Oh really, Anthony? Does my milkshake bring you to the sidewalk?

First off, have people seen this parody of Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines” music video? Not only are these women excellent singers, but they cleverly switched the genders and I love it. Oh, and probably NSFW.

I don’t actually have a huge problem with Robin Thicke’s original video, I just love me a good parody.

One more note: I appreciate the comments from people on Facebook whenever I post something, but if you could add comments under the blog itself in WordPress I’d appreciate it! It makes any conversations or interactions less disjointed. Thanks peeps!

Why is it, that when some men put themselves out there they expect something specific from you, and when you don’t deliver they lash out? They feel like you owe them something as a result of their behavior and it is a very unwelcome thing for a woman, not to mention jarring and anger-inducing. Reading articles about unwanted cat-calling and street harassment like this, or this make me angry and a bit emotionally volatile, which isn’t good for anyone.

I was walking to my car earlier this week when I decided to walk a bit further and around the block so I could enjoy the glorious weather. When there is a warm wind and setting sun I cannot be indoors, I must walk. And walk I did, enjoying the solitude and cooling breeze in the somewhat deserted southwestern part of downtown Portland.

And then Anthony thought to introduce himself. He pulled up next to me on his bike and followed me down the sidewalk. He wanted to know how old I was and if I was from Portland.  I asked him how old he thought I was and he said “18? God, I hope you’re at least 18.” As someone who always seeks to be aware of their surroundings, I glanced around the vicinity and yes, there was no one around; the block was empty of moving cars or pedestrians except for me and a complete stranger. Just great.

Anthony looked like he was in his thirties and dressed in baggy jeans that practically rendered his legs useless for riding a bike, an oversized FUBU t-shirt, and some bitchin’ neon kicks. You could say he was friendly, but held a gleam in his eyes that gave hint of his buying time until he can ask something of you. Anthony told me he was 37, I managed to avoid telling him my age because it was none of his business.

“Can we be friends? Let’s go do something.”

“Wow, you are very straightforward.”

“Wanna hang out?”

“No thanks. I’m just enjoying some needed time alone right now. See ya.”

I turned the corner to circle back to my car but my new “pal” Anthony was determined to sustain contact. He continued walking his bike, holding a supersized soft drink from McDonald’s, which he dropped twice while juggling with his bike and telling me he was from Atlanta and that he only tries to “make friends with girls because he always get in fights with guys.” Quite the winner.

“C’mon, let’s go find something fun to do.”

“No, sorry, not interested.”

“Why not? Where you going?”

“Walking to my car so I can go home.”

“To your boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” Lie

“Oh, yeah he probably wouldn’t be too happy with you, huh?”

“Yeah.” Lie 

“Come on,  don’t you wanna hang out with me?”

“No, I need to drive home and get some stuff done. Bye.” True

“You don’t really have to go home, you just don’t wanna come hang with me.” Duh

He left me alone to walk to my car, but continued the conversation on his own and at a louder volume.

“Yeah, you just don’t wanna come with me. You have nothin’ better to do.”

“Think you too good for me, huh? Ain’t that right, stuck up little bitch?”

“You a hussy you know that? Letting me walk with you a whole block and then blowin’ me off?”

And that’s when I was far enough away so I couldn’t understand what he was saying.

The whole “tête-à-tête” left a bad taste in my mouth for four reasons:

  1. Why did this 37 year old man purposely approach a girl he assumed was “around 18” and try to accost her into “hanging out?” I know I look young for my age, could pass for a high schooler if I acted the part, but I am alarmed to think this has worked in the past. This guy was not giving off good vibes and his purpose was most likely shoddy. Everything about his persona was sending off red flags and I am one to usually trust my intuition. Leave the poor teenage girls alone, Anthony!
  2. I felt the need to lie (I don’t have a boyfriend) in order to get him off my back. I am conditioned to avoid simply saying “No” because the alternative will either hurt their feelings or turn into a debate as to how I should spend my time. I use the “boyfriend excuse” to avoid an argument with a complete stranger about who should make decisions that concern my being and it didn’t even work! The more I think about the logic behind that, the more absurd it sounds. I should be able to just say “No” and not have to explain myself. It’s laughably ridiculous to have to justify myself to a stranger!
  3. He completely ignored the verbal or physical hints I was giving off, the ones that were telling him: “Please leave me alone, I’m not interested.” It’s almost as if he saw me as this challenge to complete or puzzle to solve as I said the words “No,” “Boyfriend,” and walked faster without giving him any sort of smile, eye contact, or inviting pose. I was congenial, kind, human, but not flirting in the least. Before anyone uses the whole “well you were probably dressed provocatively” clause, I was wearing baggy, holey  jeans, this t-shirt, and Old Navy flip-flops, but that is 100% irrelevant.
  4. Tony felt the need to yell his disapproval and verbally abuse me due to my decision to walk away.  He just couldn’t let it go after I said the ego-crushing word “No” and his words were utterly hateful, abusive, and uncalled-for. According to this man, I caused him a huge inconvenience because he wasted five minutes of his life walking with me around the block and the gift of his presence warranted me giving him my adoring attention and, let’s face it, he was hoping for my body. His actions. His decisions. I say NOT MY PROBLEM.

I’m hoping this gives some people food for thought. I’m not gonna lie, sometimes catcalling can be fun on the receiving end, but only if you’re not gross, don’t call me “Baby” or “Sexy Mama,” I’m with a group of friends (i.e. not by myself), and it doesn’t get closer than from across the street or a passing car. If you are following me to my car while telling me how I am obligated to spend my time with your punk ass, I’ll tell you to fuck the hell off.

And thou shalt feel mine rage.

And thou shalt feel mine rage.

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There is a wrong time to offer someone a fillet of fish.

Wil Wheaton posted a link on his blog awhile back that takes you to a site that will “Check which famous writer you write like with this statistical analysis tool, which analyzes your word choice and writing style and compares them with those of the famous writers.” I did this with three different samples of blog posts and found this:

David Foster WallaceChuck PalahniukHarry Harrison

Pretty excited about the first two, wasn’t sure who the last guy was, but when I looked him up I wasn’t complaining. Give it a try yourself!

It’s taken about an hour, and a long shower, but I am just getting over being mortified. Absolutely MORTIFIED.

I worked late, took my bi-monthly trip to Trader Joe’s, and was looking forward to getting home to clean up the pigsty that is my apartment. I go through these random moody times a few times a year, during which I struggle to maintain a hygienic appearance and a livable abode. To other pairs of eyes it may just look a bit cluttered and disorganized, but in my current state of mind it looks like a clan of meth heads squatted here all month along with a group of chimpanzees and those kids from Lord of the Flies.

My cats spend most of their time under the bed in disgust and embarrassment.

Exhibit A: Meth head house. My cats spend most of their time under the bed in disgust and embarrassment.

So the first thing I do when I get home to my shelter of neglect and shame is take off my pants and pick some things up while I heat up some delicious frozen enchiladas I impulse-bought at Joe’s (grocery shopping while hungry people). I do not like wearing clothes if I don’t have to. There’s no point when you’re home alone and it’s hot. I’m spending the night in which means it’s time for some Breaking Bad, so I’m all set with a TV dinner, a margarita on the rocks, and entertainment with my two cats that bravely ventured out into the clutter for some love (yeah, didn’t spend that much time “picking up”).

You think that the “No pants” issue would be the biggest problem to deal with when someone suddenly knocks on my front door and says “Knock Knock! It’s your neighbor!”

Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

See, at this point, I wasn’t still eating and watching Breaking Bad which would have been totally socially acceptable. Yeah, I wasn’t wearing pants and the curtain that “covers” my french door is a bit see-through to do the job, but at least it would have looked like I was doing something appropriate and non-creepish.

You see, as my neighbor knocked on my door and most likely saw me sitting watching something on my laptop with no pants on, I was watching the guilty-pleasure otherwise known as True Blood and putting lotion on my thighs.


If you’ve lived under a rock for the past six years you wouldn’t know that True Blood is full of explicit sex scenes that sometimes come at the most inopportune, awkward moments, especially if you have the sound way up in order to hear the sexy-voiced Eric Northman croon to Sookie and make-believe he’s actually speaking softly to you, just you…

Bite me baby a bajillion more times.

Bite me baby a bajillion more times (thanks Brit).

You see where this is going? If you don’t, just leave. Leave now and spare yourself.

“Uhhhhhhhh” <hurriedly slaps the laptop closed> “Be right there!”

I pull my t-shirt over my bum and scamper to my bedroom to pull on the jeans I wore today. I walk calmly to the door and am presented with some steelhead fillet, just removed from the smoker. Forgetting I was a vegetarian (I don’t care about this part in the least) my kind-hearted landlord came all the way downstairs to share some with me! It is presented, still warm, on a paper plate while I thank him for the fish, kindly remind him that I don’t eat meat, but that I’ll make an exception just this once!

He grins and walks away, “Sorry to interrupt!”

I cringe while I feed the fish to my cats. I’m sure it was delicious fish, but the rich smell made my stomach turn while I agonized over the idea of my landlord thinking he caught me masterbating to porn. How will I ever look this guy, or his family, in the eyes again? Seriously? Of all the times to be sitting in my underwear, putting lotion on a sunburn in a place that is usually considered sex-ish, and watching an explicit sex scene making very loud explicit sex noises? Hey Universe, THANKS. I immediately took a shower and decided it was time for bed, safe and unseen in my bedroom where I can hang my head in shame.

You’re welcome.

So I lied, and Chester is Dead

Remember my little fluid-filled friend Chester? Well, my readers, he is no longer with us. He’s journeyed to the home of heroes and legends. He is sowing the wholesome soil of the Elysian fields. Chester has moved into upper management. He is now jumping with glee on the sweet bouncy castle in the sky.

He’s dead.

May the little bastard rest in peace.

May the little bastard rest in peace.

Also, I may have just drank three homemade margaritas and might be a little drunk as I write this.

I haven’t posted anything in a while. I was on this whole “let’s blog about dating and crap” thing and then that got old and I was spending so much time, well, dating and hiking and rock climbing and kayaking and drinking with friends that I didn’t make time for writing. Welp, I’m back, for now.

The doctor says I developed tendinitis in my left hand so no rock climbing/kayaking/paddle boarding for a while. I think this is Chester’s way of saying “So long and thanks for all the fish” but I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past him to leave something behind for me by which to remember him. What a dick.

So, what’s the occasion for the three margaritas? Last week marked the one year anniversary of the beginning of the end of my marriage. Also, I’m trying to sell my wedding ring and when I went to the jewelry store today to get it all cleaned up and re-etched I had an internal emotional breakdown.

*Missing, trails of snot and spittle on my chin. As you can see, this is not something you want to occur in the light of day.

Looked something like this, only in my brain as I walked aimlessly to my car in the parking lot.

Sometimes people call a close friend, family member, or go to therapy when they experience a difficult moment. I cry alone in my car and then recklessly drive home in order to get drunk alone while watching The Last Unicorn.

Pretty pretty horsy.

Pretty pretty unicorns.

Yes, I specifically planned to go home, drink three margaritas, and watch this movie. Nothing was spontaneous about this plan.

This is how I roll. I compartmentalize and internalize things (wow, words that end in -ize are hefty) and then when they shoot out of my memory and barge into my present state of mind I look to alcohol, sugar, and fantasy genre (in that order) to cope while I work to deal with them. This is why I write, people.

What was the trigger this time? I haven’t had one of these incidents in a whole month, since a difficult phone call, but going to that jewelry store, where I picked that ring out weeks before my wedding day five years ago, was excruciatingly difficult. It wasn’t the fact that I was surrounded by couples picking out sets together for obvious reasons. It wasn’t because the store employee said “Wow, what a beautiful design! Your husband picked out a good one!” (I picked it out and paid for it by myself those years ago) and I struggled to hold my tongue before I burst inappropriately “I’m divorced and I’m selling it so shut up!” It was the fact that I left that place by myself; I walked, just me, across the parking lot to my car and then sat, by myself in my car, with no one else.

The tears came slowly; like can’t-get-the-ketchup-out-of-the-glass-Heinz-bottle slow. I am not one to burst into tears easily and I always bust out the butter knife at restaurants that provide that torturous device in order to get it over with as soon as possible.

I always always ALWAYS buy the "Easy Squeeze" bottle. I pay MONEY not to deal with that crap.

I always always ALWAYS buy the “Easy Squeeze” bottle. I pay MONEY not to deal with that crap.

At first it hurts, like you’ve just jumped off a cliff into the river and tilted your head a little too far to the right so that the surface of the cement-like water met your ear like a belly-flop. It’s painful as the pressure causes a POP and you feel like the Russian Olympic synchronized swimming team is rehearsing in your head . The pressure builds and all you want is to tap your other ear and knock out whatever is causing that super annoying wet sensation. Get it out! Get it out! Then, with the effort I usually put toward sucking a Frappuccino through those ridiculously tiny straws, I cried.

Oh, sweets tears of unfathomable sadness.

Oh, sweet tears of unfathomable sadness.

I lied, I didn’t go straight home after that. That was the last thing I wanted to do. I drove out of my way to a coffee shop, ordered an iced tea, sat outside on their patio in the 90 degree, 99% humidity weather and read a whole volume of The Sandman.

Then I went home and got drunk while watching The Last Unicorn and then I thought it was a stupendous idea to write about crying and ketchup and frappuccinos. In all seriousness, I have been loving the new life I created for myself, packing my days with sunshine, friends, and doing awesome adrenaline-inducing activities. Crying reminds me that I’m human and need to stop, slow down, and think about difficult things when needed. The point is (and there needs to be a point or this is just drunken rambling):  life is good and it just keeps getting better and better, so SUCK IT, KETCHUP.

<Proverbial mic drop>

<Going to go sleep this off>