Goods and services

My friend Stephanie was in Romania on business recently. Her descriptions of that country are beyond depressing; apparently, the population at large lives in near squalor while very few enjoy the country's limited wealth. Bucharest, the nation's capital and the city where she does business, has no spaying and neutering programs, resulting in a huge population of stray dogs that are often shot to death in the streets by police.

Stephanie was at my birthday party this past Saturday, and we took some time to catch up. "Every time I leave Romania, I come home with fleas," she said.

"If you lie down with dogs..." I joked.

She nodded. "I hug and kiss the dogs. I've seen a few killed in front of me, just after I hugged them. The police do roundups every month and shoot them right in the street. I give myself fleas on every business trip. I can't help it. I figure I'm giving them their last hug. I'm usually right."

Prostitutes are all over the hotels in Bucharest. "They're supermodels," Stephanie told me. "Gorgeous women. Tall, blonde, dripping with expensive jewelry. They dress like businesswomen, in suits that cost thousands of dollars."

"I guess they are businesswomen," I said, "in a way."

When she's in Bucharest, Stephanie usually dresses in jeans and t-shirts. She wears a baseball cap. She's in her early 30s, but because she's so petite and has very delicate features, she looks like a teenager when she dresses that way.

On her last trip, she had a meeting to go to and found herself in the hotel elevator with a white American man who looked to be in his 70s. She had her usual casual duds on. I'm sure it sounds strange to some of you that a corporate vice president can wear jeans to business meetings, but people who work in entertainment can get away with it. Steph described her look that day as "grubby." Now, she's so pretty that I don't think she could ever actually look grubby, but I understood that she had thrown on whatever was clean that day, and put a cap over her damp, almost waist-length hair.

Meanwhile, in the elevator...

She and the man were alone. As the elevator descended, he leaned over and asked, "Are you for sale?"

Steph was aghast. Remember, Bucharest prostitutes have a certain 'look.' "Why in the hell would he assume I was a prostitute, in my jeans and old t-shirt?" she asked, exasperated.

"Maybe he's tried all the others, and wanted a new flavor," I mused.

Anyhow, she kept her composure and turned to the man. "No," she replied. "Are you?"

He laughed. "If I was, you couldn't afford me."

"Actually," she retorted, "I could buy and sell you ten times over."

Then, just like a scene in a movie, the elevator doors opened. She walked out, leaving him stunned.

And...scene.

Work it out

Jezebel has this post up about horrific workplace stories. It's a hilarious read, and as many regular readers know, I've got a few of my own. Let me add a couple of others!

When I was 14 years old, I got my very first summer job in the Calvin Klein store at the local mall. I started on Memorial Day weekend. That very Saturday, I came into work to find that all of the associates had been arrested for shoplifting the night before. They'd had a racket going for a while; they would fill garbage bags full of clothes, throw them in the dumpster, then come back to the store in the middle of the night to retrieve the bags. They got caught when the store's security guard, suspicious at the unusual amount of garbage going into the bins each night, hid in his car in the store's back parking lot after hours, his eye fixed on the dumpster. Sure enough, the girls drove up around 1am, did the dumpster dive and were caught red-handed. I wound up completely stuck, working 12 hour days as the only associate on a crowded holiday weekend.

It was hell, but if I'd had any idea as to what my early corporate jobs would be like, I might have stayed there.

Ten years later, I was hired by a wholesale distributor to work in their in-house advertising department. This was my first real corporate job, about a year after I had moved to Boston. I'd spent the previous year working two jobs; one at a print shop, the other at a CVS in my neighborhood of Allston-Brighton, which is situated right between the Boston University and Boston College campuses.

I was excited to finally be a full-time paid designer with medical benefits and vacation time, but quickly learned that my new place of business was a den of iniquity. The number of sexual harrassment charges that had been quietly settled for money filled a very fat file in Personnel. Many of those charges had been (rightly) leveled at the founder of the company, a squat, vulgar man in his 70s who, fittingly, looked like a pig would if a fairy godmother waved her magic wand and made him human. Not one to age gracefully, he dyed his hair (what I referred to as) 'piss-yellow,' and his penchant for regular chemical peels kept the skin on his face a very bright pink. Instead of looking younger, he looked like a sunburned Porky Pig with a yellow toupée. He hired handicapped people to be living examples of his magnanimity, then treated them like circus animals; after hiring a young woman with Down's Syndrome to stuff envelopes, he made her a special feature when he gave tours, pointing and saying, "Look! I have this little mongoloid girl working here." Porky fancied himself a ladies' man; I guess he thought that inviting female associates into his office for 'business meetings' and then grabbing at their breasts and behinds qualified as innocent fun. One of my own coworkers, a shapely blonde with a loud, infectious laugh, came running down to the photography studio one day in tears after he'd done it to her. Even worse? He was a friend of her family's and had known her since she was a child. She had trusted him and refused to believe the rumors she'd heard about him. Worse than worse? Because of his relationship to her family, she was guilted out of filing a complaint.

El Jefe Gay Male Boss once told me, "A fish rots from the head." He was absolutely right. Porky Pig had set the standard for male behavior in our office, and that standard was pathetically low.

When I started working for Sexual Harrassment Central, I was 24, naive, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and cuter than I thought I was, as we all are at 24. Only a year out of college, I was used to being judged by the quality of my work. Cute, right? How sweet I was. Sadly, it rarely takes long for female cubicle dwellers to be disabused of the notion that corporate America is a meritocracy. Thanks to SHC, my naivete was collateral damage in less than three months.

I worked for a guy I'll call Marcus. He was creepy; he was one of Porky's closest cronies. He always looked down at you when he spoke, even if you were his same height; he'd pull his wire-rimmed glasses down to the end of his nose and tilt his chin down to look over them at you. He was incredibly homophobic, and made disparaging (and sometimes graphic) remarks to gay employees; he also referred to them as "Miss [first name]" when he wanted to be particularly condescending. He leered at female employees and made (usually physically based) comments about them when they left the room.

There's an old Irish proverb that goes like this:

May those who love us love us.
And those that don’t love us, May God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn’t turn their hearts, May he turn their ankles,
So we’ll know them by their limping.

Seems off topic, I know, but Marcus had an odd gait, as if he had a permanent limp, Richard III – style. One of the very few chuckles that I had at Marcus' expense was based in the idea that he was so odious that God had actually given him a wonky walk to warn people he was coming. Mind you, there was nothing actually wrong with him; it's not cool to laugh at the handicapped. It is, however, perfectly fine to enjoy the occasional laugh at the expense of an asshole who treats his subordinates like shit.

Every day in Marcus' presence brought something new to amaze and disgust, but I quickly learned that complaining got you nowhere at SHC unless a) somebody put their hands on you and b) you had a witness who was willing to speak up on your behalf. Needless to say, that didn't happen very often.

Marcus immediately had a problem with me. "Ginger asks so many questions," he'd whine in a faux-joking tone. "Don't get into it with her, she'll ask you a ton of questions." Asshole Extraordinaire did teach me one very important thing - you can judge a boss by how well s/he deals with questions. Marcus was a Status Quo guy, and the status quo was whatever he decided; thus, we worked in Asshole Central. Questioning him meant that other people might get ideas of their own; therefore, to him, I was trouble. He made fun of his "Little Questioner" in front of people whenever he got the chance.

My favorite Marcus moment happened one day when I accidentally dropped a Zip disk underneath a counter. I was perfectly capable of picking it up myself, but I was wearing a skirt that day, so I had to be strategic about it. In many agencies, the design/marketing department is one large room, separated into cubicles, and SHC followed that format. One runs the risk of flashing one's coworkers in such a situation. How embarrassing! I'd rather not, so whenever I had to pick something up that had fallen under a counter or desk while wearing a skirt, I utilized a tactic that I called the "triple tuck":

1. Tuck skirt between back of thighs.
2. Kneel, tuck legs under butt in side-saddle fashion, resting weight on one hip.
3. Tuck skirt between front of thighs.

Use this method and you can safely reach under anything you like without showing your undies (or punany, if you're the adventurous type who likes going commando. Personally, I'm not one who enjoys a breeze in my nethers).

I did the triple tuck, retrieved my disk and came out from under the counter...

...to see Marcus, on his stomach at other end of the hallway, face to the floor, trying to peek up my skirt.

Lovely.

"Are you all right, Marcus?" I asked in my sweetest voice.

"Uh. Uh," he tried to laugh it off. "I thought you might have needed some help, there."

I'll bet he did.

When I finally quit SHC, Porky Pig called me up to his office. I'd never allowed myself to wind up alone in there; in the past, I'd always taken a coworker with me, usually male, to Porky's palpable consternation. This time, I had to go alone, for my 'exit interview.'

I made sure to leave the door open, politely refused when asked to sit, and stayed as close to the door as possible. Porky's secretary, who sat in the adjoining room, had been with him from the beginning; I knew for a fact that she was paid a hefty six figures to file, fax, answer phones - and keep her mouth shut. I wanted to make sure that she wound up involved if something went wrong.

"I'm sad to hear you're leaving." Porky came out from behind his desk and walked over to me. He took my right hand in his right hand and slowly stroked my right arm, up and down, with his left hand. "I want you to know, we'll always have a place for you if you decide to come home." I mumbled a quick "Thank you," broke away, and walked out.

Traditional wisdom dictates that you shouldn't burn your bridges; that day, I decided that I'd rather jump off a bridge before walking back across that one.

Putting the cart before the brood mare

Breeders - I mean, readers - I'm not sure how much longer I can tolerate this attempt at online dating. You have to admit, I've really been giving it a fair shot, but dating in LA is TEH CRAZY. Those of you who've been with me throughout this bumpy ride are already aware that most of my online experiences have been less than positive.

I have my profile up on two dating sites; one free, the other not. I've always been advised to avoid the free sites; common sense dictates that the worst men out there are going to gravitate to sites where they don't have to pay. I haven't found that at all. For the most part, the quality of men on both sites that I've tried have been about equal; believe it or not, Mr. BJ came from the paying site! Then again, Mr. Date Rape came from the free site, which puts free and paying sites neck and neck with me. Being an optimist by nature, I tell myself that hope springs eternal and keep my profiles up.

I recently made the acquaintance of FunnyGuy, a very cute, 37 year old blond with a great smile. FG and I had IMed a couple of times, and I had given him my cell number about six weeks ago. He called that Saturday around 10:30am, waking me up. I had gone to bed around 3am and had slept in that morning. I shouldn't have answered the phone at all - I am an incoherent zombie when I first wake up - but after a glance at my alarm clock, I figured I should get my ass up and start my day. I explained to FG that I'd gotten in late, and would he mind calling me back later on? He apologized for waking me, I said no worries, we both hung up and I put some tea on.

He never called back; shit happens. My morning voice would scare anyone, and I should have let his call go to voicemail. I had a few dates lined up anyway, so I forgot about FG soon enough.

Imagine my surprise when I got an IM request from FG last week. I was curious, so once again, I answered. Here's the convo:

FunnyBoy: hello
Ginger: hello there
FunnyBoy: how are you
Ginger: fine, at work. Yourself?
FunnyBoy: at work too, not much longer
Ginger: nice to hear from you
FunnyBoy: yeah, you'd better be nice to me this time
Ginger: huh?
FunnyBoy: nicer than you were on the phone

Readers, I swear to you, although I admit that I sound like Swamp Thing in the morning, my regular voice is not so bad! Anyway, even half asleep, I still manage to be polite on the phone, especially with someone I do not know, who doesn't know me and therefore cannot interpret my tone. Whatever, I figured that FG was kidding.

Ginger: I wasn't being rude, I was just asleep. Not a pretty morning voice, I know.
FunnyBoy: Do you always do that? Sleep in?
Ginger: If my body needs it, yes. I get less sleep than I need during the week.
FunnyBoy: Well, we're not compatible.
Ginger: based on that?
FunnyBoy: well, yeah
FunnyBoy: I like to live my life
FunnyBoy: and do stuff

Now who's being rude?

Ginger: Uh, I 'do stuff.' I do a lot of stuff during the week, more than most people. Resting the body is important too. What else are weekends for?
FunnyBoy: Well, I get my sleep on weekdays, because I make my own hours at work.

Let me get this straight. He gets to sleep in 5 days a week, I sleep in one or two, and I'm the lazy ass who's wasting her life?

Ginger: Gotta do what's right for you.
FunnyBoy: Well, isn't that a substantive response

'FunnyBoy' was starting to sound like 'AssHat.'

Ginger: OK, Mr. Not Right For Me, why don't we cut our losses and sign off before I disappoint you further?

FG responded by sending me a 'weepy' emoticon. Cry me a river, babe. I figured that would be it. He'd already told me that we were incompatible due to my laziness, so...

FunnyBoy: do you want children

DOUBLE BLINK.

What? He's willing to breed with a sloth like myself?! I had to give FG some credit for giving me a good laugh. I had a choice to make - get more annoyed, sign off, or have a little fun. Must you ask which one I chose after all this time? Really?

Ginger: When would we conceive? We're never in bed at the same time.

I got about 30 seconds of silence as a response.

FunnyBoy: At your parents' house during the holidays.

Cheeky! And, EW. Ok, I'll play.

Ginger: Oh, my father would LOVE that. You should know, I come from a family of lazy-ass weekend sleepers. You'll be lonely...
Ginger: anyway, aren't you putting the cart before the horse here?

I'd like to point out that FG and I had never met in person.

FunnyBoy: no
FunnyBoy: It's a direct question
FunnyBoy: Which you're not answering

A pissy response, but fair enough. It was a serious question and deserved a serious answer.

Ginger: with the right guy, I would have children
FunnyBoy: you can't sleep in when you have kids
FunnyBoy: you know that, right?

Asshattery! I should have signed off at that moment, but...the snark...it calls to me...no! Must! Not! Respond!

Ginger: But you'll be awake! So, no problem.

I giggled as I clicked 'send.' Hey, the guy was warned; my hair color is clearly visible in my profile photo.

FunnyBoy: ok, I'm signing off
Ginger: 'Bye Dad.

We're not incompatible because I sleep in every once in a while. We're incompatible because 'FunnyBoy' has no sense of humor! The irony.

My onion works its magic yet again

Dear twentysomething cads in Burbank Village:

Yelling "Booty booty booty booty!" at me from your car as I cross the street is my absolute favorite mating call. Really, why didn't you pull over so I could jump in? At least one of you must be marriage material. Teenage behavior in adult men does it for me like nothing else. FILL ME WITH YOUR LITTLE BABIES!!

Wait! Wait!! Where are you going?! COME BACK!

Yeah, keep driving. I noticed that there were no chicks in the car with you - I wonder why that is?

A day in the Life

So last night, on my way home from work, I stopped at a drugstore/convenience store to pick up some tea, toilet paper and cinnamon Life cereal. A mumbling man brushed by me as I was putting my cereal into my basket.

He go to the end of the aisle, turned around and doubled back, looking down as he passed me.

"Mumblemumblemumble titties."

People sometimes ask why I'm so snarky. Seriously? I'd like to be able to pick up some cereal on my way home without some cretin acting a fool just because I'm wearing a V-neck. Had that dude ever seen a woman before? We've all got a pair, and since I live in LA, mine are nowhere near the biggest you'll see.

Whatever. My titties and I paid for our cereal and went home.

"Oh, billions of dollars! Is there no dispute you can't settle?"

Jon Stewart says it all:

Hat tip: PunkAss Blog.

If you saw me in the morning, I'm sure you'd change your mind.

Once again, I must bemoan the large numbers of men who send out pitiful/begging/"neg" emails to women in order to get any kind of response. I received this today:

You seem too flawless for me, but I thought I'd say 'hi' anyway.

Seriously, this is one of the stupidest emails I've ever gotten, and I got an email not long ago from a complete stranger asking whether I take it up the ass. What is this guy getting at? Whether he really thinks I'm out of his league, or is just being sarcastic, this email is a bonehead move. The only response this guy gets is deletion.

As per my usual, there's a different suitor who can top him:

You are like a goddess out of Norse Mythology, but I am the feckless sort inveighed against your message.

OH FOR GOD'S SAKE. Is that supposed to sound smart and cultured? It sounds like it was written by a mouthbreather with no social skills. There's nothing more appealing to a woman than a feckless man who's mistaken her for a Valkyrie! Awesome.

Sigh.

All right, men out there in dating cyberspace - you asked for it. You've reduced me to writing a form letter!

Dear Bepenised Online Daters:
If you dig a chick, email her and tell her so. Better yet, tell her why, and make sure that your explanation does NOT include "U R HOT" or "You're too good for me" or "You remind me of a mythical creature from World of Warcraft." Refer to specific hobbies/quirks/favorite movies in her profile to show that you might have something in common, then ask her if she'd like to correspond. Okay?! It really is that simple. If you sound like a wet dishrag in your email, you're probably even worse in person. Women know this, and you will not get a response. No 500 word novels about your philosophy on life, either - just invite the woman you're interested in to browse your profile. Another thing - it sounds obvious, but fill out your profile. If every section in your profile is blank, or says "ask me," there's nothing for a woman to react to. She will not "ask you," because a dude who leaves his profile blank except for the bare basics is (a) lazy, (b) shady, or (c) very hesitant about online dating. None of those options are appealing. We all hate filling out online profiles, but it's part of the gig. Get a good girlfriend to help you, if you have trouble verbalizing what you're looking for. If you can't make the effort, or are weirded out by these sites, there is nothing wrong with you. Just get off the dating sites and try Meetup.com.

Which brings me to my last beef - if you just want to hit it, you should be on Craigslist's casual encounters.

Understand that even if you act right, you may not get a response quickly, or at all. Do not take it to heart. Online dating is a feeding frenzy - a total numbers game. A woman who is basically pretty and in decent shape (I do put myself in that category), nothing spectacular, not a "10", will still receive hundreds of emails after putting up a profile.

MAN UP. In other words, be direct and friendly. Act like a tool before you've even been face to face with a woman, and chances are you'll wind up sitting at home every night, moaning about how "bitches never go for the nice guys."

Do you think it's easier for women? It isn't. We get propositioned, sent naked pictures (not anywhere near as thrilling as it sounds - trust), spoken to with disrespect (like the time a friend of mine was informed as to which end her breasts fell on the 1-10 scale), upbraided for not responding promptly enough (as if we are children without lives of our own to manage). This all happens before we even meet a guy face to face, and those of us who are smart learn to use such instances to weed out the losers and avoid bad dates. If you are not one of those guys, make an effort not to sound like one.

Keep it real, and you might find something real.

Cheers,
Ginger

Beware the gentleman who acts like a gentleman.

Readers, it's bad enough that ladies such as myself have to constantly dodge rude men. These days, it would seem that a few shady dudes have realized that, since sleazy doesn't work, they might lure in a few unsuspecting females with a polite facade. This tactic has worked on Yours Truly once before. More than once, actually. It's sad to say, but although I still hold out hope that a polite-sounding man is exactly that, I now have a cynical streak, and I am rarely proven wrong.

Case in point:

Yesterday I received this unusually polite email. It almost sounds like pleading, doesn't it?

Hi Ginger, I'd really like to get to know you. I'm hoping you'll read my short profile and let me know if you'd be at all interested in knowing me a bit better too. I hope you do. We could talk a bit, exchange pics, ideas, and see where that takes us. No stress, drama, lies, or expectations. Just nice words between nice people. Does that sound reasonable? I would love to hear back from you. You have nothing to lose, and you just might like who and what you find. Thanks for your time and consideration. If I don't hear back from you, I do wish you nothing but the best.

"Thanks for your time and consideration?" There's something I never hear; actually, it's the kind of thing you'd put on a cover letter. I guess that's appropriate, since the guy was really trying to sell himself. It was so polite as to be shady. Isn't it horrible that I think this way now? I don't want to, but it's a defense mechanism.

Well, I can benefit from the anonymity of the internet just like any of the crazy dudes who email me. I clicked his profile, which read:

I am an attractive and yes, married man with two wonderful children. Long story, but, I'd love to fill you in. I'm really looking for that one special woman that I can spend my free time with. All I do know is that there has to be more to life than what I am experiencing right now. Please contact me if you'd be at all interested. Who knows, you might be surprised.

Oh, honey. Nothing surprises me any more.

I'm really looking for that one special woman that I can spend my free time with.

The time you should be spending with your two wonderful kids?

Who knows what this guy's story is, and who cares. This is gross! You know, it's married people who've done the best job at keeping me from getting married. Now, I'm sure some of y'all are happily married, but I'm not talking about you peeps.

At least he was upfront about being married before we went out. I haven't always been so lucky!

Is There an Army Cover Up of Rape and Murder of Women Soldiers?

I'm thinking yes.

Mmmmm, I love the smell of paternal condescension in the morning

So I open my email box this morning, and what do I find but a note from a 55 year old gentleman called SamPedro:

You're by far the best woman I've seen on this site, in every respect. Too bad you're too young for me.

First of all, what is the deal with guys getting in touch with me just to tell me that we're incompatible? Are they trying to pull a neg? Do they think I'll shoot them an email right back, begging them to give me a chance? They're just annoying me, and they are incompatible with me.

It got better; Sam suggested a few (completely unnecessary) punctuation and grammar edits to my profile. What?!

Thanks, teach, but if you think that's going to charm a lady, you're the one who has lots to learn.

Craigslist goodness

This made me laugh all the way through. Poor slob.

I think I've met this guy.

Oh dear God. As a woman, I have to deal with all kinds of shit, but this will never be a problem for me.

I don't think I've ever liked a man enough to do this.

Awwww.

Panty raid

SnarkScribe recently put up this hilarious post about some idiot who keeps a 'girlfriend closet' - that is, a collection of clothes that he would dress his girlfriends in. The man should just get a Real Doll, but then, they don't talk back (although for a certain type of man, I'm sure that's part of the appeal).

Right after college, I got a retail job at the local mall with Jones New York. One of my coworkers, Michael, fancied himself a real ladies' man. He thought he was smooth, always telling me about his various conquests or talking up his 'legendary' backrubs. He was the stock sitcom character at the office who's always on the make.

One day, during a slow period, Michael and I were folding shirts to pass the time. I think I mentioned that I still had one of my ex boyfriend's shirts. I had found it in a pile of stuff, and was agonizing over whether or not to throw it out. I was still getting over the breakup, and my ex's shirt smelled like him, which triggered all kinds of emotions and flashbacks to when things were good between us. Ah, young love; it bears such a very close resemblance to complete insanity. Michael, in what was quite possibly the most horribly misguided attempt at coworker bonding in history, told me that he could relate to my conundrum. He had a panty collection, which he felt guilty about, but couldn't get rid of.

You heard that right.

Michael had stolen a pair of previously worn panties from every girl he'd ever fucked; he kept them in a large photo album, each one carefully sealed inside a Ziploc sandwich bag.

Those of you who are twisted enough to read this blog on a regular basis have probably figured out where this is going...

...and you're right. The Panty Filcher would periodically take the aforementioned unmentionables out of the plastic and take a big whiff. It goes without saying that he got off on it.

BARF.

Okay. I do not, do not get this about guys! Granted, not all guys do this, but the ones that do...what is wrong with you? I don't want to sniff my own panties. I certainly don't want to take a whiff of my guy's BVDs. Loyal bepenised readers, help me out here. Yo no comprendo.

Anyhow, back to my story. When I got up off the floor - I was seriously busting a gut from laughing so hard - I told Mr. Smoothie that he might just have a mental problem. I also advised that he move to Japan. To his credit, he freely admitted his own douchery and laughed about it. Perhaps I was being a bit harsh, because he had, in fact, helped me out.

I went home that night and threw out my ex's shirt. I would have burned it in the fireplace if it wasn't summertime.

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.

Kiss me, I'm a loser

Buried at PhotoCasketDear 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.

Defeating assholery, one sexist turd at a time

Readers, sometimes a woman's gotta fight for her space.

This past Saturday, a friend of mine, a gay, built, black and fierce man that I affectionately call "Foxy Brown", invited me to a "Suds 'n' Speakeasy" party in Hollywood. Foxy and I bonded some years ago at work. He's no longer employed at my firm, but remains one of my closest friends in LA. I hadn't seen him in a while, and his parties are a guaranteed good time, so I was looking forward to my night out.

I invited my friend Liz along, because the poor girl has been overworked for the past few weeks. I knew we'd have a great time socializing with Foxy and his boys, playing beer pong at his place before walking down the street to Club 86, the latest Hollywood hot spot.

The night didn't progress exactly as planned. It has been absolutely pouring in LA for a week, and the rain was torrential on Saturday night. Streets were flooding, LA is just not used to that kind of weather, and Hollywood was a hot mess. It took Liz and I way longer to find parking than usual, simply because we had to park as close to the party as we could (we were going to have to walk in that pouring rain, after all!). We were late arrivals as it was, and we drove in circles for so long that we missed out on Foxy's home party. I gave him a call to let him know that we'd meet him and his peeps at the club.

Looking like a pair of drowned rats, Liz and I got a couple of drinks and walked around 86 for a bit. Randomly, she bumped into somebody that she used to work with, and we all chatted for a while. Foxy and his crew showed up about half an hour later, and we all wound up on the dance floor, laughing and having a great time.

The night took a bad turn about half an hour later. There was a small group celebrating a birthday party, and most of them were on the dance floor with us. Birthday Boy was a very large specimen, around 6'5", and very, very toasted. He kept bumping into people and basically acting like an SUV driver - you know, "I'm bigger, get out of my way." That attitude. I'd already had words with BB, because he'd bumped into me so hard that half my drink wound up on the floor. He had also pulled Liz's hair. When I called him out, he leaned down and drunkenly sneered, "Ohhhhh, I apologize. It's my birthday!" The guy skeeved me out. Earlier in the evening, Liz, who has "the hearing of a dolphin" (as she puts it), told me that she'd heard him talking to a random group of guys that were standing by the bar about ten feet from where she and I were dancing. "Go over to them!" he yelled at these guys, indicating us. "Those girls want you!"

Uh, no, we didn't. Nice try.

We tried to ignore BB, we really did, but he made it impossible. After bumping against a few members of my party, he came up behind Liz and slapped her on the ass with a loud WHAP. Now, Liz is a very easygoing girl. It takes a lot to shock her, and believe me, she was shocked. She was also in pain, because this man was the size of a large gorilla. Stunned silent, she just tried to get away from him.

I was furious. "Did you just slap her ass?!" I yelled at BB.

"You're damn right I did," he laughed at me.

"You FUCKER!" Right in the middle of the dance floor, I put both hands on his chest and shoved as hard as I could, knocking his drunk ass back into one of his boys. "YOU DO NOT TOUCH HER."

BB FUCKER put his hands up in shock, as if to say 'Did this little girl actually just push me?!'. "Oh, ohhhhh, I apologize, I apologize, it's my birthday! What's your problem?"

"My problem? My problem, asshole, is you putting your hands on my friend. You don't put your hands on someone. You keep your fucking hands to yourself, loser." My lightly buzzed self made the "L" sign with my right hand.

Now BBF's buddy got involved. "What's your problem?" he demanded. "You have the wrong attitude. You need to relax."

No he didn't! "You socially stunted moron." I spat. "He does not have the right to touch her, or anyone, and I don't give a flying fuck if it's his birthday, or if he's drunk. Do you see other drunk people acting like assholes?"

"I apologized!" BB yelled.

"ONLY BECAUSE I CALLED YOU OUT," I yelled back. It was getting ugly. People on the dance floor were starting to step back.

"YOU HAVE THE WRONG ATTITUDE," Mr. Asshole Enabler started to yell. By this point, Foxy and his friend Eric had noticed what was going on, and the sight of the escalating skirmish - most notably the sight of two large men leaning down and yelling at a certain pissed-off redhead - sprung them into action. The next thing I knew, my boys were squaring off with Slapper and Enabler. I heard a lot of "No, no, NO, dude, back off," and when I explained what was going on, Foxy in particular got even more pissed. There was some pushing. The Asshole Duo had finally realized that Liz and I weren't alone, and now they were going to have to deal with our whole crew, so they were starting to back it up. It's sad, isn't it, that these idiots would only back off when they realized that Liz and I had guys with us that were willing to throw down? I mean, can't a woman have a good time without getting hit on the ass by some random stranger?

It got worse. While my boys were correcting these degenerates, one of Slapper's female friends came over to defend him. Readers, the only thing I hate more than a man who defends disrespecful behavior towards women is a woman who defends disrespectful behavior towards women. This little blonde started in on me, asking me to "forgive" the jerk because he was "just drunk and having fun."

BITCH, PLEASE.

"This is fun for you?" I demanded. "You think that was fun for my girl over there?"

"Oh, he didn't mean anything -"

"So, if you're in a club one night, and you get slapped on the ass by a stranger, that would be okay?"

Stunned silence. Then, "Is that what he did?"

"No, I'm making it up for fun."

She looked back at Slapper, who was slowly backing away from the human wall of Eric and Mr. Brown. "Well," she said, "he's going to be scolded for this tomorrow."

I rolled my eyes. "Girl, I don't give a shit. He'd better step off right fucking now."

I went back to Liz. "If I become a stripper," she joked, "will you be my bodyguard?"

"Woman, you need a bodyguard already!"

That was the end of that. Their crew gave my crew a wide berth until we all left. I have to say, despite the night's assholery, Foxy Brown and Eric restored my faith in men a little bit. They told those guys to back off right away, no explanation necessary. They saw disrespect and corrected it. Hos before bros! How refreshing.

"Damn," Liz said as we settled into my car for the drive home, "this is probably my frumpiest dress, too."

"The dude was a waste of space," I replied. "You know we never meet decent guys in clubs."

You can't handle the truth

Major props to Echidne for her analysis of sexism in the current presidential race. An excerpt:

"It's not clear to me what percentage of Hillary-hatred is based on her personal history or on political manipulation by those who prefer another candidate (yes, manipulation is quite common in politics) and what percentage is based on a general fear and loathing of women in power. But the latter percentage looks to me to be much higher than I anticipated.

And that is why it is important to dig deeper into this whole sordid spectacle. The problem is not just that Hillary is bombed with sexist insults and that some of those bombs end up exploding in the living-rooms of American women. The problem is the reason for these sexist insults, and the reason is not just to have some fun teasing women, but to keep women out of certain parts of the power structure.

Why the wish to keep women out? There are both psychological reasons, starting from that Biblical verse of man being the head of woman, continuing into that whole murky psychology of masculinity and what it means for a man to take orders from a woman (emasculation! eek!) and into a similarly murky psychology of femininity and the needs (inculcated?) to have a man take care of the important business, and cultural/historical reasons, from the fear of the unknown (we have never had a woman president) to the acknowledgment that this is the planet of the guys and as long as other guys won't respect a woman, electing one isn't going to help in running the business of politics, either domestically or internationally."

I have nothing to add, it's perfect. Go read (her links open oddly slowly; the post's name is "New York Times on Sexism."

Whoa, I can't believe that line didn't work!

I've seen Adrian Grenier in person, performing with his band at Hotel Stoli in Hollywood. He is a hottie bobottie, straight up, but...

Just 'cause he's hot, doesn't mean he's smooth. Had I known that he employs this approach, I wouldn't have wasted my drool.

Still dateless in LA

Buried at PhotoCasket.com
Le SIGH.

Readers, I have no date stories for you right now. Unfortunately, this internet thing is turning out even worse than I had expected. While I am corresponding with a few guys who seem polite, the vast majority of the men who have contacted me are a hot mess.

Por ejemplo:
• I have gotten a few emails from felons (still in prison), who are, for obvious reasons, absolutely out of the question. Aren't I the picky bitch?

• Got an email from a guy whose text read "U R hot. That is all." He attached a picture of himself, naked and apparently fondling his honker.

• One very special 26 year old suitor said - in his very first email - "Hey there, i know this is odd, but i was just wondering, are you good at giving head? Do you swallow? Do you take it up the ass??"

Odd? Does it sound odd? It sounds fucking disgusting, dude. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW ME. What in the fucking fuck?!

From the emails I get, one would think that my profile pictures feature my breasts popping out of my top, or my ass in the camera as I bend over. Not a bit of it. My profile is - wait for it - a shot of me in jeans and a tailored button down! Le Scandale! Nothing screams "I'm a slut who's asking for it!" like COVERING YOUR ENTIRE BODY. I get the sinking feeling that even if I wore a burqua in my picture, some asshat would email me to ask whether I'd let him fuck me in the ear. I'd better not say that too loud! That'll probably be next.

Freaks, freaks, go away! Come again another day. Or never. Never works for me.

I shudder to think that one day, these guys may BREED.

The good news is, it won't be with me.

Not on the menu‏

Dear readers, pray for me. I am back on the dating scene.

I realize that I've taken a lengthy, unplanned hiatus from this blog, and I've missed the stress relief that comes from writing (as well as the many laughs that I get from reading your comments). Life is finally quieting down. I've been busy with family and work issues, and the holidays are an additional headache to deal with. I'm looking forward to flying to New York (for what feels like the millionth time this year!) to see the fam for Christmas. I hope you are all enjoying your holidays.

This year, I also took an extended hiatus from dating. I wasn't interested, frankly; I also had a very overscheduled life between February and November of this year. Regarding my romantic life, I figured that if something happened, it happened, and if it felt right, I would welcome it.

Well, nothing happened, and by the time I noticed, the year was almost over. One of my single sisters suggested the matchmaking site that she was using. I was hesitant, considering the spotty results that I've had with online dating in the past. However, this was a different site than the one I had used before, and my friend was enjoying some positive results, so I thought I'd give it a try. I put up a profile near the end of October.

To my absolute shock, I have gotten over 150 emails, which is a lot to sift through. But you know what they say; quality trumps quantity. Attention is only flattering when it's coming from somebody that you have a jones for. Truth be told, I have gotten a few emails from rather cute, normal-sounding guys. I went into my first few dates with high hopes.

It didn't take long for my freak attracting pheromones to work their magic.

I went on a date with John, a 44 year old, African American man who is divorced and has a 20 year old son. He works in aerospace engineering quality control. He had beautiful hazel eyes and a great smile; his profile said that he was a 'true gentleman'. He drove almost an hour to meet me for drinks, because he didn't want me to have to drive. I thought that was a lovely gesture. I was looking forward to this date.

We met at a bar/restaurant near my home; we hugged hello and got a table. He wanted to have dinner, which threw me off because I'd made it clear that I just wanted to have drinks. When I'm meeting a man for the first time, I like to keep it short - around an hour. That way, if there's no chemistry, you just part ways. No flag, no foul. I figured that I could get an appetizer. What could go wrong?

Readers, I am way too optimistic.

For one thing, the conversation was really awkward. John would stare at me for extended periods of time without speaking, and I would try to fill the weird silences with questions. When he did speak, he seemed to open his mouth for the sole purpose of putting his foot in it. I now give you a snippet of our dinner conversation, verbatim:

Me: "So, what are you up to in the next few weeks?"
John: "I'm headed to Vegas for work next month."
Me: "Oh! I was there in August. A friend of mine had her bachelorette party there. We stayed at the Paris Hotel and had a blast. Everywhere we went, there was a different group of guys having a bachelor party buying us drinks. The bride's mom came along and danced up a storm with the boys. We actually met some really nice people."
John: "Did you act out?"
Me: "Um. Act out?"
John: "You know. Did you misbehave?"
Me: "Are you asking whether I had sex with a random stranger?"
John: *smiles creepily*
Me: "UM. Not my style."
John: "So, you're not the kind of woman who fucks a guy on the first date?"
Me: (incredulous) "Uh, no."
John: "So, you're conservative."
Me: "If you call being unwilling to risk my health and physical safety with a relative stranger being conservative, I'm on the religious right."
John: "So, I'm a stranger?"
Me: "AND you're strange."

I played it off with humor, but about ten minutes later, he asked, "So I guess a blowjob is out of the question?"

OH MY GOD.


Uh, dude? YOU'RE out of the question. I must have looked horrified, because he tried to backpedal like he had been joking. I didn't buy it. We all know that guys use humor with women to test boundaries. He had crossed mine.

That's an early foray back into the dating scene, kids.

SHUDDER.

UPDATE:Perhaps this incident is part of a phenomenon? All signs point to yes.

You're fired

Donald Trump has appointed himself The Beauty King.

I'm serious. The Donald thinks that Angelina Jolie is "no beauty."

What a catty bitch! Is he on crack? I mean, this is the woman he's talking about:

"I own Miss Universe, I own Miss USA," he says, with his usual arrogance, as though he owns the women themselves. "I do understand beauty."

Uh-huh.

Jolie may not be everybody's cup of tea, but she has her own unique look, and there's no question she's got a brain. I admire her work as a goodwill ambassador for the UN, but of course, traveling through Afghanistan without makeup is so not hottt!!


"I can shoot my mouth off 'cause I gots lots of moneeeeeeeeee!"

Between you and me, I think Trump's problem with Angie is that she hasn't got fake tits and a reconstructed face. The Donald loves him some fembots, and as we (and Ivana and Marla) all know, he enjoys trading up.

Listen, Donny? If you really understood beauty, you would have ditched the combover decades ago. REALLY not hot.