No, I Don't Want Your Number. No, I Don't Wanna Give You Mine.

The Scene: Molly Malone's Irish Pub, around 7p on a Saturday. ironysenabler and I had just finished up a marathon work sesh at LACMA ('sup, free wifi) and popped 'round for a quick wind-down/pre-night out cocktail.

I am exhausted. When ironysenabler runs to the ladies' room, I relax into the bar...and straight into introvert zone. It's been a long day and I still have a bit of an evening ahead.

Enter RANDOM MAN NEXT TO ME. He had been chatting with his work buddies (I assume they're work buddies - they're all wearing matching shirts of a non-athletic nature)/separates himself slightly from the group to gift me with his full, undivided attention.

RMNTM: I like your dress.
(I'm wearing a silver sequined hoodie dress. It has already garnered a solid amount of recognition throughout the day.)
Me: (smiling) (slightly lethargically) Thank you.
RMNTM: It's so sparkly.
Me: (laughing weakly [but politely!]) Yeah, it is.
RMNTM scoots a bit closer: What's your name?

I feel myself sigh, unsure if it's an internal or external exhale. Not only am I not in the mood to chat up a stranger, period, but RMNTM's quick jump to asking my name somehow feels too forward, too personal - or maybe it's just something in his delivery of the query. Whatever it is, I don't especially like it and decide to be honest about my ideal end to this situation. (Hint: It's the situation ending. Like now-ish, if at all possible.) 

Me: (smiling beseechingly) I'm sorry, I just really don't feel like talking right now.
RMNTM: (bristling) You can tell me your name. I was just trying to be friendly.

Well, yes - I can tell you my name. I possess that ability. But the point is, I don't want to. If you're really "just trying to be friendly", that friendliness should include respecting the fact that I'm just trying to be friendly while still making it clear that I do not wish to engage. Friend.

The situation ends with him shooting me a look of death, then whispering to his cronies who follow suit/add in a few eye-rolls of their own.

Cool. Welp, that was a fun getting complimented experience! Really wish that would happen more often.

...
...
...

I later talked the situation over with a few guy friends - two of whom immediately defended RMNTM, saying he was just trying to be nice/what's the big deal/would it really have been that hard to just talk to the guy. One added, "You're a strong* female; you can take care of yourself if the conversation goes south." I will address these assertions/inquiries in a moment. (While seething inside.)

The third GF replied, "Well, you triggered his insecurities and self worth." Right. Obviously. So obvious, I realized, that my assessment of the potential for triggering of this kind has become innate - it has actually burrowed its way into my survival instinct. Each time I find myself in an encounter like the one with RMNTM, my subconscious shifts into high-alert mode, gauging the threat - the man's size, his demeanor, our surroundings, and, most importantly, the length of the dude's fuse - and pings me to act accordingly.

As innocuous as the specific sitch with RMNTM sounded to GFs 1 & 2, the reason it was "such a big deal"/the idea of a convo felt so taxing to me, is that these types of encounters are not few and far between. They vary in scale and aggression, but they happen multiple times per day. Multiple. Times. Per. Day. Having to constantly tailor your behavior to account for the fact that the wrong response might result in your being verbally or physically accosted is not a real good time. Especially if you're a strong* female. I would love nothing more than to tell every crudely amorous dude to kindly go f*ck himself - as I did to one such gentleman earlier this week. (Minus the 'kindly' part.) (That assessing subconscious of mine apparently didn't act fast enough to counter my severe indignation. Either that or I just blatantly/brazenly ignored the 'play nice' pings.) You know how the guy reacted? He spent the next three blocks swerving into my lane, flipping me off, and speeding ahead of me/slamming on his brakes. You know, a totally measured response. Sure, maybe RMNTM would never do that sort of thing, but he did exhibit the same sense of entitlement to my time and attention. If he were really "just trying to be nice", I wouldn't have been left feeling so ganged up on. (See paragraph 7 re: friendly, friendliness, friendly, friend.) 

Long story not half as long as it could be, it can be f*cking exhausting to be a woman (and/or woman-child) in this patriarchy-ridden world, so if we tell you we're too tired to talk, don't blame us - blame your creepiest friend. (You know the one.) (Okay yeah, him too.)

*We both mean strong in the feminist-y sense. Not in the actual physical sense. Just ask my Pilates instructor. 

One Night Standoff

One Tuesday night, after a(n) (amazingly heart-piercing) show by the (amazingly heart-piercing) Amy Kuney at the Bootleg, my dear friend, ironysradiocheck and I are feeling a little prowly. We decide to hit up Tenants of the Trees to see if any of nature’s fine-looking (comma tall comma witty comma kind-hearted comma well-read comma well-dressed comma dark/broody) specimens are planted by the bar – or, anywhere within its walls. We’re not picky.

Door Guy: I like your stomach.

Why thank you very much, sir, for that uniquely worded compliment. (I was wearing a very cropped crop top.) (I am sharing this part of the story not only because I am super proud of my baby abs in training, but also because sometimes wearing half a shirt makes you a quick target for casually sexist, racist, disabled-ist a$$holes.)

Enter Attractive But Maybe Slightly Too Macho Dude.

I spot ABMSTMD on ironysradiocheck’s and my quick, catlike stroll around the patio. Eyes lock, gazes linger, etc etc. (The etc etc is the part where I then proceed to stare down everyone around him, just to let him know I’m, like, totally chill and I definitely wasn’t checking him out at all.)

ironysradiocheck doesn’t see anyone of immediate interest/ABMSTMD doesn’t seem to be making any moves from where he’s standing, so we stroll back to the bar area/debate calling it a night.

Me: Yeah, if no one intriguing appears by the end of this drink, I say we call it.

Just as we’re about to leave, I see ABMSTMD has maneuvered his way a few feet down the bar.

Me: That guy might be kind of cute.

I look at him. He looks back. I look away. (Just as chill/casual/nonchalant as before.)

ironysradiocheck: Oh yeah, dude. I think he’s coming over here. Score.

ABMSTMD: Hey.
Me: Hey.

Well, this is starting off well. (ironysradiocheck has found something super interesting/enthralling a few feet away with which to occupy herself.)

ABMSTMD: ABMSTMD.
Me: Stacie.

Please say this single syllable thing continues for the rest of our convo.

ABMSTMD: Did you see me checking you out earlier?

Welp. That hope was fleeting.

Me: Ha. I did.
ABMSTMD: Why didn’t you say anything?
Me: Why did it take you so long to say anything?
ABMSTMD: Look, it’s 2016. I think that women should be equally responsible for initiating the conversation.

I love when guys are adamant about the need for gender equality – but, you know, starting with the ways in which it would make their lives easier as men.

Me: Ha. Let’s maybe start with the wage gap and work our way down from there.
ABMSTMD: You ladies really just want it all don’t you.

I respond with an eyebrow arch.

ABMSTMD: Oh, calm down. I’m just kidding. Where are you from?
Me: I’m originally from Nebraska.
ABMSTMD: Midwestern stock. Nice. Here, what are you drinking?

The conversation continues as he orders my Tito’s soda with mint.

ABMSTMD: So how old are you, Stacie?
Me: 32.
ABMSTMD: Oh wow.
Me: Oh wow?
ABMSTMD: I just thought you were younger than that. Don’t worry about it – I never would have guessed you were that old.

That old. Don’t worry about it.

Me: Ha. I’m not too concerned about it.

I stare his non-baby face straight in the eyes.

Me: How old are you?
ABMSTMD: 38.
Me (smirking): 38. Wow.

He gets the ‘aren't you a little old to be hanging around bars, attempting to pick up 20-something chicks’ inference. Now that we’ve set the combative tone for the night! 

ironysradiocheck pops over to say she’s peacing out. Hugs. Love. Promises of texts.

ABMSTMD: I love how girls always do that.

I love how guys “always” make statements about all girls always doing dumb girl things.

Me: What do you mean?
ABMSTMD: Just leave their friends with a total stranger. I mean, you’ve been talking to me, so you know I’m pretty normal, but she has no idea.
Me: I mean, I guess sometimes we forget that we’re just walking prey.

Are we flirting or do we hate each other? I decide it’s probably both. He starts planning our wedding.

ABMSTMD: You don’t have any crazy in your family or anything, do you? I don’t want to end up with some weird Asperger’s kid or something.
Me: You’re going to feel really bad about saying that when I tell you my brother’s autistic.
ABMSTMD: Oh no, so you’ve got f*cked up genes?

Is he f*cking serious? Hate. It’s definitely hate.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, as the case may be), his friends arrive at this moment, halting the diatribe of death that had just begun its expletive-ridden exit from my mouth. They happen to be wonderful. We bond. We hug. We dance. I realize the two drinks I've had are going straight to my head.

Me: Is anyone hungry? I didn’t have time for dinner and I am starving.
Amazing Friend #1: Omg yes. I could totally go for some food.
AF #2: Yeah, same. Let’s do it.
ABMSTMD: We could go to the diner by my place.

We pile into an Uber. But wait!, they say. First let’s just make a quick stop-off at a house party – there’s supposed to be a cool band playing! Sure, I say, pretending I’m not about to pass out from drunken starvation.

An hour later, it becomes clear this is no quick stop-off. I announce my planned departure via Uber.

ABMSTMD: Hey, I’ll go with you. Let’s go get you the food I promised. Sorry about these guys.

Somehow, the promise of food and the surprise of an (unnecessary) apology makes me forget my general abhorrence of him as a human.  (Vodka, powers.)

At the diner:

ABMSTMD: Sorry, you can’t come over after – my dad’s staying with me for the week.

Oh good Lord. Abhorrence suddenly v v remembered.

Me: I think I’ll find a way to get over it.

He follows this with some other horrendous thing regarding our possible sexual future that I have blacked out due to an inherent distaste for vomiting.  I order my omelette.

I eat well over half of the very large diner omelette.

ABMSTMD (broadcasting shock/dismay): Wow, you’re really going at that thing, aren’t you.

Straight face. Single blink.

Later, when the waitress comes to clear our plates/ask if I’m all done with mine, ABMSTMD goes ahead and throws his answer in on top of my affirmative.

ABMSTMD: I think we can all agree she did a pretty good number on that one. 

At what point do I have legal grounds to stab him.

The contempt-laden conversation stubbornly continues its journey back to the good ol’ days, eventually landing on the topic of interracial marriage.

ABMSTMD: I just don’t think it’s fair to the kids.

HI, 1952. So nice of you to drop by/add your antiquated views to the ever-growing pile of backwards bullsh*t. 

Me: You mean, fair to the rest of us because they’re so beautiful? My nephew’s half black and is seriously the most perfect child you’ve ever seen in your life.
ABMSTMD: So your sister f*cked a black guy, huh?
Me: My sister dated, married, and started a family with an amazing guy/father who, yes, is a black man.

Where oh where is that knife when you need it. He pays the check before I’m able to summon the waitress.

Outside, waiting for Ubers:

ABMSTMD: Text me when you get home, okay?

I stare at him, taken aback by the sound of this gentlemanly statement coming from his very ungentlemanly face. He misinterprets the stare.

ABMSTMD: What? You didn’t expect me to drive you home when I live right around the corner, did you?

Thank God this battle is almost over. I am exhausted. 

Me (V. slow. V. measured.): I don’t expect anything from you at all.

…

Two weeks later…Sunday night, 1:28a text message:

ABMSTMD: How you been?

Okay, that I did kind of expect. Sorry to leave you in suspense, ABMSTMD, but I’m gonna go ahead and tap out of this dear little donnybrook. It's been...really, really, tragically real.   

A Wrinkle (I Shall Get) In Time

The Scene: My favorite local cafe. I'm sitting out on the front patio, attempting to write, when an older gentleman waves/clears his throat several times to get my attention. The same attention I was purposefully diverting.

Concerned Older Man: May I - I was just noticing...

Ugh here he goes. He's going to shower me with compliments. Really, dude, I'm not really in the mood to discuss my most positive attributes. But thank you for your kind intentions.

COM: I was just noticing...you sort of scrunch up right here, right in the brow. (He's manipulating his own forehead into unattractive wrinkles as he says this.) Have you checked your eyes? I'm only saying this because you are quite beautiful now, but in time...

Welp.  That took a turn. Also, f*ck you. Me and my unconscious expressions were feeling quite spectacular before you and your patriarchal patronizing came along. 

Me: Ha yeah, I do that all the time when I'm thinking.

Should I tell him that, incidentally, what I was thinking at the time was that it was really creepy/awkward that he selected the one seat on the patio directly facing me, when every other seat was open? Like, I literally jotted it down on my notepad under the tab, "Weird Things Creepy Euro Dudes Do."

COM: No but really, it may just be your eyes - have you had them checked?

WHY ARE YOU SO CONCERNED ABOUT THIS, SIR.

Me: Yeah, no, I'm nearsighted, but that's not really an issue with the forehead thing. I've done it since I was a kid. 

Also, why am I explaining myself to you.

COM: Ah, so you really are aware. (Awkward sputtering. More forehead motioning. Frustrated sigh.) Well, I guess you've been lucky so far. But...well...never mind. Good day.

No one has ever looked so disappointed in me. And I recently ran into my first grade teacher who once (over)optimistically told my mother I was going to be the first female President.

...

Mere milliseconds after this man exits, I get a(n) (unsolicited) BBM from my mother:

My Mother: Dr. Klemperer recommends this...Whole Foods...

View fullsize

Welp. Looks like I'll be stopping off to spend that Whole Paycheck later on tonight. Over-and-out, Universe. You woman-hater, you. 

Neighborhood Whore Watch

There are precious few constants in my life. One such gem is the unceasing fear that I will be murdered. Seriously. Un. Ceasing.

As a child, one of my chores was to lug the trashcans back up to the house from their please-pick-up-slash-dump-our-pounds-of-refuse position on the sidewalk. In short, Tuesdays served as a weekly helping of severe petrification. I would crack open the back door of our house, scan the yard for strangers, then take off in a full sprint down the driveway - ears pricked and peripheral vision in full effect. Once in reach of the trashcans, I would deliver a solid kick to each. Why? To see if anyone was hiding in them, waiting to jump out and stab me. Duh. 

I check beneath my car and in my back seat before getting behind the wheel…I check behind the shower curtain whenever I enter a bathroom…I have been known to walk home with 911 already dialed into my BlackBerry, just in case of unexpected emergency.

Point being, I don’t need to be convinced that rapists and murderers walk the same streets as my adorable little (for my height) feet. I’m already a true believer. Unfortunately, our nightly news is full of heartless souls who seem to have nothing better to do than to terrify our nation’s adult children with stories of tragic deaths and warnings of impending doom. Shortly after moving into my new apartment, it was reported that - not two blocks from my happy Beverly Hills home - a young woman was pulled into a construction zone, raped, and murdered. Right. So I won’t be sleeping for the next seven months or so. Also, where’s my mace?

Apparently, the powers that be didn’t feel like this was quite enough of a heads up.

A few days later, as I was walking down Robertson Blvd., a middle-aged woman waved to get my attention. Thinking she needed directions or something of the sort, I paused and removed my headphones.

Random Woman: ”A good girlfriend of mine just told me there’s a rapist around here. He just raped someone last week!”

Me: ”OMG, I heard about that! So scary!”

Random Woman: ”Oh. (pause) Well. (pause) Because you’re dressed a little….” (Full, slow-motion down and up scan of my general person.)

And then she walked away.

…

It’s always nice to know your neighbors care?

My 'asking for it' ensemble can be seen (sort of) in the photo above. I’m on the right. Also, I hate people.