Monday, March 31, 2008

Let's get that whole human cloning thing going, shall we?

Gene Wilder, I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love you. I'm probably going to buy your new book, because let's face it, I'm kind of becoming "the woman who wouldn't." Now if I can just clean up my potty mouth, you might deign to spend some time with me.

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Sunday, March 30, 2008

Watch your step

Readers, allow me to wax poetic on the power of a certain shoe for a moment.

Yes, the stiletto can ruin your posture. Yes, it can cramp your feet. Yes, it may even give its wearer painful bunions that can only be removed with surgery. The stiletto is rightfully considered to be a Very Not Feminist piece of footwear.

On the other hand, the stiletto, with all its faults, is capable of doubling as a weapon for an unarmed woman in a pinch. Since I once had to defend myself armed with only my high-high-heels, that's enough to redeem those shoes in my eyes.

When I lived in Boston, some of my friends and coworkers would frequent a bar/restaurant called Tia's, which is located on the waterfront near Christopher Columbus Park. I wound up there one night after work with Kim, one of my coworkers. It was summer, and it was hot and humid. Tia's was the last place I wanted to be; it is - or was, at the time - a real meat market. It's popular with the tourists on account of its location and menu, which is a kind of American bistro setup; but on any given weeknight, you'll spot blazer-clad guys from the financial district (in search of eye candy and an easy lay) and scantily-clad women (in search of a man with earning potential). Talk about setting feminism back a few decades - the stiletto has nothing on the old sex-for-money trade. I swear, if I go to hell, I'll spend eternity trapped in a crowd of superficial tools like those while they ogle one another, trying to figure out how much they can get out of each other. If God decides that I've been especially bad, I'll also be spending eternity with those nitwits and we'll all be stuck Hell's karaoke bar.

As it was, Kim and I had wanted to go out after a long day, and I had on my favorite black heels, which I'd been wearing all day. Small Ginger factoid - I wear heels almost every day. I'm one of the few women I know who'll always go for heels over flats. I've got a high arch, so flats make my calves feel tight after a few hours. I've only gone without my heels once, for seven weeks, back in the winter of 1998, and only because I broke my right foot! You know what? Another Ginger factoid - I hate being 5'3". I come from a family of tall people. It annoys me that I'm the short one. That's my baggage, and heel therapy makes me feel better. Hey, I'm political, I volunteer, and I haven't depended on another living being since I was 23. Consider my feminist cred established.

We got a few drinks and a bite to eat, but before long, Kim and I had had enough of Tia's. After paying our bill and deciding where to go next, I needed to hit the ladies' room, which is in the back of the restaurant, past the bar.

On my way out, I walked right by the long wall bar and into the path of a couple of drunken idiots perched on barstools close to the door. One of them grabbed my forearm in his meaty paw; I immediately, instinctively tried to jerk it away, but he had me in a pretty serious grip. Before I could even speak, he leaned in and said, "If I don't want to let you go, then you're stuck here."

He laughed. So did his idiot buddy. Moron #1 was clearly performing for his friend. I just love it when a guy tries to humiliate some random woman to impress his homey! It really sends me.

"Let. Me. GO," I said through clenched teeth. I yanked backwards as hard as I could, but of course, I'm not a very big girl. I had pulled him halfway off his stool, but he laughed and readjusted himself, putting one flip-flop clad foot on the floor for balance.

I smiled, lifted one petite leg and jammed the heel of my black 4" stiletto down onto the top of his naked foot. Then I twisted it. Hard.

"FUCK!!!!!" He yelled. "MotherFUCKER. You fucking fucking BITCH. Awww, fuuuuuuck!!!"

"Fuck you, asshole," I spat, and walked out. Moron #2 laughed like a hyena. That's a high quality friend.

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Wednesday, March 26, 2008

We are not amused.

A recent IM exchange:
Random 23yrold: Hey, cougar.
Ginger: Uh, what? Did you call me a cougar?!
Random 23yrold: HEHE ROWR what's up
Ginger: Kid, I am 35 years old. A cougar is old enough to be your mom.
Random 23yrold: Sorry dude
Ginger: Go hit on women your own age KTHXBAI.

Bepenised readers, if you want to hit on a woman, do not call her 'dude', and do not talk to her as if she is Stiffler's Mom - especially if she is under 50. That is all.


Friday, March 21, 2008


In college, I had a roommate who was deathly afraid of marshmallow peeps. I mean it; they scared the shit out of her. I think they're cute, but they taste like ass. Marhsmallows are fun to squeeze, but gross me out. I won't eat them. Nina, on the other hand, would jump at the sight of them. I have to admit that I didn't really take her phobia seriously, because, come on, they're marshmallows, for god's sake.

The second year we lived together, around Easter, I thought it would be funny to buy about two dozen little pink peeps and hide them all over our dorm room. I put them in her backpack; I put them in her underwear drawer; I put one in her hotpot; I even snuck one into the shower right before she jumped in. Poor Nina. She shrieked whenever she found one. I felt awful about it, and promised her that I'd find them all and get rid of them. Problem was, I had hidden all two dozen, and had forgotten where most of them were!

Those goddam peeps kept randomly popping up until the day we moved out, months later.


Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Apparently, my best efforts to look like a bitch are failing miserably

People are always asking me how it's possible that I attract so many nutjobs. Have my coworkers discovered the source of my problem?

A group of us were having lunch on Monday; I was lamenting the fact that I had not been able to go out on Saturday (for St. Patty's Day). I had been invited to a party, but my friend bailed on me at the last minute, way too late for me to make other plans. Even worse, none of my friends were available to go out that night, on the holiday itself. I was a dejected Irishwoman.

Male Coworker 1: You could just go to a bar by yourself tonight and see what happens.

Male Coworker 2: Yeah, I'm sure you'd make a friend pretty quickly.

Me: Considering my luck, I think that's about the worst thing I could do.

They laughed; most of them know about this blog, and a few of them read it.

Me: Honestly, I try my best to look unfriendly, but everybody's always telling me how approachable I look.

Male Coworker 2: You're totally approachable.

Me: That makes no sense. I am a New Yorker! Is bitchface not my birthright?

Male Coworker 1: Okay, give me your toughest 'don't fuck with me' face.

I complied, but instead of scaring my coworkers, I got a round of chuckles.

Male Coworker 1: Okay, that? Is brooding sexuality.

Me: What?! Are you saying that I tried to give you 'bitch' but actually did 'Blue Steel"?

Male Coworker 3: Um, a guy sees that and just looks at it like a challenge.


I'm going to have to start practicing my bitchface in a mirror.


Sunday, March 02, 2008

Kiss me, I'm a loser

Buried @ Photocasket

Buried at PhotoCasket
Dear Dude in the beaten up Chevy Malibu from Saturday:
When I am out for a walk, standing at an intersection while waiting for the light to change, please refrain from lowering your window, slowing down and making kissing noises at me as you turn the corner. As aroused as I get when a unwashed, possibly buzzed stranger kisses at me from his shitmobile as if he's summoning a dog, I am not going to jump into your sticky-looking passenger seat.

No, it would not have helped if you'd been driving a nicer car.

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