Hated It
Not to beat a dead horse, but an old man just opined out loud, "Nice-looking lady!" as I walked past him to feed the ($@%#ing price-raised-as-of-this-week) parking meter. In an interesting reversal, he didn't say anything until he'd confirmed that my aft was as good as (or better than) my fore, but still, why can't people just keep those thoughts to themselves? They can, for the most part, keep their grimy little hands to themselves,* so why can't they just keep their grimy little words to themselves as well? I, for instance, have a completely enchanting inner dialogue at all times, and yet you don't see me walking around town exclaiming my innermost thoughts about anything and everything to whomever in the vicinity has two ears for hearing. "That's my favorite burrito shop. The burritos there are good. I like their burritos. Except when they don't chop up the cilantro. Then the burritos are not so good. It's still my favorite burrito shop, though. I like the lady with the red lipstick who makes my burritos. She makes the biggest burritos. Best value for the money. Lots of sour cream." In my head I sound like Rainman.** "Definitely, definitely."
Other things I hate include mariachi music blasted at 8 million decibels while I'm trying to go to sleep. If it's Friday night and you're having a block party? Fine. But when it's a goddamned Wednesday and you guys are just standing outside my house with your car stereo turned up as loud as it can go? I can't be the only one in bed trying to sleep at 11 p.m., can I? Perhaps that was just their way of celebrating the holiday, but I sure didn't see any ladies out there with them, and besides, does anybody really get turned on by bleeding eardrums and the prospect of permanent cochlear damage?
In happier news, for the past two days, Simon and I have reinvigorated our committment to fitness by taking some short jogs in the vicinity of our nearest urban lake. My ankles hurt. My thighs hurt. My lungs hurt. The end. Maybe that wasn't happier news after all. Hmm.
*The first time I was groped in public (clarification: groped in public by a stranger) was on a packed subway car when I was visiting New York City with my recently-exed boyfriend and my parents. The subway was crowded and sticky and I had people pressing up against all parts of me so much that it took a full minute before I realized the tiny guy with the moustache had his hand wedged between my buttcheeks. Yick. Worse, though, was the first time Simon and I went to the Folsom Street Fair and I felt someone reach up under my plaid schoolgirl skirt and, again, wedge his hand between my buttcheeks. Thinking it was Simon, who was standing to one side of me, I didn't even flinch (TMI?). It wasn't until I turned around and saw some smarmy little shaved-head freakazoid fetishist that I was completely horrified and vowed thereafter to wear jeans to the FSF forever and ever amen.
**Kim Peek, the guy who was the real-life basis for Rainman, visited my junior high once and in a nod to the circus-sideshow days of yore, they sat the poor man on a stage in front of a microphone and had us fire questions at him about what day of the week was April 18, 1762, and what brand of wax did Rollie Fingers use on his moustache. He was wrong a lot of the time, and the awkward silences that followed each mistake made my tender adolescent heart break because how in the world could I hope to capture such grave injury to the human spirit in my flimsy little poetry notebook? But seriously, when someone is particularly gifted or talented in some area, why is it that onlookers feel like they have free rein to exploit that talented person's mistakes? When Tiger Woods drives into a sandpit, listen for the quiet snickers among the spectators. When Itzhak Perlman plays a sour note, listen for the "haw haw!" from the sixteenth-chair violinist. When I send out an interoffice memo with one measly little typo among several dozen other perfectly spelled and punctuated words, watch my inbox fill with emails, ususally from the coworkers who continuously need to be reminded about the difference between "your" and "you're." If there's one thing I hate, it's haters. HATE THEM.
BaHA! This slayed me: "how in the world could I hope to capture such grave injury to the human spirit in my flimsy little poetry notebook?"
I should post some of my eighth grade poetry sometime, because JEEZ.
Anyway, I have had the packed subway car molestation as well, and it's horrific. The subway I ride every day now seems surprisingly free of pervs, but on the 2/3 they ran rampant.
As I was leaving for work, another pair of sidewalk loungers gawked very obviously as I walked toward them and then treated me to a skeevy "Hello, beautiful" that made me want to cut both of them. I almost stopped and said, "What the hell? What is your point?" but then thought better of it because it will never ever ever change anything. On second thought, though, I considered getting out my camera, taking a picture, recording their explanation, and then compiling an entire collection which will get published and make me filthy filthy rich.
http://hollabacknyc.blogspot.com/
[although why I even bother with the url, I have no idea]
So, you say "Folsom Street Fair" and I think "street fair in Folsom" and cannot begin to figure out why someone would be groping you like that in a mining town street fair where the most exciting thing would normally be the rampant speculation about who is going to win this year's quilt-a-rama. Or something. heh
When they catcall you, just say loudly, "THE BURRITOS ARE GOOD."
Wow this cat calling happens to you a lot. I think the last time it happened to me was last summer but considering how many layers we wear here in the winter it's really no surprise. Last year when I was walking down the main street of my city to get my lunch, two guys who had just come out of a "massage" parlour started shouting at me and I just remember thinking didn't you just get "serviced" is it not out of your system for a while. Gross!
leah, this is a comment for your **. i want you to get out your avenue q music. i want you to play the schadenfreude song. it will explain the haters. they don't hate. it's just that others misfortune is funny. really, really, funny. ;0)
seriously though, our list-serve has spent many useless internetedness hours on discussion of it's and its. it's annoying. people are sticklers and can't see past detail for objective. idiots.
That tale of public groping made my toes curl. Scummy hands in your crack. Heebie-jeebies!
Kim Peek was wrong much of the time? Really? REALLY? We've been watching all these specials on him and how he excels at the day-of-the-week stuff and is NEVER WRONG. Discovery Channel is a pack of lies! I will never trust it again. EVER!!!!!
Yeah, Kim Peek was not some sort of magical being from beyond the rainbow. BUT STILL, the fact that he was right about the kinds of freaky things he was so often right about is still nothing to shake a stick at.
And schadenfreude is just one of those emotions I don't personally feel. I get it, I understand it, I recognize it when it's happening, but whenever someone is taken advantage of or made to look stupid or whatever, it just makes me sad for them. This makes watching "America's Funniest Home Videos" very conflicting.
So that makes you a H8r h8r!
I still remember my first San Fran public groping. It was, of course, Halloween in the Castro district (wth?) and I was wearing a very non-sexy (was wearing full length fuzzy blue PJs, and a yarn mane and tail - was blue lion).
Another groping offense comes to mind - my freshman year of college, I went to a ska show at Gilman street and some lecherous 50 y/o totally grabbed me. College boyfriend saw him do it and called him out on it, and the guy kind of ran away.
leah i was so happy when a neurosurgeon totally found it and mapped it in the brain. it validated my feelings.
I hate haters too. and gropers. But there's a cute book called Haters by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez that is great (Young Adult classified, but it's fabulous).
Eeeeek on the groping. bleh.
My wordgeek peeves include that/which errors and that/who gaffes.
Creepy does not a compliment make, but sometimes I wish the ladies would tell holler sweet somethings about my rump. Because we guys typically love the attention, even if it's from the toothless homeless lady who just wants a few quarters.