Have you ever been in a situation that you weren’t entirely sure how to handle, and it’s not until like 20 minutes later that you think of all the remarkably witty things you should’ve said?
That happens to me a lot.
But sometimes, the universe all comes together in the exact right way, at the exact right moment, to hand you the most epic of epic wins.
I recently touched on the subject of catcalling, including reposting a post written by someone I follow.
Steel was kind enough to inform me that the point of that post was, in all likelihood, lost on 90% of my male audience. He pointed out that his own first thought, when reading it, was, “Damn, where do I get this white shirt?”
Which, needless to say, was most assuredly not the point of the post. But he pointed out that men generally just don’t think that way.
And other comments made by other men seem to point to him being right.
Which made me wonder, “Alright, so what is an effective way to get that point across?”
Yea, and then the sky opened up, the angels began their heavenly chorus, and God said unto me, “Here ya go. Call it an early Christmas present.”
I was walking through the parking lot today, alone, when 2 black men walked past me. One of them turned and called after me, “Looking good in them jeans, babygirl. You like BBC?”
Without missing a beat, I turned and approached them, saying, “Hell yeah. Do you? I have the perfect BBC strapon that you’d look so fucking hot wrapped around.”
His expression was priceless, and his friend laughed and put his hand to his mouth in that “Ooooh, burn!” gesture that every young black man I’ve ever known seems to do exactly the same way.
Oh, but I wasn’t done. What day is complete without a little bit of sexual assault?
I was close enough that I took a step forward and reached for his junk, and put the creepiest smile I could muster on my face when he shoved me away.
“Come on, baby. You know you want it. Why dress so sexy if you don’t want to be looked at? Why sag your pants if you don’t want me to pull them down and shove my cock in?”
At this point he was genuinely creeped out, backing away and calling me a psycho bitch, along with some other creative names.
So I stopped and gave him a confused look. “What’s wrong with you? You have two holes, right? Why can’t I fuck them? What, are you some kind of prude?”
He let out a string of colorful words that almost made me crack a smile and ruin the whole facade, but I kept my composure.
“Oh, you mean you don’t exist just to make me horny?”
He said something along the lines of, “No, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Maybe don’t treat women like objects,” I told him. “You never know, the next one may be armed, and not nearly as nice as I am. She might not take no for an answer.”
He was still cursing and calling me names as I walked away, but I think I got my point across.
And I managed to wait until I got in my car with the doors and windows closed before giggling and squealing with delight.
I am beyond proud of myself. I couldn’t have handled that better if I’d planned it.
But here’s a reminder for those who may need it.
If you want to say hi or tell a woman she looks nice, you absolutely can. But do it politely. And for the love of all that is holy, stop fucking telling women to smile.
That always seems to cause the most problems. Men don’t understand why that’s offensive.
So I’ll break it down. Why is telling a strange woman on the street to smile offensive?
Well, why are you saying it to her?
“Because I want to get her attention, greet her, and tell her I hope she has a nice day.”
Alright, here’s how you do that: “Excuse me, miss. I’m sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to say hi, and I hope you have a nice day.”
“Because she looks like she’s having a rough day, and could use some cheering up.”
See above. Or ask her how her day is. Have you ever heard of resting bitch face? That condition where a woman’s neutral expression makes her look like an angry serial killer? She’s probably fine. But if she’s genuinely in a bad mood, and you genuinely think telling her to smile is going to lift her mood, then you genuinely need more help than I can offer.
But next time you’re depressed, or your mom dies, or your wife cheats on you with your brother and your sister, hit me up so I can tell you repeatedly to “cheer up.”
We’ll see how effective that is at lifting your mood.
“Because she’d look so much prettier if she smiled.”
M’kay, here’s the thing. You probably don’t realize it, but you’re an arrogant douchebag. Like, obnoxiously arrogant, with one hell of a superiority complex, and on some level, you actually do see her as an object.
How do I come to this conclusion? Well, let’s look at why you think that way. Why do you want her to smile?
So she’ll look more appealing to you. That’s the only reason. So her thoughts, her mood, her comfort is secondary in your mind to her ability to be aesthetically pleasing to you. Yes, my friend, that makes you a douche. Perhaps a well-meaning douche, unaware of how dickish and disrespectful (and sexist) you’re being, but when someone tells me to smile, that’s what it feels like.
It feels like I’m being told I don’t matter as a person, outside of that man’s opinion of my appearance. That whenever I go outside, I’m obligated to look pleasing to the men who see me, regardless of how I’m feeling or what I want.
And women are already told enough times, in enough ways, by enough people, that what we want doesn’t matter.
We actually received a pretty significant slap in the face recently, right here in Vegas.
We’re getting an NFL team. The Raiders are moving here.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am beyond excited to finally get an NFL team. I would’ve preferred the Broncos, but I honestly don’t even care. I’ll become a Raiders fan. I’ve lived here my whole life, and always wanted either an NFL team or an MLB team. All we have is a minor league baseball team (and I go to a few games every year, cuz it’s fun).
I remember I asked my dad when I was a kid why we don’t have a football team, and he replied that it was because of the gambling. So I wrote a letter to the governor asking him to stop gambling in Vegas so we could have an NFL team (give me a break, I was 7. And I actually wrote a few letters to politicians, and was super involved in the watered down version of politics I was capable of understanding, until a carelessly-worded letter to the President resulted in -and this is true- two members of the Secret Service showing up at my house to lecture me. Hell, I was nine. I didn’t even know you can’t say “bomb” on an airplane or “fire” in a movie theater at that point. It never even occurred to me that certain things cannot be included in a letter addressed to the President. Oh, but my mother loves telling that story at remarkably inappropriate times, to remarkably inappropriate people. Potential bosses do not need to know that story, m’kay?).
So I’m beyond stoked that we’re getting a team. Like, beyond stoked.
It’s not the team I’m upset-ish about. It’s the stadium. Specifically, it’s the paying for the building of the stadium.
I’ve been surrounded by moms for the last 5 years now. And the vast majority of them, to some degree, have protested or petitioned for better education in Nevada (you know, since we rank dead last in the country). One woman in particular has made it her mission ever since her kids were born. She attends meetings. She makes petitions. She writes letters. She makes phone calls.
For five years (that I’ve seen). And I’ve occasionally gone with her to these meetings. And the answer has always been the same. “Blah blah blah, budget crisis, we will seriously consider this significant issue, don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
When she found out that they were going to use tax dollars to pay for the stadium, she lost her shit. She created videos on Facebook to spread awareness, she put out both online petitions and petitions where she literally stood in parking lots to get people to sign her paper, she wrote tons of letters, she called the news stations, everything.
And when the funding was approved, it was so bad I had to unfollow her on Facebook.
But I can’t really blame her. Because based on the participation in meetings, fundraisers, and everything else pertaining to education, this is something women generally care about more than men. While football is something men generally care about more than women.
It felt like a slap in the face to me, and I barely put any effort into it. I’ve signed her petitions and gone to like 2 meetings and volunteered at fundraiser or two. That’s it. I homeschool my kid. I don’t have a horse in this race. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to her and all the other moms who do put quite a bit of effort into this.
For years. With nothing to show for it.
But we need almost a billion dollars for a football stadium, and that’s figured out in less than a year. It’s a shitty feeling, and yeah, as much as I would like to, I just can’t argue with her logic that it’s rooted in a sexist government.
She wants to go as far as protesting the stadium, up to and including handcuffing herself to a damn bulldozer. And while I share her frustration, I can’t really support her on that. I want the Raiders here. Which means I want the stadium. I want it built, like now. I don’t have a problem with them using a hotel tax to pay for it (although who wants to bet me that the tax doesn’t disappear once the stadium is completely paid for?).
It would just be nice if an issue women care about was occasionally given that same kind of attention.
Like the fact that Viagra was almost immediately made exempt from sales tax as a medical necessity (I’m not kidding), while birth control required years of lobbying and a law to be passed before it was given the same exemption. Kinda frustrating.
So we’re told, quite often, that we don’t matter, that what we want doesn’t matter. We really don’t need it walking down the street, too. You’re not being charming, or witty, or friendly. You’re just one more douche we have to deal with.