Some folks take it very personally if, like me, you insult their obsession with their animals. Again, let me state that I love my dog, but aside from this post I don't really care if you know it or not. People who spend excessive amounts of money on their animals are people I just cannot relate to. I'm sorry; your dog is a yorkie, not a freaking Clydesdale. I will leave you with a lesson from one final example: If you are at TJ Maxx and you observe a family purchasing a dog bed, please do not take that as license to ask them about him or her. If you are at TJ Maxx and you observe a family purchasing a dog bed, please do not take that as license to tell the family about your dog for whom you have an actual twin size mattress even though it's only a small terrier. If you are at TJ Maxx and you observe a family purchasing a dog bed, please do not take that as license to tell the family about how your two cats are now so old and confused that the eat the dingleberries that fall off your dog's ass. DO NOT, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO THAT. Please.
The Christmas season is my favorite time of year, and while I adore spending time with my family and friends, I do not relish the barrage of questions from the extended family regarding my current relationship status. "...but you're such a beautiful young lady there must be a guy in your life!" followed by the uncomfortable glance at my mother who must disappointingly corroborate my story. In the past this has never really bothered me. I have always explained away the issue by telling Cousin Charlene I couldn't choose between the eight boyfriends I'm stringing along or explaining to Aunt Ethel why I don't have time for one anyway. However this year a different kind of exchange took place. At a sorority reunion the day after Christmas (see, bitches, you thought you were safe) when giving a formal 'life update' I playfully told my long lost friends I was, of course, single, but planning to start exploring my sexuality. Now, while I am so proud to say that there was immediately an overwhelming acceptance of this news I was, in fact, joking. I realized it was once again time to share some of reasons I am still without a boyfriend and to squash the sneaking suspicions of those who think I'd be better off with a lady. So in the spirit of being a good sport, I give you the much anticipated return of the nightmare that is my dating life. Fortunately for me, none of these examples are nearly as nauseating as last years' batch, but I hope they entertain you nonetheless.
He sent me this message in October...
Freddy Spaghetti New York City does not have a reputation for being the friendliest place on earth, so when a (clean) stranger strikes up a conversation with me on the subway I am always pleasantly surprised. He and I had gotten on at the same stop and he had slyly made his way to my end of the subway car. He was tall, unconventionally handsome, and wearing a fitted suit so naturally I had already noticed him. "You look like you're doing something exciting tonight," he leaned over and said in a deep voice with a thick Brazilian accent. I swooned... and realized I should wash my hair and wear makeup more often. He was a Columbia MBA student, a semi-professional rugby player, and couldn't take his eyes off me. We spoke for a while, he even stayed on my train when he should have taken the express, and it seemed like the makings of true love. Before my stop he asked me for my number and if I would like to get lunch later that week, an offer I aptly accepted. Several days passed before he finally asked me if I like Italian food and would be willing to meet him on campus after his class the next afternoon. We met up and exchanged pleasantries. As we started making our way to lunch I realized we were headed toward another school building, and trying not to be rude I asked him where he was taking me. "You said you like Italian right? The dining hall has a pasta special on Fridays so I thought we could go there. I have a meal plan." Now, I am not terribly picky when it comes to food, but anyone who has been to college can relate to the image of an over-sized, multi-line dining facility when it's filled with hundreds of undergrads in their pajamas as a not-so-ideal first date venue. As we walked in I told him I had never been there before and asked what was good, but before he could answer he darted off to some unidentified line and left me standing awkwardly by the fountain drinks with the 18 year old who was mixing together four flavors of soda. By the time I had my food he was nowhere to be found and I had to wander through the hall until he finally stood up and waved to me from the far corner. Trying to salvage our time together I began asking him about his friends and his hobbies, but the conversation quickly devolved into him asking if I had hot friends I could bring to his next rugby game, then inviting me to his school's happy hour before promptly revoking the invitation for some reason I couldn't hear through his full mouth, and telling me his uncle is an architect and he thinks it's a useless profession. When we had finished our meals he seemed to sense my aggravation and asked me to sit tight while he fixed a to-go plate before he would walked me back. Luckily we left with a mutual distaste for one another and I never heard from or saw him again.
The Captain As a full time architecture student it is easy to guess that I don't have a ton of free time to spend seeking the perfect mate. So when another student comes across my tinder I give them more than a glance before deciding which way to swipe. I, like most people, treat tinder as a game more than a place to find a boyfriend, but when law students from my hometown message me I am slightly more inclined to pay attention, especially when the message is coming in the middle of the day and not in the form of a booty call. Even though he wasn't an "ideal" candidate, The Captain and I spent an entire day messaging back and forth sharing school war stories and the great things about Pittsburgh. By the end of the day my fingers and patience were worn, so I extended the invitation for coffee. He responded with a counteroffer to come to his school's happy hour the day after next. I was a little hesitant and asked if I could bring a friend if he was serious, which he told me would be alright. We signed off saying we would both be busy the next day so we would talk the day of the happy hour. When Thursday morning rolled around I texted him with a simple message asking if drinks were still on. Minutes passed, hours passed, I got the hint and told my friend that there would be no happy hour that evening and went on with my day. Then around 5pm I received this unpleasant confirmation: "Sorry, sweetheart. This ship has sailed." First, let me make a quick public service announcement to all my male readers out there, DO NOT call a girl sweetheart. At no point did I ever press after that initial message so, second: if you are a pasty, overweight, and generally boring, do not assume that a girl wants your dick so badly that you need to send such rude followup messages to get your point across.
Stage 5 For those of you unfamiliar with the practice of online dating, there is a certain amount of back-and-forth that typically takes place once you begin talking to someone. These exchanges are sometimes dragged out over days, sometimes weeks, and you end up becoming pen pals with someone rather than their 6o'clock. I started talking to Stage 5 on a day I happened to have very little work, and we got along splendidly. He didn't quite meet some of my physical standards, but was very funny, and his quick-witted banter was enough to get me to ask him to drinks that night. As usual, I was running a little late, so he was already at the bar when I arrived. We hugged, I explained my tardiness, and was about to climb up onto the empty stool next to him when he choked back his drink and told me to wait. Assuming he must have asked for a table, I stood quietly while he squared his tab at the bar. I was observing the room when all of a sudden he grabbed my hand and told me to follow him and say nothing to no one. "Rape. He's gonna rape me," I panicked to myself as we sailed past the booths of dining middle-aged couples. Walking unquestioningly into the kitchen, he led me past the cooks and the freezers, through a storage room, and out into what must have been the enclosed courtyard of the building. It was three stories high, decorated with a bunch of antique found objects and filled with some of the most beautiful people I have ever seen. The table of tall foreign models smiled at us while the fedora-fitted bartender poured us some cocktails. To say the least, the place was really freaking cool. And so was Stage 5. He was a photo editor for Vogue from a somewhat rural part of Virginia and we could relate on a lot of levels. We shared anecdotes, we gossiped, we made fun of the bartender's hat; it was great. The evening was a blast, that is until he put his hand on my knee and I remembered I was supposed to be romantically interested in this guy, which I was not. When we finally left I was sick to my stomach; this guy was nice and really seemed to like me, but I just wanted to be friends. A simple goodnight kiss on the cheek and the promise for a call later in the week was a good sign for me to get my shit together and figure out how I was going to let him down gently. Several days later I finally got up the courage I needed. I called him, but was met with a text message saying he didn't like talking on the phone. Phew* I can do this an inhumanly as possible. The conversation went something like this: "Hey, Stage 5. I had a ton of fun with you, but I think we would be best off as friends. Is that something you would like to try?" "But you asked me out." "Yeah? To get to know you, which I think I do and you're awesome, but I don't think I want to keep dating you. I'd really still love to hang out as friends if that's something you want." "It's not. I thought you liked me. I feel like you made it kind of clear that you liked me. I think you should spend some more time with me and give me another chance before you blow me off like that." I made it clear? I made it clear by...asking him out first? I can admit that I was tipsy and flirty and what have you, but this reaction should have been an obvious red flag. Knowing, however, that I had really hurt his feelings I left things a little open ended. One night he asked me to dinner, but I had an evening class and couldn't go. A week or so later he invited me to a party, a very fancy, high profile party, that in all honesty I would have LOVED to attend. Yet my shitty school schedule couldn't really permit staying out until 4am schmoozing on a Monday night so I politely declined. His reaction was over the top. He sent me an avalanche of text messages (which I should have saved before dropping my phone into a puddle) decrying my academic pursuits telling me they were worthless since I would never know what it's like to love another human being and how life isn't worth living unless I foster the relationships I've already made. Our relationship. Our three week relationship that consisted of exactly one date. On and on the messages went explaining how I was wasting my time, and on and on I let them go. My only response was to tell him to enjoy his party. He texted me the next morning apologizing, that he must have been drunk (at 4pm on a Monday?). I didn't respond, and was met with more anger. A couple days later he messaged me again to tell me his family would be in town and invited me to Thanksgiving dinner at the home of his rich/famous artist brother. "I think that would inappropriate since we're not really dating and since I'm not sure I even want to be your friend any longer, but thank you for the invitation. I hope you have a lovely Thanksgiving." I didn't hear anything from him for a few weeks, until he tried to ask me out again. And then wished me a Merry Christmas. And then wished me a happy new year. Then asked me out again. Then asked me if I had Valentine's day plans. I finally just told him I was dating someone and he sent me the last message I have ever received from him:
"Yeah...maybe that's something you should tell someone before you lead them on for three months." Dickhead.
Thor Bergen, Norway is a small city about the size and population of Cincinnati, so I never expected to see the tallest, fittest, most beautiful man in all of Norway there in line for a restroom in the basement of a hipster bar. Lacking all subtlety, I was pretty obviously staring at this fine specimen as he went into the unisex bathroom and nothing changed when he came back out. He glided past me back into the bar, but must have doubled back because in an instant he was by my side with his hand on my arm breathing Norwegian into my ear. "Sorry?..I don..." I stuttered, cupping my hand to my ear. Now bent eye-level with me, he pushed back his long blonde hair off his chiseled jaw and repeated himself in Norwegian. "Oh no sorry! I only speak English." I admitted with an apologetic shrug. He stood upright and smiled...and my God what a smile. He leaned back toward me and put his hand on my side. I was dying. This could not be real life. "There's no toilet paper in there." And then he walked away. Ladies and gentleman, my life.
As always, I take the good with the bad. I went on a number of great dates with really wonderful guys over the last year, and while I am still optimistic, here are some of the reasons I will probably end up alone with a cat:
I am 88% concerned for myself.
If by big toys you mean, like, go carts...then yeah.
Lucky me.
Yeah, definitely. This sounds totally safe and legitimate.
I'm honestly more upset that he used "u" instead of "you."
I am still unsure if he was trying to ask me on a date or offer me a job.
Ladies and gentlemen, the art of wingmanning is called an art for a reason. It takes time and practice to become skilled, or even adept, at picking up tail for your friends. So when you truly and pitifully suck at it, don't blame me--blame yourself. Don't call me a douche. Don't call me a bitch. Don't tell me I'm a mean person, or that I have issues, or that I need to get a stick out of my ass. Instead, why don't you get your face out of your cell phone and go learn some social skills.
On the rare occasion on which I go out, I am confronted by the most pathetic attempts at pickups that usually begin with the line, "Have you met my friend..."
No, I haven't met your friend. Why is your hand on my hip? Oh, you're walking away now. Hello Friend. I said hi. So you don't speak? Did you know your "wingman" was going to do this and then disappear? Do you know I'm judging you not on your appearance, but on the company you keep? Still nothing to say? Well this has been fun.
I can't honestly say what I am expecting since I doubt there is any super satisfactory pickup line out there, but I think beginning with an introduction isn't the worst way to start. The role of a wingman is not to hit and run, but to draw the target in. Without basic conversation proficiency, I don't see how you hope to do that. Understand that I am not the best model to follow on how to socialize, but I also not so dimwitted that I can't make a general observation to get the ball rolling. It's more crowded than usual in here! Did you see the Pirates game? That bachelor party could use less cologne and less alcohol, don't you agree?
Yeah...don't know. Not that fucking hard.
As these bar exchanges happen more and more frequently, my patience is growing thinner and thinner. I try to be very open-minded about meeting people, but this type of behavior is unbelievably frustrating. Yet while I could ignore these people completely, I don't! I say hello, I shake hands, I give them the opportunity to say something interesting, and then politely tell them I'm not interested or I'm trying to enjoy the company of my friends. Tell me, madame wingwoman, would you prefer to watch me use your unattractive jerkweed of a friend for drinks and then disappear after I've run up his tab, or would you prefer the honesty of someone who genuinely does not want to use other people for their time or resources? I realize that not all women are polite when dismissing you, but name-calling and cursing is not going to change anyone's attitude or make you or your friends more desirable. My low tolerance for idiocy is balanced by my general curiosity for meeting people (and selfish need for blog material), but my attention is going to take some work from your end. I am sorry if this makes me the cruel, nasty person you're going to give death stares to the rest of the night.
The simplicity of communication through technology has very much ruined the social experience. I was much funnier and outgoing before I had a smartphone and my conjoined twin Dell Precision. Luckily, I've maintained my female genetic coding for the incessant need to talk and still spend about an hour of my day talking to friends or family with speech and not text bubbles. What little social ability I managed to acquire in college, though, is slowly creeping out of me the more time I spend texting, gchatting, and writing this dumbass blog. I am not a good wingwoman, I will never claim to be so, but I have a sense that I am probably not as bad off as I once believed.
This weekend's winners:
"My friend is sad, do you think you could cheer him up? "Would you girls take a picture with us? We need photos with pretty girls to make his fiance jealous." "So you girls are half dancing. You should come whole dance with us." We were not dancing. Then the guy that just stood right behind us and smiled. Then the guy that was gyrating licking his lips at my friend. Then the other guy that just stood right in front of us and nodded. Then the other guy that just stood right in front of us and nodded.
Man Repellent Over the past several days those of you living on the east coast have known my joy. This July has been graced with the cool crisp weather of late September and I could not be more thrilled. As a result, I have turned off window unit and been enjoying the breeze while I live out my last few days in my South Side apartment. However, what has brought me so much pleasure has also brought you today's post. While enjoying my tea and catching up on this week's True Blood, I was suddenly inundated with the screams of a couple on the pavement outside my window. "You were texting HER weren't you?!" "Babe. No. You're being ridiculous." "Then why won't you let me see your phone." "I did let you see my phone." "yeah but not until you deleted the message." "When I deleted what message?! I was carrying your purse with one hand and had my other hand in your back pocket. Please tell me when you think I deleted a message... ...and so on... ...and so on... The fact that these two were arguing in public didn't bother me, nor what they were arguing about really. Yet for some reason a wave of nausea came over me as I listened to these two squabble, and it hit me: I don't have a romantic bone in my body. Alright, it didn't just hit me; I've known since my fifth grade boyfriend used the last of his lunch money to buy me a rabbit's foot because the other boyfriends at our table had spent all their money on their girlfriends. Ten year old Stephanie scoffed because of the impracticality of the insincere gesture. I don't have it out against romance, but romantic expectation is for fools. Without ever meeting the girl on my sidewalk, I can tell what kind of status she posts, how many phone calls to her boo she makes a day, and how many Coach wristlets from ex-boyfriends are sitting in her closet. So in response to the internet and dumb bitches everywhere, I give you my perfect guy. How about #105 Clean up after me. In this imaginary relationship I have a life, and you better have a life. I'm not down with stage 5 clingers. I am preoccupied with work, school, friends, and interests so find some hobbies. If you don't have hobbies, do my laundry. It's a great hobby; my mom loves it.
I'd prefer if you didn't. I am permanently emotionally unavailable and chances are I'll be bored with you pretty soon. If you love me infinitely I'll just feel like a dick when I decide our time is not best spent together. In fact, don't love me at all; it's best for everyone. What? Why is that even appealing? Say it were to appeal to me, I constantly pump my body full of fried food and alcohol while actively avoiding all vegetables and other forms of nutrients. Tack on sleep deprivation, dehydration, anxiety, and a thyroid disease, and you have the perfect host for pneumonia. My immune system is not ready to handle the environmental exposure slobbering in the rain is going to cause. I highly suggest letting me walk away. If I am angry enough to walk away half way through a conversation, save yourself a world of hurt and let me take some deep breaths. You are an idiot (they're always idiots) so allow me however many moments it takes to remind myself that you are not an entirely worthless human being. What selfish bitch wrote this? Care about other things--your job, your family, your dumbass friends even, your pet maybe. I would never want the guilt of retracting attention away from things that are important in someone else's life. I'm selfish, but only to a certain degree. Don't text me at all. I hate texting. I only participate because it is the social norm, but I much prefer phone calls. I find it much more gratifying to ignore you via phone call than if I let your message sit unread in my inbox. 90% of the time I don't want to talk to you anyway; if I did you would hear from me. #70: Speak when spoken to. Have fun. Act like a grownup.
You could just ask me. Or pull off an incredible lie; points for creativity.
I don't cook; you can cook for me. Or be satisfied with my eating habits; oatmeal can be dinner, crab cakes can be breakfast. Sometimes I require five meals a day, sometimes only two-get over the inconsistency. I don't do vegetables. Thanks.
Don't do that.
Or that.
Definitely don't do that.
No.
No.
Under no circumstances should you ever do this
.
I can't deal with this right now. This sounds alright in theory, however I know when I haven't showered or changed clothes or brushed my teeth or emptied the wine glass from the night before I am not going to want someone there to witness me watch 8 consecutive episodes of Parks and Rec. Spend the night before a lazy day with me and then leave in the early hours of the morning. And put breadsticks by bed. And diet coke. I don't particularly like touching so if there is a television in the room this can happen. If cuddling is the only activity count me out. Like you mean what? What is it? I don't understand any of this...ugh!
Calling to say goodnight is so unnecessary. I am twenty-four years old; I am not going to die in my sleep. If I die in my sleep, you having said goodnight to me the night before won't change that. You're stupid to hold onto nonsense like that, and I will ignore you. This is fine, but you should try to make me better. Don't try to change what you can't, but challenge me. Whether improving my design skills, or studying a new topic, or understanding how to be a better person, I am open to learning and you should never settle. I sure as hell won't. I do not give a flying fuck if you are sweet with little kids. For someone who is great with kids, I am really not too fond of them. If you're drop-kicking my cousins we're going to have problems, but if children aren't your thing leave the room. Strangers' kids are fair game. But only for a few hours. I have things I would probably rather be doing so make sure surprises are short and sweet. Sure, make me feel like your plaything in public. I'm not trying to earn any respect in the world or my profession so jostle me around as you see fit. I love looking and feeling like a child.
Only when I'm drunk or in heels. If both then yes. If we are doing something athletic, play like you mean it. You're not doing anyone any favors by letting me win. I would rather measure my physical strength and skills against a legitimate competitor. I don't want you to embarrass me, but allow me the opportunity to try to embarrass you. As long as you don't intend to speak. Silence in the morning is my favorite thing, so if you're awake, don't interrupt me. You can see why this might be necessary.
While I typically respond to this with a frigid lip curl and raised eyebrows, this phrase has really begun to warrant a swift kick to the face. Sir, the reason I look unhappy is not only because I have a bad case of resting bitch face, but because I have been whistled at, hollered at, and honked at and have only been walking for five minutes. Yes, I am wearing shorts, it is 85 degrees outside and I am walking four miles to my destination, but this kind of behavior has happened when I was wearing harem pants with unwashed hair, no makeup, and glasses. I, like many of us, am a target of your sexual harassment simply because I have that extra x chromosome. Being a girl already sucks, we don't need a bunch of perverts catcalling us on our way to work.
The Daily Show has recently done an excellent job highlighting this very same topic:
Not unlike my my Stupid Cupid stories, allow me to share some fairly recent acts of questionable male behavior.
The Licker
As in most cities, when you work in Pittsburgh you spend a lot of time in your car commuting. Normally any attention I get during this time comes from truck drivers perched high in their semis pulling their cord while we're stuck in a standstill. Occasionally an old guy in a Mercedes will slyly pull off his wedding ring, but very rarely is there any aggression on the road. Yet, a couple weeks ago as I was on my way home from a very long day of work I was confronted by who I warmly refer to as "that bald fuck in the minivan." Moving at a snail's pace in converging lanes of traffic, I stopped to let a van with it's turn signal into my lane. Since things weren't really going anywhere I smacked a little honk out of my steering wheel to let the vehicle know I was letting it pull ahead of me. Instead of pulling in front of me though, he honked back and made no movement. Alarmed, I turned to see why I was being honked at for being a considerate driver, and was met not with anger, but a smiling middle-aged guy waving at me. I awkwardly smiled back and tried to ignore him, but when I pulled forward, but he pulled up to stay side by side with me and honked again. He honked a third time and when I finally looked he had his face shoved against his window and was LICKING HIS LIPS at me. Having literally nowhere to go I just put my visor down and waited for traffic to pick up again. It was not until the cars behind him began honking that he put his tongue away and drove off.
The Reacher
Slightly less recently, I had a much worse encounter with a man at a quaint little venue known as McFadden's in Columbus. Those of you who went to Ohio State circa 2010 knows that this club was like a flame to the sleeziest of moths, but when you're not so...legally allowed to drink...you make do with the places at which you probably won't get arrested. Against my better judgement I continued to return to this venue because of cheap drinks and hot upperclassmen. That is, until one night when I was walking upstairs, glowing because my fake ID had worked again, when a heavyset thug who was standing on the landing reached clear up my skirt as I was walking by. My friends, who had no idea this had happened, where the palest I've ever seen them the moment I had reached back and punched this shithead in his fat fucking face. Bouncers flew to me from all directions, questioning my actions, panicking because they knew they shouldn't have let me in to begin with, and completely ignoring the fact that this guy was sexually violating women in their bar. They asked no further questions and although they seemed to believe me and allowed me to proceed to the bar, this man was not thrown out, but simply asked to relocate to the downstairs. I went home shortly after and never returned.
The Visitor
Living in New York City in a large apartment with a pullout couch, I tend to entertain a lot of visitors. While under any other circumstances I would lock my door at night, my apartment has a jack and jill bathroom which requires my guests to walk through my room to do their business, and as a good hostess, I allow them to do just that. For just one evening I had a friend and his roommate come stay with me, and though I had never met the roommate, I trusted my dear friend's judgement and accepted them both into my home. To be honest, I've made worse mistakes, but as a person who finds herself in MANY uncomfortable situations, this has to rank among the most uncomfortable.
After a wild day of drinking, these two gentlemen stumbled into my apartment in the middle of the night and pretty promptly passed out, but only a half hour passed before my door opened. Without fully waking, I could hear someone move from the living room, through my bedroom, into the bathroom, but never re-emerge. I ignored this. Unfortunately, I then I heard my light-sleeping roommate open her door and walk into the bathroom. My phone immediately lit up with a message from her saying "I think your friend is lost in the bathroom." With very little motivation to do so, I pulled myself out of bed and escorted my drunk guest back to the couch, then returned to sleep. A second time I heard the same routine: living room, my room, bathroom, nothing. I went to retrieve him and back to the couch he went. After a brief nap I heard a door open again. same story, but this time, he came back out...just not back into my room. The creak I heard was that of my roommate's door followed by an immediate flip of light switch that marked the moment when this drunk idiot had walked into her room instead of mine. This son of a bitch is lucky my roommate is so cool, because I probably would have stabbed a bitch if I had been in that situation. I later found out he had, upon realizing he wasn't where he was supposed to be, attempted to climb into bed with her nonetheless. She removed him to the living room where he belonged and locked her doors. Completely ashamed, I tried my damnedest to pretend like none of this was happening, but the fourth time he walked to the bathroom I turned all my lights on so there was no way he could get lost again. My plan worked and he came back into my room, but this time I had no hope of returning to slumber and was on my computer doing work. He realized I was awake, apologized, but then sat on the end of my bed telling me how drunk he was. I sympathized. Sure, three doors is an awful lot of doors to go through to get to a bathroom, even though they're all less than five feet apart and your'e an architect, but ok, you're drunk and I get it.
"Since you have your computer can you tell me how often the buses come that take me to the airport?"
Knowing he had a flight to catch in a few hours and dying to get him the hell out of my apartment I pulled up the M60 schedule to let him know when he should leave. At that moment he hauled himself from the foot of my bed and crawled up beside me. Thinking he was trying to look at the schedule himself I didn't say anything until all of a sudden he was holding me by the face trying to stick his tongue in my mouth. I slammed shut my computer first, then slammed him against the wall , then woke up my friend and told him this guy needed to be controlled. In a short amount of time he was out of my apartment and I was able to forgive his drunk behavior, but retrospectively realizing how not OK that was. Luckily he wasn't a very big guy and was completely obliterated, but it was eye opening to exactly how much in danger I could have been.
The Prowler
Two summers ago I was living with my parents in their lovely home in some lovely suburbs outside of Pittsburgh. Although this area is known for being clean and safe, we are an extremely paranoid family who takes a lot of time locking doors, double checking those doors are locked, then sleeping with scissors under our pillows 'just in case.' My mother and I have a bad habit of falling asleep in the tv room, but this night, unlike most, I had decided around 1230am it was time for us to go upstairs. I had work the next morning and was going to take a shower, but the moment I went to step of the sill, my dog began to bark. When Misty, who is the quietest, gentlest, mildest dog I've ever met starts barking late at night, we take that shit seriously. Thinking that a squirrel had found its way onto the deck, I put my clothes back on to investigate. Before I had even reached the first floor, my mother had run past me and was feverishly turning on all the lights and gathering kitchen knives to walk around with. Assuming she was being ridiculous I went straight to the source to see exactly what my sweet pooch was so worked up over. However, the moment I was about to cross the threshold into the tv room (which opens onto the porch) my father, who had been asleep but woken up upon hearing the barking, started screaming for me to call the police.
"Uhh...Hi. Someone just tried to...break into our home," I made up, not knowing what was happening as my dad sailed past me, shotgun in hand, running into the darkness. He had, as I soon discovered, looked out the window in time to see a man running down the stairs from our porch out into the yard. The cops arrived within moments and began questioning us. We each recapped our timeline, my mother declaring that it had to have been the cable guy who was in our house earlier coming back to rob us, while my father and I both knew that a guy in a white tshirt was not there to steal anything, but more likely to watch a 22yr old sleep. He shared his suspicions with police, explaining my typical routine and how anyone watching our house would have known how much time I spent in that room, but they weren't taken seriously. I know this because a second officer took me aside,
"Now I know you may not want to tell your mom or dad, but did you maybe have a friend try to come visit you tonight? Were you planning to sneak someone in or sneak out yourself?"
"Officer, I'm 22. I've graduated from college. I assure you I was not trying to sneak a boy into my house on a Tuesday while my parents were still awake and I have work the next morning."
I should note that my sass rarely gets me anywhere, but more importantly note that this officer of the law's first assumption was that it was the young girl was responsible for whatever incident had just occurred. I remember telling my sister who a few weeks later came home for a visit not to walk around in her sports bra in case someone was watching our house and was just as bad as them! I was telling my sister to cover her body in OUR OWN HOME because a cop made me feel like it was my fault that some fucking pervert was there to watch me sleep.
The Biker
This very same summer I was working as an intern for people I enjoyed working for. They were wonderful to me, putting me on projects I enjoyed, mentoring me whenever possible, and letting me work in the beautiful front room of our first floor office. It was in this room, however, where I was isolated from my coworkers and spent most of my time completely alone since the other employees were out and about for the better portion of the work day. This was hardly an issue except on days when the Biker came in. The Biker was in his late forties, divorced with two kids and deeply in debt, but also not an employee of our company. He, in fact, only rented the desk across from mine, would show up once a week for thirty minutes, brag about who he was taking to lunch or to golf, say something offensive to me and then leave. If anyone else was in the office there were almost no words exchanged, but if I was there by myself it was
"Stephanie, you look like you got some sun." "Thanks, actually I did." "Your bikini must be pretty tiny if I don't see any tan lines."
"I have a motorcycle if you ever want to go for a ride." "That's nice, but no thank you." "You don't even want to try on the helmet?" "No. Thanks." "But it's black, it would look pretty badass with your blonde hair." "I need to make a phone call."
"Does your boss make you wear pants?" "No?" "You should wear more skirts and shorts then."
"Stephanie, would you mind looking at this product I'm developing?" "I'm working." "Well maybe after work we can go get di..." "Let me see... right...I'm not an industrial designer. Good luck." Then this
which he slipped over the partition onto my desk because other people came back into the office. After choking back my vomit, I promptly asked to speak with him in the hall and told him it was inappropriate for him to make advances at me at work. The next day I spoke with boss, showed her the note, explained my response, and very firmly alerted her that there was no reciprocation on my part. Her reply was that his father was a friend of her family and she was doing him a favor by letting him keep his office there, that he was just an idiot and I shouldn't take anything he says seriously. Even though I was upset by this response I agreed that he was probably pretty harmless, but explained that if she had no intention of evicting him or relocating me from that office that if were ever alone together again I would leave work for that day, which she seemed to accept. After this discussion though, she apparently told my coworkers because the next day I was met with nothing but teasing about how I was being hit on and how it was the cost that came with being a pretty girl.
While these stories are funny and entirely true, I should not treat them so lightly. I am following suit by addressing serious issues with humor since I do not have the platform or the ability to adopt the necessary tone to treat this issue with the severity that it deserves. I use this blog as a way to entertain my friends with stories of people (or myself) being ridiculous human beings and do not, in any way, hope to perpetuate the careless attitude our society has toward these issues. I have had very close and dear friends sexually harassed and sexually assaulted by people they trusted. None of those criminals were ever brought to justice because these poor women felt in some way responsible for what had happened to them and did not take immediate action. It is horrifying to know that this can take place in this country. While the Daily Show parody is hilarious it is difficult for me to swallow because it is so painfully accurate of what every single girl goes through on a daily basis. I doubt that any of my readers are violent sexual predators, but dudes, quit being dicks. It is exhausting to hear you talk about my ass as though you've in some way earned the right to touch it. All the women in your life are sick of it. I want to wear my shorts and my high heels and allow myself to feel good without you assuming that I'm 'asking for it.' It's just outrageous.
