Show Some Respect:The Harassment Files, Vol. 1
First of all, let me make one thing clear: Most of the time, sexual harassment is no laughing matter. It's manipulative, degrading, and just plain gross. And, for all the women I know living in Baltimore -- regardless of their shape, size, age or ethnicity -- it's a regular part of life. We get hollered, honked and stared at just walking down the street all the damn time. Usually, it's a drive-by sort of thing, and the perpetrator is gone before you can turn around and say, "stop harassing women!" That's what we were taught to do by Marty, our pint-sized turtle-necked bad-assed safety instructor at orientation. So, before I go on, I'd like to issue a cyber-statement to all the horn-honking holla'ers out there who -- I'm sure -- have this blog bookmarked and filed under "Efron, other fans of" :
Stop harassing women. No one likes it. Show some respect!
Did I do it right, Marty? It might not count if it's on the internet. Oh well. All you non-harassers can bust that puppy out in real life whenever you run into someone who wants you to know they wish they were that bike you're riding.
Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I feel comfortable saying that, sometimes? It's a little bit of a laughing matter. You'll see what I mean.
Phew. That was a lot of ado. Let's get on to this edition of The Harassment Files!
Case 1
My housemate Morgan and I are waiting at the bus stop. Now, you should know that the Maryland Transit Association is pretty much Baltimore's swinginest scene for the city's most eligible creepsters. Ladies? Are you looking for that rare special someone who knows all the words to "Calle Ocho" by Pitbull to AND can rock a mullet so hard his achy breaky heart just won't understand? Look no further than route 13. Morgan and I have met some very special gentlemen there in the past, but we have no idea that, today, we are about to encounter someone who will put all the other creepy Casanovas to shame.
He stands in front of us with his eyes half shut. This is where he notices a woman standing about 20 feet away. He's probably swaying in the breeze like that because he's drunk on her beauty. For the purposes of this story, I'm going to have to describe the lady now. I apologize in advance: She's very short -- certainly no taller than five feet. Other than her height, her most distinctive characteristic is her...um...rather...well endowed rear end. In plain language, she's got what kids these days are calling a "badonkadonk." (Please don't tell Minnesota I said that. I promise never to do it again.) It's this badonkadonk (Damn. Sorry, it slipped out) that appears to inspire our skeezy Shakespeare -- or, Skezespeare if you will -- the most. He begins stream of poetic admiration. She's far enough away so she can't hear him, but Morgan and I sure can:
"Mmm. Mmm mmm. Ooh shorty. Sugar baby. Yeah chocolate...chocolate gumdrop. Mmm."
Clearly, this man is a wordsmith.
His platitudes continue for a little while. Eventually, he decides to approach her. We can't hear what she says in response, but judging by her body language, it's probably something along the lines of, "Oh my gosh. That's the most shockingly beautiful thing anyone's any said to me. 'chocolate gumdrop'. It rolls off my tongue like a silken pearl. It's so beautiful that I can't be around you anymore. I need some time to be alone with all these new feelings."
Skezespeare obliges. He cleaves himself from the side of his new muse and resumes his earlier position in front of Morgan and I. Poetry continues to spew from his lips:
"You don't want to talk to me? That's alright. I'll just have a conversation with yo' butt.
The bus arrives. Me, Morgan, Skezespeare and Chocolate Gumdrop all get on. Skezespeare is far from finished.
"Mmm. That ass goes on for days. You could take a vacation on that ass. Oh sugar baby. Gumdrop. You remind me of one of those people who sing, (He begins actually singing in a munchkin voice) 'the lollipop guild...'"
Now, how she hears these musical overtures and is still able to resist jumping this guy right then and there will forever remain a mystery to me. But Morgan and I watch her exit the bus a mere three stops later, where she turns her back on the 13 and her devoted suitor forever. They were like two Baltimore city buses passing in the night, I guess.
Case 2
I am walking away from the opening of a new neighborhood restaurant with a plate full of free pizza and samosas. When you're living on a volunteer's stipend, free food is pretty much the best thing that can happen to you on any given day, so needless to say, I was pretty jazzed. When I pass a middle-aged man who appears to be eying my lunch, I excitedly tell him where he can get some of his own. It only dawns on me later that encouraging a perfect stranger of the opposite sex to get some "tasty fritters" may be sending the wrong message. Also, it probably wasn't the samosas he was eying. He stops and introduces himself. I am new to the neighborhood and still trying to get a feel for the place, so I figure it can't hurt to chat for a bit. He can probably tell I'm in a hurry, so he doesn't waste much time getting his game on.
"Here's my card," he says, "I'm a painter here in the neighborhood."
"Oh thanks!" I reply, "Here's my card." I relish the opportunity to hand one to him since I have a box of about ten-bajillion brand-new business cards sitting on my desk. "I'm working out of the Church down the street."
"I can call you at this number?"
"Yep. that's my Work number."
He gives me a sly smile. "What's your cell phone number?"
"Aah you can't have my cell phone number."
His gives a sheepish, yoooou got me! shrug and says, "What? Your boyfriend wouldn't like that?"
"Um, no." I say thinking, my boyfriend would, indeed, NOT like that. But even if he would -- even if this was an alternate swingin' seventies universe where my boyfriend had a Burt Reynolds mustache to match his man-perm, and I had Farrah hair and eight pairs of polyester bell-bottoms, and we believed in free love and went to kinky poolside key parties every weekend -- I still don't think I'd want to give you my personal number.
My pizza has stopped steaming. I think he knows that he's losing me, because he attempts pull an advanced maneuver: "Would you like to see some of my work?"
Before I can say anything, he pulls a photograph of a painting out of his wallet. Whether or not this man actually painted the picture in the photo is unclear, but it's also irrelevant to the story I'm telling. At first glance, It looks to me like a generic pharaoh standing in front of a generic pyramid. I am quite wrong. "This is Michael Jackson." my new friend the painter explains, "See? I painted him here in ancient Egypt."
Ah, yes. Now I see it. The aviator glasses probably should have been my first clue. Also, I don't seem to recall the Jerry Curl being King Tut's hairstyle of choice. He continues, "This was before he changed skin colors. That's just not right, going black and white and black and white. Not the way God intended it. You know?" He consults my business card, "You do know. You work at a church."
"Mmm hmm." I nod. I don't recall the subject of "skin color changing" coming up in confirmation class, but it's possible I was sick that day. The cheese on my pizza is starting to do that gross congealing thing cold melted cheese does.
I try to inch away, but my new friend has a few more stops to pull out. He says, "You have a very nice face. I would like to paint a face like yours."
I have the simultaneous urge to roll my eyes and laugh awkwardly. Awkward laughter wins.
He continues, "I can tell, it will be good when you are old too. When you are 50, your face will still be nice."
I kind of want to ask him if he says that to all the girls, but I'm sensing an escape window I don't want to pass up, "Um...thanks. Say, I better get back to the church! Lots of work to do."
My new friend shrugs and continues on his way. He doesn't seem too disappointed to see me go. There are plenty of fish in the sea and he's got time. After all, he's not your average player in the game of love. He's an artist.
...And that's it for this obscenely long edition of the harassment files! Sorry, didn't expect to waste so very much of your time. And, I know, I know, it's been about a week and a half since my last entry, but that's a heck of a lot better than six months! We're doing baby steps here. Also, Chris told me it was OK if I was a few days late, so kindly direct all your hate mail to him.
I'm trying to stick to my guns, even if it doesn't seem like it. Expect to hear from me again in seven days or less!
Stop harassing women. No one likes it. Show some respect!
Did I do it right, Marty? It might not count if it's on the internet. Oh well. All you non-harassers can bust that puppy out in real life whenever you run into someone who wants you to know they wish they were that bike you're riding.
Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I feel comfortable saying that, sometimes? It's a little bit of a laughing matter. You'll see what I mean.
Phew. That was a lot of ado. Let's get on to this edition of The Harassment Files!
Case 1
My housemate Morgan and I are waiting at the bus stop. Now, you should know that the Maryland Transit Association is pretty much Baltimore's swinginest scene for the city's most eligible creepsters. Ladies? Are you looking for that rare special someone who knows all the words to "Calle Ocho" by Pitbull to AND can rock a mullet so hard his achy breaky heart just won't understand? Look no further than route 13. Morgan and I have met some very special gentlemen there in the past, but we have no idea that, today, we are about to encounter someone who will put all the other creepy Casanovas to shame.
He stands in front of us with his eyes half shut. This is where he notices a woman standing about 20 feet away. He's probably swaying in the breeze like that because he's drunk on her beauty. For the purposes of this story, I'm going to have to describe the lady now. I apologize in advance: She's very short -- certainly no taller than five feet. Other than her height, her most distinctive characteristic is her...um...rather...well endowed rear end. In plain language, she's got what kids these days are calling a "badonkadonk." (Please don't tell Minnesota I said that. I promise never to do it again.) It's this badonkadonk (Damn. Sorry, it slipped out) that appears to inspire our skeezy Shakespeare -- or, Skezespeare if you will -- the most. He begins stream of poetic admiration. She's far enough away so she can't hear him, but Morgan and I sure can:
"Mmm. Mmm mmm. Ooh shorty. Sugar baby. Yeah chocolate...chocolate gumdrop. Mmm."
Clearly, this man is a wordsmith.
His platitudes continue for a little while. Eventually, he decides to approach her. We can't hear what she says in response, but judging by her body language, it's probably something along the lines of, "Oh my gosh. That's the most shockingly beautiful thing anyone's any said to me. 'chocolate gumdrop'. It rolls off my tongue like a silken pearl. It's so beautiful that I can't be around you anymore. I need some time to be alone with all these new feelings."
Skezespeare obliges. He cleaves himself from the side of his new muse and resumes his earlier position in front of Morgan and I. Poetry continues to spew from his lips:
"You don't want to talk to me? That's alright. I'll just have a conversation with yo' butt.
The bus arrives. Me, Morgan, Skezespeare and Chocolate Gumdrop all get on. Skezespeare is far from finished.
"Mmm. That ass goes on for days. You could take a vacation on that ass. Oh sugar baby. Gumdrop. You remind me of one of those people who sing, (He begins actually singing in a munchkin voice) 'the lollipop guild...'"
Now, how she hears these musical overtures and is still able to resist jumping this guy right then and there will forever remain a mystery to me. But Morgan and I watch her exit the bus a mere three stops later, where she turns her back on the 13 and her devoted suitor forever. They were like two Baltimore city buses passing in the night, I guess.
Case 2
I am walking away from the opening of a new neighborhood restaurant with a plate full of free pizza and samosas. When you're living on a volunteer's stipend, free food is pretty much the best thing that can happen to you on any given day, so needless to say, I was pretty jazzed. When I pass a middle-aged man who appears to be eying my lunch, I excitedly tell him where he can get some of his own. It only dawns on me later that encouraging a perfect stranger of the opposite sex to get some "tasty fritters" may be sending the wrong message. Also, it probably wasn't the samosas he was eying. He stops and introduces himself. I am new to the neighborhood and still trying to get a feel for the place, so I figure it can't hurt to chat for a bit. He can probably tell I'm in a hurry, so he doesn't waste much time getting his game on.
"Here's my card," he says, "I'm a painter here in the neighborhood."
"Oh thanks!" I reply, "Here's my card." I relish the opportunity to hand one to him since I have a box of about ten-bajillion brand-new business cards sitting on my desk. "I'm working out of the Church down the street."
"I can call you at this number?"
"Yep. that's my Work number."
He gives me a sly smile. "What's your cell phone number?"
"Aah you can't have my cell phone number."
His gives a sheepish, yoooou got me! shrug and says, "What? Your boyfriend wouldn't like that?"
"Um, no." I say thinking, my boyfriend would, indeed, NOT like that. But even if he would -- even if this was an alternate swingin' seventies universe where my boyfriend had a Burt Reynolds mustache to match his man-perm, and I had Farrah hair and eight pairs of polyester bell-bottoms, and we believed in free love and went to kinky poolside key parties every weekend -- I still don't think I'd want to give you my personal number.
My pizza has stopped steaming. I think he knows that he's losing me, because he attempts pull an advanced maneuver: "Would you like to see some of my work?"
Before I can say anything, he pulls a photograph of a painting out of his wallet. Whether or not this man actually painted the picture in the photo is unclear, but it's also irrelevant to the story I'm telling. At first glance, It looks to me like a generic pharaoh standing in front of a generic pyramid. I am quite wrong. "This is Michael Jackson." my new friend the painter explains, "See? I painted him here in ancient Egypt."
Ah, yes. Now I see it. The aviator glasses probably should have been my first clue. Also, I don't seem to recall the Jerry Curl being King Tut's hairstyle of choice. He continues, "This was before he changed skin colors. That's just not right, going black and white and black and white. Not the way God intended it. You know?" He consults my business card, "You do know. You work at a church."
"Mmm hmm." I nod. I don't recall the subject of "skin color changing" coming up in confirmation class, but it's possible I was sick that day. The cheese on my pizza is starting to do that gross congealing thing cold melted cheese does.
I try to inch away, but my new friend has a few more stops to pull out. He says, "You have a very nice face. I would like to paint a face like yours."
I have the simultaneous urge to roll my eyes and laugh awkwardly. Awkward laughter wins.
He continues, "I can tell, it will be good when you are old too. When you are 50, your face will still be nice."
I kind of want to ask him if he says that to all the girls, but I'm sensing an escape window I don't want to pass up, "Um...thanks. Say, I better get back to the church! Lots of work to do."
My new friend shrugs and continues on his way. He doesn't seem too disappointed to see me go. There are plenty of fish in the sea and he's got time. After all, he's not your average player in the game of love. He's an artist.
...And that's it for this obscenely long edition of the harassment files! Sorry, didn't expect to waste so very much of your time. And, I know, I know, it's been about a week and a half since my last entry, but that's a heck of a lot better than six months! We're doing baby steps here. Also, Chris told me it was OK if I was a few days late, so kindly direct all your hate mail to him.
I'm trying to stick to my guns, even if it doesn't seem like it. Expect to hear from me again in seven days or less!
posted by Caitlin at 4:58 PM
3 Comments:
I thoroughly enjoyed this post, even if simply arriving at your blog was kind of creeper-ish to begin with.
Excellent, Muffin Face, excellent! Try to stay away from the creepers though, kay? And avoid giving them your phone number -- good instinct, there.
Caitlin, I love you. I read this aloud to my roommate, who is grading papers, and it made us feel very very happy (to hear that you are being sexually harassed, I guess). She was also very amused by the fact that I could emulate your awkward laugh. Has it been seven days yet?
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