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i’m posting a blog i wrote on my (cough cough) myspace a long time ago, but it really bears re-posting - i think i covered everything that angers me pretty well.  seriously, what is the DEAL with disgusting, slovenly, creepy guys saying the first thing about you that pops into their mind. it’s infuriating, degrading, and offensive. and it’s gotten so bad that it recently forced me to say the dreaded “f word” while i was on the phone with my mom: i was in the park, on the phone with her, when this weird (probably not-quite-right), creepy, older-looking guy came up in front of me and just stood there.  he didn’t say anything but i knew he was up to no good.

“i’m on the phone,” i said - which was my was of warning him “nicely.” he still stood there, and then asked if i was single.  i told him, more forcefully this time, that i was ON THE PHONE.  he kept asking me, several times in a row, if i was single.  finally i burst out, “that’s none of your fucking business!!!”

of course, my mom on the other end was probably mortified. this is the woman who prefers i not use words like “pee” and “butt” - in fact, when i was growing up, they were completely off-limits.  now, if i say them, or other sundry “offensive” words i throw in from time to time (sucks, crap, blows, damn, hell), i just get a disappointed exclamation of my name.  which, rather to my surprise, is how she handled my f-bomb. i thought she’d flip a little more.  but i explained to her that you had to be firm, and even rude and bitchy (yes, i even said bitchy) sometimes, or people just don’t get it.

she said that you could be firm, but still be gracious and classy (oh my mother, the absolute epitome and bastion of class. i love her).   i told her my first statement - the “i’m on the phone” - *was* me being gracious and classy.  that after years of dealing with these kind of outbursts and people, i’d kind of gotten it down to a bit of a science. then she said jokingly and rather sarcastically, “yes, it must me such a burden being good looking” (like she, btw, is one to talk).  and i said, actually it is. and it’s not that i wish i wasn’t attractive, i just wish guys would learn to be respectful.

so without further adeiu, here is my original post:

i’ve had it. i’m sick of the crazy-ass people who apparently think that catcalling / grunting / commenting / leering / otherwise being a nasty prick, is somehow going to get them some positive feedback. i’m assuming, of course, that that’s what they *are* thinking - certainly they can’t be doing this for anyone’s edification, right? based on (unfortunately, disturbingly) vast experience, i’ve compiled a list of usual offenders. take note, bitches.

1. the homeless or might-as-well-be-homeless leerer: yes, i have my ipod on and i walk by like i haven’t heard anything (just like i do when you ask for money b/c yah, when it comes down to it i *am* cold and heartless … i have no choice, thanks to you), but i hear you, and i don’t understand. i mean really. i only want to know WHY WHY WHY FOR THE LOVE OF SWEET JEHOVAH WHY?! what do you think you’re going to accomplish? i’m well dressed. put together. business-looking even. i’m clearly not a crack-whore. i’m clearly walking *home* - and by home i mean a place with walls, and a roof, in a building with a concierge. not “home” to a box in a an alley. you think you have a chance? this one truly doesn’t leave me time to be *that* disgusted, b/c it makes me curious more than anything.

2. the ghetto-fabulus leerer: ahem. ok. i understand i may have that universal “look” - the cliche “tall, skinny, blonde” thing. i also understand “attraction” crosses race, economic (and even gender) boundaries — for some people. not for me, bitches. i like my men white and well-off. but i get it. you don’t know me and here i am, tall skinny and blonde, walking in your hood (i’m talking about one hood in particular, and believe me, i *wouldn’t* be there if i had a choice …). i’ve clearly put more than 5 minutes into my appearance (which is more than i can say for a lotta chickies in this area), and done more than pull some rumpled sweatpants out of the closet (again … more than i can say …). oh, and i’m not your baby mama (*again* …). i understand. you *just don’t know* what to do when you see such an uncommon sight! ok, i’ll tell you. just stop. i’m better dressed / more put together / more confident for a reason. i’m way out of your league. so again i say, stop.

3. the (sleazy) business man: (i say sleazy b/c i see *plenty* of the non-sleazy ones during my commute. a lot of them are relatively attractive. they leave me alone.) you must think you see your “equal,” b/c i look professional, independent and confidant. can you guess which statement you’re right about? apparently not, so i’ll help you out. i am professional, independent and confidant. you are not my equal. let’s put the fact that i’m married aside. (and this goes for all the above mentioned offenders:) i would never ever EVER NEVER EVER *EVER* be so flattered by your .5 seconds of attention while passing on the street that i’d feel i *must* get to know you, turn around, and run after you. i’m just trying to help out here, and since your above actions are so imbecile, i have to think you really might not know that. (ps- no other relatively attractive woman - who i’m sure you also leer at - will ever turn around and run after you. just a tip.)

4. the idiot i somehow get dragged into conversation with: i do a lot to avoid you. i’m reading, listening to an ipod, walking fast, not responding to you. yet somehow (be it in a store, a prison-like situation on a bus, in line at starbucks, whatever) i am forced into conversation with you. forced into questions like, “do you model?” (no, really, how cliche). now, i’m not a total bitch. i find it hard to just come out and say, “leave me alone.” but to me, that’s what my body language was doing already. you’re clearly stupid. so you talk, and i give one word responses if i absolutely have to. any other normal person would just leave me alone. it’s not that i’m shy, or that i’ll eventually respond to you. no. i just want you to shut the hell up.

5. the under-age gangsta-kid: ok. i look young, i know. but lord have mercy, not *that* young. so that can only mean one thing. you think older women are hot, and your (probably absentee) fathers are best described by # 2 (see above). the hope for your future is diminishing quickly. that’s all i have to say about you.

**general note**
these leering perpetrators have to know at least one thing - the girls they’re ogling are probably ogled by a decent number of other people. here’s something you must not know: we’re used to it, we hate it, and we hate you. (i’m counting out the skanky / want to be stared at / purposely dress to get attention crew.) it *doesn’t* make me feel special. this is a big city, with a lot of very attractive people. that means your leering activities must take up a lot of your time. how sad for you.

i hesitated writing this for a couple reasons. for one, i guess it’ll show i’m a little sentimental and not 100% cynical, and i’m not completely ok with showing that (small) side of me. it took hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars spent on therapy for me to even admit i *have* that side. also, i’m going to quote song lyrics, and i’m not a 14 year old highschool girl. plus those lyrics are by the dixie chicks. but what the hell, i am what i am.

i’ve listened to this song more than i care to admit because it really strikes something within me. oddly, several of the songs on the dixie chicks’ new album have had that affect on me, but i’ll save those for later.

this particular one made me think of my relationship with ryan:

Busses, cars, and airplanes leaving
Burning fumes of gasoline
And everyone is running
And I come to find a refuge in the

Easy silence that you make for me
It’s okay when there’s nothing more to say to me
And the peaceful quiet you create for me
And the way you keep the world at bay for me
The way you keep the world at bay

i kind of pride myself on being the a-typical girl, and in some ways i think i am. “feelings” make me uncomfortable, i hate valentine’s day and forced sentiment, i don’t like to cuddle, i need my own time - and for the most part ryan and i do our own thing during the week, and set aside specific time on the weekends to spend together. it’s taken us awhile to figure out what works for us - not what we WANT to work for us, but what REALLY works. and it’s an evolving work in process.

but on the flip-side, i’m kind of a walking girl-cliche. i want to be taken care of. for all my show of independence, career-oriented-mentality, and woman power, i still want someone i can fall back on. i thank my dad for that, since - although i’m married and in my 20’s - i still consider myself a daddy’s girl. he was always willing to go out of his way to make life a little easier for his girls - my mom included.

i probably sound crazy, spoiled, and naive. but in some ways, i’m ok with that. and that’s why the song brings me back to my sentimental side. ryan and i have an intense, and at times volitile, relationship. part of it is immaturity at times, and part of it is just who we are as people and as a couple. but he’s my haven because he always has my back. he understands that i’m i’m crazy, spoiled and naive. he knows that i’ll work a 12 hour day to get ahead (well, ok, because i have to), but still expect him to do our taxes and deal with the finances. i know he works hard - in part because he does enjoy it - to assure we can live the quality of life we want to live - now, AND in 20 years. and really, i don’t know the half of the time and effort he invests into investments, side projects, work and more. it’s part of how he keeps the world at bay for me. it’s hard for me to verbalize how i feel about that - which is why i’ll just let the dixie chicks do it for me.

(Feb 2, 2007)
My belly dancing class is a weird thing. I guess it’s not the class, it’s more how it causes me to think. It really points out my double standard.

It’s the one place in my week where I look at myself the way I WANT to look at myself. Where the back fat that sends me to the gym five or six days a week for an hour each time doesn’t bother me. Where I might look kinda funky trying to get my dance on, but I’m not thinking about it nearly as much as I am when I’m in a bar, with a drink, lookin’ my prissy best.

Don’t mis-hear me … I’m not gonna give up the gym (the back fat MUST **DIE**), and I still like a couple hours of over-excited primping before a good old fashioned girls night out. But belly dancing makes me feel really good about my body without me really doing anything but shakin’ what my momma gave me.

Also, it makes me look at other girls in a different way. There are some BIG girls in my class. And by big, I mean if I were completely honest with myself, the primped, prissy out-on-the town me would look at them and think they were fat and maybe even gross. I’m the girl (maybe the only one?) who thinks the “Dove campaign for real beauty” is kind of a turn-off. After all, there’s a reason models are paid an obscene amount of money and re-touched to hell – they’re supposed to make you want to buy the product, not turn away in disgust when you see the ad.

That’s a thought that has many layers. I know I’ve bought into the advertisers scheme that they define beauty. I know I’m contributing to the complexes of thousands of little girls (and not-so-little girls). I know I probably have some sort of complex. That doesn’t change the fact (I guess it probably explains the fact) that I just don’t want to be bombarded with “real-ness” or fatness in the real world.

So there it is, there’s my huge double standard. The beauty of my belly dance class is these women are ok with, and proud of, their bodies. They’ve learned how to move with it, dance with it, and it’s beautiful. I haven’t reconciled the two sides of my thinking. But that much I know to be true.