Street Harassment Ain’t No Thang (and other lies that I tell myself, in order to avoid having, like, emotions)

“Hey, hey girl. Sit down. I’m givin’ you my seat.”

This from a skinny man on the train who was, apparently, determined to get my attention. I was wearing my biggest shades and my headphones and toting my usual twenty-pound Show Bag*, just like any other day on the red line. Let the record show that I was also looking pretty good, although it might have just been the new dress and unexpectedly good hair day going to my head.

For whatever reason – possibly because I was only four stops from my destination, possibly because I didn’t feel like giving this guy an excuse to keep talking to me – I just didn’t feel like sitting. So I smiled, shook my head, and went back to looking away and out the window.

It would seem that, for some people, this is a huge insult.

Or so you would think, as I spent the rest of my train ride being loudly and insistently asked to take my headphones out, whether I was ‘looking for a man’, whether I was a ‘good and decent woman’ who knew how to treat one, and, finally, loudest of all, whether I was ‘one of those dykes.’

I tried to think of something better to share with you today, but truth is, it simply doesn't exist.

You're welcome.

An Open Letter to Harvey, the Nonconsensual Roommate

Dear Harvey,

Let me open by saying that of course, I realize that this situation isn’t your fault. Winter is coming, after all, and a nice warm apartment like ours, full of bookshelves to hide behind and absent any nasty old cats, must have been awfully tempting. I understand where you’re coming from. Truly, I do.

Unfortunately, we’ve discussed it between the two of us (that would be, Us, the two people who actually signed the lease), and we regret to inform you that you are no longer welcome on the premises. I mean, let’s be honest – you were never welcome in the first place. But it’s very definite and official now: we are going to need you to leave.

So Apparently Being An Adult Means You Can’t Ride in the Grocery Cart OR The Laundry Basket, aka This Sucks, and To Top It All Off, the Laundromat Doesn’t Have WiFi

Happy Thor’s Day, people of the internet!

META-THOR.

Full disclosure - I am actually writing this ahead of time, on Wednesday. Also, in case you hadn’t guessed, I am sitting at the laundromat down the street from our apartment, waiting for my clothes to dry and being slowly and gently fleeced in the meantime. (It costs at least five dollars for us to do two weeks of laundry down here. Can you imagine? Five whole dollars. That’s almost as much as I paid in library fines yesterday.)

I still think apologies are stupid (but only most of the time)

When I was a kid, and having one of the (in retrospect, many) passive-aggressive-cold-war-turned-violent-blood-feud fights that my siblings and I used to engage in when we were all stuck at home yet sick to death of the sight of each other, I would often be ordered to ‘say sorry, or I’m telling!’

More often than not, if intimidation and/or psychological warfare had failed to force my victim to admit it was their own fault the whole time, I tended to turn pious. “But why should I say sorry?” I’d ask, folding my arms and shrugging, which was my pretend ‘let’s just level with each other’ stance. “I know I’m not sorry. You know I’m not sorry. Do you want me to tell a lie? Lying’s a sin, you know. I’m surprised you’re trying to get me to do that.”

Sometimes it worked (meaning, they gave up). Sometimes it didn't.