Best of Craigslist

Love this post. I've never done the Craigslist thing, because from what I've heard, the majority of men seeking women posts are exactly what she describes here. All the guys I know who date on Craigslist are only looking to get their poles polished, which isn't very encouraging. Anyway, bravo.

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.

God help me

Readers, it would seem that some 'men of faith' really do see women as replaceable breeder mammals. If they did not, they would not have the misguided notion to send Yours Truly the following email:

Hello Pretty,

That's Hello Kitty's cousin, in case you were wondering.

I'm Kit,

Name changed to protect the guilty, natch.

am passionate, loyal,caring and honest person,am an easy to get along with somewhat quick witted humorous man.

Well, there's a lot in there, and most of it actually sounds pretty good, if a bit form letter-y. I'm aware that dudes usually have a harder time describing themselves than women do. I actually think it's cute that he described himself as 'somewhat' quick-witted...most guys go overboard with a 'look how smart I am' routine. He sounds real. Then again, I have my doubts when somebody calls himself 'easy to get along with.' It sounds deliberately misleading, like calling yourself a gentleman when you're anything but.

I fall in love like a mad person when i have to love someone,

Uh oh, stalker alert! Firstly, when do you 'have to' love someone? Secondly, the 'mad person' description calls to mind a guy who has mastered the drunken angry 4am post-breakup call. Maybe I'm misreading?

Above all about me,am a God fearing man with a child,

And, scene.

Readers, religious people are just fine by me. I was raised in an Irish Catholic family, myself; I can quote the Bible like nobody's business. However, my family instilled a healthy skepticism within me, and a desire to find my own way spiritually. I'm afraid the term 'God fearing' is a bit too fundamentalist for my taste. It's a bit, you know, Old Testament - where men are men and women never leave the house. Fire and brimstone only appeal to me when I'm at a barbecue. FOR MY SOUL!

I kid. To each their own, but I don't like how the funamenalist faction of Christianity treats the wimmins - that includes you, Pope Rat. Females are fully fledged humans, not just baby machines and surrogate mommies...

i visited this site in search for true love and also a loving mother who would love me and my kid...

There it is.

Listen, I think it's actually a good thing that this guy is being honest about his kid. Being a single parent is really tough, and if you're going to be in a relationship, you need to make sure that your new partner cares about your child and is a good role model. It's a tough tightrope to walk once you're a parent, constantly balancing your needs with your kid's. So, maybe when you're looking for a partner, you should look for one with the right qualifications? Like, someone who says she's religious and wants an instafamily? Trust me, kids, there is nothing in my profile along those lines. It certainly doesn't say "Godless Jezebel Seeks Filthy Heathens For Endless String Of One-Night Stands," but it is, shall we say, decidedly secular and independent-minded in nature. I do love kids - I was a nanny for a few years, and because of that, I have no illusions about how much work they are. I may very well have a bambino(a) of my own someday, but am not particularly open to having one dropped in my lap.

i'm on a business trip but want to get to know you.

Twooo wuv and a babysitter for when you're out of town, coming right up!

Nah, I'm busy.

Date rape is not a seduction technique!

Here's an IM exchange I had today with a guy that I've been on two dates with. I was considering a third...I think he may have changed my mind.

i'llcallhimchad: when is our next date?
ginger: I don't know - I can't tell how this week is shaping up
chad: i think you can whip it into shape
ginger: well I'm the one getting whipped. We are swamped!
chad: do you like that? or do you prefer a hand?

(On our last date, 'Chad' mentioned that he enjoys "light bondage." I cannot for the life of me remember how that came up. It was the middle of the afternoon - we were at a restaurant having lunch. I am very liberal, but since Chad and I had spent less than a total of 8 hours together, I responded by saying something like, "Do you now?", and changing the subject. Nothing wrong with a little bondage between the bonded, but I barely know this guy.)

ginger: Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Mr Light Bondage
chad: HAHA
ginger: why don't we touch base later in the week?
chad: well im begining to think you aren't attracted to me!
chad: all of our meetings have been during the day...
ginger: All two of them, when we've been so busy?
chad: ha
chad: how am i going to get liquor in you and take advantage?

(Blink. UM. Did he really just say that to a woman he's spent less than two days with?)

ginger: Wow.
ginger: sounds like daytime is safer
chad: maybe

(Is that supposed to be cute? I needed a minute to think, so I didn't respond.)

chad: ooops

(No kidding, dude. Well, I thought I'd give him the chance to back out gracefully, or educate him a little bit as to what many women deal with on the dating scene. Surely he would understand my response then.)

ginger: how do you know that a woman hasn't had a guy try to do that?
chad: well
chad: i think all women have

(And YET, you made the joke anyway! The mind boggles.)

ginger: which makes it not funny
chad: well im sorry then
ginger: yeah, date rape jokes aren't exactly arousing
chad: well if you want to take it there

(How am I the one who took it there?)

chad: i didnt say make you pass out and have sex with you

(OH! What a relief! "I'd like to get you liquored up so I can take advantage" doesn't mean that at all. Why do some guys think this is funny?)

chad: i just implied light lowering of the inhibitions
ginger: Dude, if you need to get me drunk, you're doing it wrong
chad: i dont think david shuster really thought the clintons were pimping out Chelsea
chad: when he said that
ginger: he knew he was being disrespecful, that was the point

(Bloody hell, he's still arguing with me.)

chad: it was analyzed to the detail
chad: and i dont need to get you drunk
ginger: I am not Chelsea Clinton
ginger: i am just a woman who's had guys try all kinds of sleazy shit
ginger: so when a dude makes a joke like that, it normalizes that behavior

(Behavior which is, sadly, common; over half of all sexual assaults involve alcohol. I'm too annoyed to link to any studies, but you can look it up. I have several friends who've been assaulted while drunk, so I am sensitive to this issue, even though I've been spared that experience up to this point. Bepenised readers, you can be certain that you know at least one woman who has suffered this. A woman is sexually assaulted every SIX MINUTES in this country. It is not funny! Be prepared to get called out for this shit.)

chad: ok fair enough
chad: im not like that

(Oh, no, not you! You just think it's a joke, and when a woman tells you it ain't funny, you'll pick nits with her.)

chad: and i apologize for some of my gender
ginger: don't bother, just don't say shit like that
chad: ok ok!

(In otherwords, 'Can it, chick! You're hysterical!' Women hear this all the time when they say 'rape isn't funny.' Come on! You're reading too much into it! It's only words! Know what? I'll calm down when this kind of shit stops happening. Till then, if you're a man and you make a rape joke, you get nowhere near my vagina.)

I signed off right after that.

UPDATE: Fuck it, here's a fact sheet!

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.

Silent but deadly

A while ago, I went out on a date with a guy I really liked. On our first "official" date, he picked me up in his truck to take me to a local bar/club. The drive over was going well; the conversation was good, the vibe was great.

Then he farted.

I didn't hear it; it was an SBD (silent but deadly) emission. I don't know what he ate before picking me up, but the resulting gas was nas-tay. The worst part is, he pretended that it hadn't happened.

Listen, I understand that some gas can escape when you're nervous. I'm certainly not saying that my own farts smell like cotton candy. My problem is that he didn't put the window down. Guys, if you have an escapee, don't pretend you didn't fart! Women have a slightly more acute sense of smell than you. If you absolutely need to save face, at least open a window and claim that you "need some fresh air." Eau De Colon tends to kill any attraction we might be feeling, especially if we don't know you very well yet.

At least the ride was short:

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.

Laugh it up, Mr. Sensitivity

Buried at PhotoCasket.com

So, this weekend I was watching Jerry Seinfeld get The Comedian Award on HBO. Most of the show consisted of a panel of comedians (Garry Shandling, Chris Rock, Robert Klein and Seinfeld) talking about the highs and lows of their profession while they alternately ribbed and heaped praise on each other. They were moderated by Anderson Cooper.

Hey, I liked Seinfeld. I've also seen Jerry Seinfeld perform live, and I thought he was even funnier doing standup than he was on his show. The Comedian Award was fairly entertaining, and very funny in parts.

Near the end, all the men talked about their upcoming projects. Jerry Seinfeld mentioned his upcoming animated film, Bee Movie, which he researched, wrote, and does a voice for.

Anderson Cooper asked him, "I guess you really got into the whole bee thing," to which Seinfeld replied, "Yeah, I found the whole thing fascinating. I researched everything, visited apiaries, you name it. Bee society is superior to ours in every way, you know. They have no murder, no crime, no rape...well, they have rape, but not bad rape."

Uh, yeah. 'Cause you know what's really funny, you guys? Rape.

Nice job, Jer. You have a daughter, don't you? Wake the fuck up, dude.

Yeah, ok, he was talking about bees, but what kills me is that a genuinely talented comedian would resort to that shit - the lowest common denominator. Readers, I laugh every day, but my funny bone refuses to be tickled by a man making a rape joke. I know women who've been raped (most people do). Men making jokes about rape is pure, unadulterated assholery, for very obvious reasons. Still, some men just do not get it. Rape is a throwaway joke, an easy laugh.

I can hear the apologists saying, "Where's your sense of humor? You're so uptight! Lighten up."

Sorry, I laugh when something's funny.

Fan mail

Dear readers, it is utterly delicious to receive comments and emails from all of you. Few things in life please me more than opening my inbox to find fresh feedback! After a year of blogging, I'm still stunned that this humble site has attracted regular readers from all over the globe. I do try to take a little time out of each week to reply to everyone who writes, even when the feedback isn't particularly flattering. Of course, I always reply in my own sardonic little way.

In that vein, I'd like to give a public play-by-play reply to "Anonymous," who took time out of his undoubtedly busy porn-surfing schedule to explain what he thinks is the cause of my single status. Apparently, Anon had an allergic reaction to this post, which I had thought was a fairly lighthearted musing.

We all know why you avoid married.

I haven't avoided marriage, I've just avoided marrying guys who were wrong for me. Most of the men I know don't really want to be married to women who don't want to be married to them. I know it's not the natural state of affairs for a woman to have a say in her life partner...those fucking feminazis and their man-hating women's liberation agenda have ruined romance for everybody!

Seriously. It consistently amazes me how, whenever a female blogger expresses doubts about marriage as an institution, some troll pops up to tell her that SHE IS A MAN HATER WHO WANTS TO RUIN HUMAN CIVILIZATION!!! I confess! Yes, you have uncovered my master plan! Insert evil laugher here!

You see, because you are GINGER, 34 and live in LA.

Good work, Captain Obvious, you read my profile! You're not illegitimate...er, illiterate!

No wonder, you only attract FREAKS.

Well, of course that's not all I attract, but this site isn't called Diary of a Viggo Mortensen Clone Magnet.

No good guys would waste their time with a superficial person.

Which good guys? This one? This one? How about this one? You know whose time those guys were wasting? MINE.

One sex partner is not enough for you.

Despite what your porn collection would have you believe, most women can only accommodate one man at a time. Besides which, it's the 21st century. Some of us females have the audacity - the audacity, I tell you! - to sample a few specimens from the male population before we settle on one to keep for our very own. Guys have been doing that since...um...the beginning of time?

And....speaking of Ginger, too many cheap porn stars named Ginger. Very sleazy name......

I knew it! Aaah, the sweet smell of roasting troll. I'm salivating! If you must know, that's not my real name. The nickname was given to me during Halloween 2001. A group of friends wanted to go to a party as the cast of Gilligan's Island. They already had their Gilligan, Skipper, Professor, Mr. Howell and Mary Anne...I was recruited to play the famous redhead. The nickname stuck. Just because a woman has, or takes on, that name doesn't mean she works in the sex trade. Way to make misogynistic, stereotype-influenced assumptions, MORON.

Your mind is so twisted.

Well, you've got me there...

Throw away the bullshit and get real!

Physician, heal thyself.

You don't know yourself.

Oh, but I know you, my sweet little Anon. You're the guy who's bought into the idea that men are naturally superior to women - it's science! - and you so desperately want someone to lord over and disdain. The thought of a woman running her own life, independent of male influence that she doesn't invite, makes you just apoplectic with rage, doesn't it? Deep breaths, baby, deep breaths. Stress can kill, you know.

You don't believe in married because married would give you a virus called PUSSY ANXIETY.

Oh, honey. The only thing that would make my pussy anxious is the idea of you being anywhere near her. I'd sooner plug her up with cement.

By the way, white is good color. It is funeral color in India, but you don't live in India.

Once again, your astute perception of the obvious leaves me stunned. I could make a few parallels regarding wedding dresses and white as a funeral color, but I think that Rodney Dangerfield cornered the market on marriage=death jokes.

You are boring and predictable, Ginger.

And you are a sad little man whose only source of female companionship is Backdoor Sluts 9.

Look at your self in the mirror, and ask "Am I try to be someone else I am not ?"

Look at your self in the mirror, and ask, "Should I be on Prozac, Xanax, or Zoloft?"

You lie to yourself, Ginger.

I don't lie, and from your reaction, I can see that the truth hurts. Be on your way now. Kisses!

Hunger pains

Jill at Feministe wrote this post, which very deftly takes apart Salon writer Cary Tennis' latest column. A woman wrote in, asking whether her friend's boyfriend was being too possessive by telling his girlfriend to cover up in public, so as to avoid unwanted attention.

Readers, I've been told more than once that I've got some mad advice giving skills, so indulge me for a minute. Yes, the boyfriend was being controlling - and unrealistic, too. The implication that only attractive, scantily clad women get targeted for molestation is patently false, and disproven by every sexual abuse statistic known to humanity - but for some reason, it will. not. DIE.

Sigh.

A few years back, when I was living in Boston, I went to find an ATM during my lunchbreak. I was wearing a brown turtleneck and black wool pants; my hair was up in a french twist. After getting some cash, I was walking back to my office when a man approached me and said with a leer, "Excuse me, miss? I'd like to have you for lunch."

Smooth, right? I turned back to him and said, "Thanks to you, I feel like I'm going to lose mine. Eat elsewhere." Want it your way, loser? Get your lame ass to Burger King. My point, dear readers, is that I couldn't have been more covered - which matters not a whit to the neighborhood asshat.

So what was Cary Tennis' reply to this woman's query? Surely he would advise her to have a talk with her boyfriend about the reality of sexual violence in our society. Surely he would tell her that, while one might like to consider selecting attire that is appropriate to one's social setting, no outfit, however risqué, is responsible for inciting inappropriate behavior in men. No, indeed; sexual violence in our culture is directly tied to the antiquated, sexist idea that women are responsible for policing the male libido. Women are responsible for Original Sin, possess filthy vagina dentata and must pay for their sins by suffering the pains of childbirth and sexual harrassment. Women are SEX, men must get SEX, but women must not let them have the SEX. Every man wants the SEX from every woman he sees, but women must not want the SEX! Women who enjoy the SEX are dirty whores! But men cannot be whores, because they are hardwired to need the SEX!

Wheee! Outdated Gender Relations 101 is F-U-N! Granted, it turns women into sluts and guys into apes, instead of sexually healthy adults who can freely enjoy the BIG BAD SEX with whomever they choose. Well, I guess that's the way it is, so who are we to question it? The fear of What Men Might Do is at the root of the "cover up" campaign, and it gives no credit to either gender for acting respectful and human. The cure for this fear, dear readers, is simple, and was taught to all of us by the time we were in preschool - "Keep your hands to yourself."

The adult version of this adage is, "Don't be an asshole."

Unfortunately for the woman who wrote to Salon, Mr. Tennis doesn't agree. Long story short, Cary boy implicates women - and their personal style - in their own gropings and sexual assaults. Here's a snippet:

There is something to be said for being invisible...How do we pick our victims? We pick the ones who catch our eye, the ones whose bright colors enrage us, whose sexual attractiveness fills us with resentment and anger. Who will be the victim? That pretty one there.

Big sigh.

Let's get something straight here. Women who wear the burqua in the Middle East are raped. Young children - babies, even, are raped and molested every day, most often by family members. Are scantily clad toddlers in diapers Teh Hawt? No? I didn't think so. The elderly and disabled are also targeted for sexual abuse. Their vulnerability makes them easier targets, not their appearance. As a lady once said, "You can't keep men chaste by keeping women out of sight."

Covering up is all about making women invisible, isn't it? But from whom? Why, from other men, of course. Check it:

perhaps her boyfriend is not really thinking about crime per se, but about something a little more subtle. Perhaps it is his own discomfort at knowing what men think when they look at his girlfriend in her party clothes. He knows because he is a man and thinks certain thoughts, and knows from talking with other men that they think these thoughts too, when they look at women whom they do not know. He knows that on the subway men who do not know his girlfriend will look at her in a certain way and think these thoughts. He does not like these thoughts. They are an outrage.

Translation: "This my Wo-Man! You no look! I cover up so you no touch! Mine! MINE!!"

Wow-ee. If this is professional advice, then I must be the fucking Dalai Lama. Readers, I have run out of sighs. A woman is not an extension of her man. She is not a possession for him to hide from other potential suitors. If a relationship is healthy, other men won't be a problem. Listen, men lust after women. This is natural. Women lust after men. This is also natural. Some women lust after women and some men lust after men and this is also natural, no matter what the wingnuts say.

I digress. Lots of women, when they see an attractive man, will think "I'd like to tap that." Most of us are not alarmed that men think these things too. If we didn't, the human race would die out. You just don't translate those thoughts into action without an invitation. No excuses! This should be a given in the 21st century. Why do people even have to be reminded?

Almost as an afterthought, Tennis goes on to say that it's never ok to attack a woman, but reminds us that women are often blamed anyway. This may sometimes be true, but covering women up isn't the solution. Teaching respect, and eradicating sexism, is.

Sweater girl

The place: Boston, 1999.
The scene: The marketing department at one of my former jobs.

El Estúpido inappropriate male colleague: "Hey, Ginger, nice sweater."

Me: "Uh, thanks?" Unsure as to whether or not he was being suggestive, I initially gave him the benefit of the doubt, even though he had tried to massage my shoulders on more than one occasion. Maybe he just has good fashion sense? I thought weakly. After all, I was a vision that day in an absolutely adorable cap-sleeved, scoop-necked, plum colored angora pullover. I was itchy, but damn did I look cute.

El Estúpido: "Yeah, um, you fill it out... real niiice." I kid you not, he actually made a "wax on, wax off" motion with his hands as he said this. Eyes directly on my tits the whole time. Oh, hell no.

Me: "Eyes up here, tard."

El Estúpido: {eyes continue to linger}

Me: {snapping fingers} "HEY!" His head snapped up. "Believe it or not, I am aware that I have breasts. All women have them. We live with them every day. We don't need them pointed out to us. If you do that again, I will personally drag your ass to Human Resources, where you can relive the joy that is sexual harassment education."

El Estúpido: {shocked, flustered and defensive} "Well, god! It's just a compliment! Don't be so sensitive!"

Me: "It's not a compliment. Do I make note of how you fill out your pants? Cut the crap."

El Estúpido: {storms off angrily}

It gets better, dear readers. I did not, (as I certainly had the right to do) run to the department director to complain about this incident. I wasn't freaked out, I wasn't ashamed, I wasn't afraid that I wouldn't be believed. I just have a policy of handling such things on my own at first, then taking it further if the behavior doesn't change, or escalates.

Believe it or not, El Más Estúpido immediately ran to our boss...to whine that Yours Truly was being mean.

El Estúpido: "Waaaaaah! Ginger's a bitch! She won't put up with me commenting on her boobies! Make her! Make her!"

El Jéfe Gay Male Boss: {incredulous} "DUDE. Are you kidding me? You do not speak to anyone that way. It is a flagrant violation of company policy. What is wrong with you? Do it again and you're out of here."

El Estúpido: "But...but...bros before hos, right? Right??"

El Jéfe: "Consider this a warning."

El Estúpido: {whines}

El Jéfe: {scowls}

El Estúpido: {sulks}

Ginger: {yawns}

There you have it. I can't make this stuff up, poppets. I'll tell you what, a supervisor who "gets it" is worth his or her weight in gold. This kind of thing goes on all the damn time, and I have worse stories. Yes, things have improved in the last few decades, but anybody who proclaims that women have achieved equality in corporate America must be working in the darkest corner of the boiler room in an underground bunker, with his head up his ass.

Equality means Thou Shalt Not Reduce Thy Coworker To A Collection Of Body Parts. Here endeth the lesson.

Sad little boys and the women they heckle

Three days ago, I got this charming email from some dude called Tom. The subject line said "Bacon":

You say you work and "date" in L.A....I'm sure you mean "pork" the guys and therein lies the problem with your whole life.

Lordy Lord. The stench of self-satisfaction coming off of that message reeks to high heaven.

I have to say that when I read this email, I laughed out loud...and then forwarded it to most of my friends, who laughed even harder. "Bacon" is most definitely the best subject line for that email, since any guy who would send this kind of message to a complete stranger is a total pig.

This guy has no knowledge whatsoever of my sexual history, and there won't be any details about it on this site. That's not my style; I'm private about that. I started this blog because I've had so many funny/crazy encounters with men that friends and family started to beg me to write them down. So far, blogging has been really fun for me; I'm Irish to the core, and my people love nothing better than to tell a good story. Dear Readers, why do some men always stoop to the "attack her sexuality" low? If she's secure enough in herself to *gasp* enjoy sex when she wants, with whom she wants, call her a whore! If she's secure enough in herself to *gasp* go for an extended period of time without dancing the horizontal boogie, call her a prude! Such women are unnatural and must be pilloried! Jesus tapdancing Christ, Tom, this is 2006! The Madonna/Whore dichotomy is so 1326. Catch up to the 21st century, already.

But, but, but...we can't have women freely enjoying their own bodies, or taking a break from sex whenever they want! Anarchy will surely ensue! The sky will fall! Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together - mass hysteria!* Innocent Readers, that kind of self esteem is so offensive that it's enough to make me clutch my pearls and faint from the vapors. NOT.

Dear Tom, I am not angry with you. Really. You labor painfully under the delusion that all women fall into one of two camps: sluts and prudes - and therein lies the problem with your whole life. Each woman is an individual, whose constantly evolving sexual history is uniquely shaped by many factors that affected her directly, not you. If you would back away from the porn surfing for just a minute, you would understand that.

Besides, I have a feeling that if I were a man, and you thought that I had "porked" everything within a 100-mile radius, you'd probably hi-five me. Asshat.

*Quoted from Ghostbusters (1984)

Till dessert do us part

About six months ago, I went out with a guy called Andy. He had been interested by my online profile; he was very complimentary, seemed to have a healthy sense of humor, and to my great relief, was able to write in complete sentences (a skill which eludes many of my suitors). Andy lived in Long Beach, and I'm in West Hollywood; we couldn't decide on a place to meet halfway, so Andy decided to drive out to meet me in my neighborhood.

Although we hadn't yet met in person, Andy wanted to take me to dinner. For reasons that I explained in a previous post, I don't like being taken out to dinner by men I've just met. I guess Andy had caught me at a weak moment; he convinced me, saying that he'd be coming out right after work. It was a long drive, and he'd be hungry. That sounded reasonable enough. I insisted on a casual, inexpensive atmosphere, and he agreed. We made plans to meet on a Thursday evening.

I had given Andy directions to North End Pizza, a small, cozy pizza parlor/restaurant a few blocks from my apartment building. I figured we could have a few slices and drinks and get to know each other. He seemed ok with that; the place is very cute, and it's got a surprisingly large menu for such a small joint. When the waitress came over to take our order, Andy asked for a glass of wine, but North End didn't serve it; I can't remember whether they were out, or if they just don't have a liquor license. I'm not much of a drinker, so I didn't care, but Andy wanted to drink. We bailed on North End and walked about three blocks to another small Italian restaurant that serves alcohol.

Andy ordered his wine, and we split a salad to start. The conversation was going well at first - we talked about our careers, where we had traveled, where we were from, his kids (he has two). Normal first date chatter. But as we talked, Andy got four full refills of wine - before our food showed up. As we ate, he drank three more. He didn't seem to be enjoying the wine with the meal; it was more like he was knocking them back - guzzling more than drinking. Yeah, I know some men can hold a lot of liquor, but we're talking about a one hour stretch of time here, and Andy wasn't a very big guy. And, really, doesn't anyone care about first impressions anymore?

I asked him if he'd be ok to drive; I certainly wasn't going to have a complete stranger asking to crash on my couch because he'd gotten sloppy drunk at dinner. Andy insisted that he was fine, that he'd had a long week and just wanted to "relax".

"Why so tense?" I asked. Eight glasses of merlot in forty-five minutes is a lot of relaxation, and Andy still seemed a little jittery (readers, I sure do attract the nervous ones, don't I?). He'd already explained to me that he was going through a career change, but he was happy about that. "What else is going on?"

"Well, my wife and I just separated," he replied. "I left the house this week."

"You...this week??" I was stunned. "Your profile says that you're 'divorced'."

"Yeah, well, we're going to get a divorce." He went on to explain that he was flopping at a cousin's place while pondering his next move.

"Well, Andy, maybe you shouldn't be dating." I was incredulous. Readers, I don't "do" married, for all of the obvious reasons. This guy had been separated for about two seconds. Walking out the door doesn't end your marriage; it takes a little more work than that. Yes, I know that I have no personal experience with this, but I've watched plenty of people go through it; it's a bit of a process. Plus, in this case, there were children involved.

"Yeah...well, I want to move on," said Andy, with a meaningful grin (as he started on his ninth glass of wine). Dude, are you kidding me? Half your stuff is still with your wife, the other half is in boxes at your cousin's, and I'm suppressing an urge to offer you a funnel for that wine. Thankfully, we were just about done with our meal by then. I changed the subject; we talked pleasantly, and I made no further mention of the fact that I was, for all intents and purposes, on a date with a married man. I walked Andy back to his car to say goodbye and then walked home, shaking my head and wondering what, exactly, God wants from me.

The next morning, I wrote Andy an email:
"Hi Andy, thank you for coming out to meet me for dinner. I always enjoy meeting new people, and you were great to talk to. However, I do feel that we're at different places in our lives right now, and just aren't compatible. I do wish you the best. Ginger."

He wrote back, later that day:
"Yeah, Ginger, it was nice to meet you too. I'm kind of disappointed that you don't want to see me again, but I can understand your viewpoint. I guess I should have lied, huh? Ha ha. Well, good luck. Andy."

I'm always amazed at people who jump right back into dating when the dead body of their previous relationship is barely cold. Maybe Andy's marriage had been dead for years. I can't judge that, and I'll never know. But I just couldn't hazard a second date with a Andy. All that baggage would be too damn heavy, and my liquor cabinet is too small!

Sir Ass-A-Lot

Reasons that I love living in Los Angeles? It never snows here. It never gets deathly cold. That's so great for me; I've been an avid walker for about 16 years now. It is my favorite form of exercise, because it clears the mind as well as burning some calories. I prefer to walk outside instead of on a treadmill, to breathe the air and feel the breeze and the sun on my face. I'm in the habit of taking walks in the morning on weekends; it gets me out of bed and gets my day going. With the weather in LA as it is, I get to take my walks all year round!

So, on a very warm and sunny Saturday morning in August 2004, I rolled out of bed at around 9:30, washed my face, put on a pair of black shorts and a grey zip-up hoodie, gathered my bed hair in a ponytail and slicked on some lipgloss (as my mother used to say, "You never know who you'll run into"). I laced up my sneakers, and my iPod and I were out the door.

I'd been walking for about 20 minutes, and was halfway down a particularly pretty, tree-lined street when I noticed a tall African-American man walking towards me. He was about 6'2", built, dressed in a fitted t-shirt, jeans and a worn baseball cap. He was gorgeous.

He smiled as he approached me, and I thought, is he smiling at someone behind me? Because I don't exactly stop traffic right after I've rolled out of bed. I tried to sort of casually look over my shoulder, like I was fixing my hood. Nope, nobody behind me. So now he's smiling at me and stopping to talk, and I look like I've got some kind of neck twitch. Fantastic.

So Gorgeous asks me, "Hey, sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for the Smiths' house, do you know where that is?"

"Oh, no," I replied, "I don't live around here. Just on a walk. Sorry," while thinking wow, you are even hotter up close.

"Have a nice day," I said, and started to walk away, when Gorgeous stopped me. "Um, actually," he said, "I was just driving by, and I saw you, and you were so cute that I pulled over and tried to find some way to say hello."

"Oh, really?" I said, and couldn't help breaking into a big smile. "Well, that's pretty gutsy of you. I'm flattered."

"I'm Kareem," he said, extending his hand.

"Ginger," I responded, shaking it.

We chatted for a few minutes. Kareem was also from my hometown, New York; in fact, he had grown up in an area where my dad's parents had lived. He was funny; despite the fact that we were total strangers, we talked easily. The whole situation felt pretty natural. He asked if he could see me again. We walked to his car, and I gave him my cell phone number.

As I walked away, I couldn't believe my luck. I'm generally pretty guarded about my personal safety (for reasons that you will soon discover, dear readers). I wouldn't normally stop to talk to a man I didn't know while on one of my walks, but this felt different. We were in broad daylight on a busy street, and his whole vibe was just...comfortable. He was cute and funny! He actually seemed down-to-earth! I have to admit to entertaining a vision of the two of us telling our curly-haired, green-eyed, cafe-au-lait-skinned children about the day that Daddy spotted Mommy while he was driving one morning, and was so smitten that he just had to introduce himself. I am generally not one to put the cart before the proverbial horse, but I've observed, in my short life, that Great Couples always have a Great Meeting Story. This one could potentially rank up there with the best of them! Hey, you never know.

Later that afternoon, I was having lunch at an outdoor cafe with my friend Donnetta. We had just been served our drinks, and she needed to use the ladies' room. Just as she left the table, my phone rang. It was Kareem. I was surprised that he'd called me so soon, but I can't say I wasn't pleased. "Hey," he said, "I couldn't wait to talk to you again, Ginger. I'm so glad you stopped to talk to me this morning."

"So am I," I replied, and I meant it. "So what's up?"

"Well," he said, "I just had to let you know, that as you walked away, you made my day, because of that ass. It is just a beautiful thing."

"Um. Uh, my ass??" I laughed. I figured he must be joking, so I played along. "Yeah, it has special powers, it can do that."

"Girl," he continued, "you've got an onion."

"An "onion"? What exactly is an onion?" I knew I would regret asking.

Kareem filled me in: "An onion is a butt so fine it makes a grown man wanna CRY, girl."

Okay, I was at a loss on this one. For those of you who have never laid eyes on me, I am Irish. Caucasian. Translation: I am white. I do not have a trunk, and if I did, I would not have any junk to fill it with. Now, I have never put much stock in racial stereotypes, and I'm well aware that there are lots of bootylicious white women out there. But no one, of any race, will ever mistake me for J.Lo. I was also more than a bit thrown off that Kareem, whom I had met barely 8 hours previously, was extolling the virtues of my posterior before we'd even been on a proper date. Don't get me wrong, I like a nice ass. If I see an attractive dude, and I am able to sneak a subtle peek at his cakes, I will. The thing is, I won't be gushing to any guy about his butt unless we're already dating. I didn't mind that Kareem had enjoyed the view; you've got to be attracted to someone if you're going to date them! That's important. But, guys – talking to a woman about her ass before you've gotten to know her at all just might make her feel like a piece of meat.

I wanted to give him the chance to back it up a bit. "Well, Kareem, thanks," I said in a more serious tone, "but there is a little bit more to me than that." Maybe he was nervous, or just trying to make me laugh. He assured me that he wanted to get to know the rest of me, and I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. We agreed to meet at Il Gelato, one of my favorite spots on Melrose, on the following Thursday night.

At the time, I was taking a Thursday night bellydancing class at a small Melrose Ave. studio. It had become my routine to go to Il Gelato afterwards for a cup of the most delicious chocolate gelato I had ever tasted. So, that Thursday after class, I changed back into my street clothes, packed my dance bag and walked the three blocks over.

Kareem was waiting outside, dressed like he had just come from the gym; he was wearing a Gold's Gym tank top, poofy zebra-striped bodybuilder pants, and a do-rag. We hugged.

"I was really looking forward to seeing you, Ginger," he said. A good start! I was relieved. "Well, thanks for joining me, Mr. Fitness America," I joked as we headed into the cafe.

"Yeah, I just came from working out," he said. "It was my day to do my abs. My stomach feels really tight right now. Just really tight, you know? My abs are totally worked out."

"Uh huh." I have to say, dear readers, that I don't really care whether the guy I'm dating looks like Mr. Universe or not, so long as he can keep up with me. "I don't really go to the gym. I'd rather be outside, or take dance classes, but some people really love weights; that's cool." I ordered my usual chocolate gelato. "Are you going to get anything?"

"Naw." Kareem waved his hand in a "no thanks" gesture. "I just worked out so much, my abs are so tight, you know? Just so tight. I don't think I could fit any food down, my stomach is SO tight." He kept rubbing his flat belly in a circular motion.

"Yeah, you said." I was starting to realize that Kareem's obsession with body parts might be all-encompassing. "Well, let's sit down outside! It's nice out tonight." I paid for my gelato, and we grabbed a small table on the sidewalk - with Kareem, all the while, going on and on about his SUPER. TIGHT. ABS.

"So," I asked him, "what do you like to do, besides work out?"

"Well, enough about me," he said, "let's talk about that ass of yours."

"Um. Let's not," I tried to joke, desperately trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Everybody's got a butt, I sit on mine all day at work – it's really not that exciting."

Kareem would not be deterred. "You know, your ass is super tight. Most black men like something that I call a 'slab-ass' – it's wide and flat, and jiggly." He made hand motions to illustrate - use your imagination. "A slab ass is just gross. I like your high, firm ass."

"Uh huh. What do you do for work?" I refused to give up. There must be more to this guy! We had a Great Meeting Story! Where did Kareem go, and who was ths ass-obsessed musclehead sitting opposite me? What happened to the slightly shy, funny guy who hit on me last Saturday??

So, Kareem started talking about himself - and didn't stop, or take a breath, or let me speak for about 20 minutes. During that agonizing diatribe, I learned the following:

• It's very tough to "muscle up" from 195lbs to 205lbs. (It takes a lot of lifting and steak, in case anyone cares.)
• He trains in 3 different kinds of martial arts, just in case he winds up in "a September 11 situation". (Okay, Bruce Willis.)
• He can "take out 3 to 4 guys at a time, easy". (Well, thanks for letting me know you're a steroid abuser early on in the relationship, dude.)
• Jews are bad tippers, because the wives control their husband's money, and won't let the husbands leave good tips. Also, Jews hate black people. (Since my friends list looks like the UN roster, this is news to me.)
• He was a bouncer at a bar/restaurant in Beverly Hills, but took offense to being called a bouncer – he preferred "Head of Security". (Yeah, because when the rich, old people who eat there get rowdy, it takes a big man to throw them into the alley out back.)
• Besides my ass, he also liked my eyes, calves and smile (AGAIN with the body parts! I wouldn't have minded the eyes and smile compliments, but I was already too weirded out.)

It was a painful 20 minutes, during which I said almost nothing, ate my gelato and basically wished I were someplace, anyplace, else. To top it all off, when Kareem finally put a cork in it, he said, "So, you're shy, huh?"

!!!!

Dear readers, you may have surmised by now that I am rarely at a loss for words. I had nothing to say to Sir Ass-A-Lot because I COULDN'T GET A WORD IN EDGEWISE, and finally gave up. Finished with my gelato, I jumped ship as gracefully as I could. "Hey, Kareem, this has been really fun," I lied, "but I have a Really Important Meeting with a Really Important Client early tomorrow morning. I have to go." Kareem had not shown one shred of interest in any aspect of my life besides my ass; I just wanted to get out of there.

I told Kareem he didn't have to walk me to my car, but he insisted on it. "I'm gonna hook up with you on Saturday," he informed me. "We're gonna have a movie marathon and I'll bring over all kinds of stuff that I've cooked and we'll curl up." I couldn't believe it – he thought we'd had a great date! I was mortified.

We got to my car. He was leaning in for a kiss. Open mouth. Way open – he looked like a goldfish gasping for air. "Well, goodnight, Kareem," I said, and dodged his mouth. I was backed up against my car, so his wet lips wound up in my hairline, near my right temple. Blech! My onion and I quickly ducked into my car and drove off.

So much for my Great Meeting Story!