I Miss My Daddy (01/09/2015)
I woke up this morning with an ache I couldn't put a name too. I wasn't sick. I was well rested. I hadn't forgotten something important. But I felt bad. And then some silly song from a playlist I rarely listen to came on and I remembered all over again that my father is dead. And I was sobbing on the green line train. Sobbing so hard I couldn't even tell anyone why. But even if I could have, who would've believed me that after 20 years it can still hurt this bad.
I've always been what my parents called "high-strung." And when things were bad I could go to my father. And he'd point to his shoulder and say, "Put your head right here. And tell me." I'd tell him everything on my mind in no particular order of importance and he'd help me figure it out. It was a nice as it sounds. And I needed that a lot longer than the first 18 years of my life.
Growing up the only person I really believed loved me was my father. Just him. I now know my mother does, my siblings do, and I have cherished friends. But when I was kid, I felt like he was all I had. And when he died I was alone. The kind of alone that makes all the sounds too loud and laughter not make sense.
The problem is that I feel like the only person that could make me feel better right now about him being dead is him. I could put my head on his shoulder and say, "Daddy. I feel unmoored. Like I will never belong to anyone or anyplace. That you're the only man who ever thought I was worth loving. And I feel like I don't have enough spirit to keep trying. And I'll never be more than what I am. And I am small and unimportant." I feel like he could think of something to say. He was a compulsive liar so it likely would've been bullshit. But I would feel better.
My all time favorite book is The World According to Garp by John Irving. But the only good thing I can say about the movie adaption is the scene in which Garp and his wife are house hunting and moments after they decide to buy a house, it is hit by a plane. Of course his wife no longer wants it but he does.
T. S. Garp: We'll take the house. Honey, the chances of another plane hitting this house are astronomical. It's been pre-disastered. We're going to be safe here."
And that is how I feel about my life. I was 18 and I snuck out to have Chinese food with a Raeanne Pfeifer. And when I came home my brother told me that my dad was dead. Nothing in this life can ever break my heart like that again. Men can leave, I can fail, my body can ache and break. But my dad can't die twice. And sometimes that makes me brave. Which I guess is one of those silver linings I like to find.
I can't remember the last time I ended a conversation or said goodnight to someone without saying something nice. That's because this is the last exchange I had with my dad:
Dad: Do you want me to bring you anything back?
Me: No. I don't know. Maybe a Pepsi?
I didn't know the correct answer was, "Nothing but you. I want you to come home."
I pledge a more cheerful post next time,
The Merry Spinster
Black Banjo Gal (01/26/2015)
I play the banjo. Okay settle down now. No reason to laugh. I assure you it is a perfectly normal thing for a black woman to do. The banjo is essentially a West African instrument brought to this continent by slaves. Its association with rednecks and hillbillies is actually quite recent. Less than a hundred years. So simma down now.
I wanted to play the banjo the first time I saw Kermit the frog do it. And the second time I saw Steve Martin play. Which I guess means I admire frogs more than men.
Why did I wait 30 years to buy one and learn? Eh! I'm not perfect and sometimes I care too much what other people think. And my desire to play the banjo was a dirty little secret. Plus I am devoid of rhythm and anything approaching musicality. You see, I said I played the banjo. I did not say I played it well. I am actually quite atrocious at it. I coax the occasionally pleasant sound out of it, but I wouldn't necessarily call it "music." I knew I was going to be a lousy banjo player before I even picked up the instrument. I never play for other people and I insist on paying my teachers in cash like they're prostitutes or drug dealers. None of this lessens the love I have for the banjo.
Pete Seeger wrote on his banjo "This Machine Surrounds Hate and Forces It to Surrender." If I wrote on my banjo it would say, "This Machine Makes People Wish They Had Headphones."
The first song I ever wrote was titled, "G, D7, C." The lyrics?
G, D7, C
These are the only chords I know
The only chords I know
Learning more would be hard
Harder than making cheese
So I'll just keep playing these
G, D7, C
The only chords I know
On only my second day of playing the banjo I set my tuner to the wrong setting and broke two strings trying to tune it. One string hit me in the face and if I didn't wear glasses probably wouldn't taken out my eye. I am weirdly disappointed that it didn't. That would've been the best how I lost my eye story ever. A person would've asked me and I would've pointed at my eye and said, "Damndest thing, Hoss. Banjo injury. Don't miss it though. Wasn't even the good one. Only good for winking." I would of course say it in that homespun way to feed into the stereotype people have about banjo players.
Despite regarding myself as the worst banjo player currently picking and strumming I am in a band with my friends Audrey and Ali. Our band is called "Sister Squirrel" It is an old timey string band like the Carolina Chocolate Drops. And all of our songs are about feminism and crafting and boys we've kissed. And one is about how much we like talking to each other about poop. Someday we will play a backyard hootenanny and this will be our setlist:
1) Get outta my womb, Govt Man
2) Kissing Mike Something Irish
3) Crafting Misfit
4) Ball-headed Hotdog Eatin Man
5) Squirrel Sister, Sister Squirrel
6) I like to Poop
7) My Cat Ain't No Pussy
8) Dumb Dog, Sweet Dog
9) Super Soaker Period
My favorite black girl who plays the banjo is Rhiannon Giddens and she is a magical unicorn and I want to bake her banana bread so she knows how much I appreciate her music. This is her:
My banjo is named Owen. And he is nothing fancy. Just a Chinese Gibson knockoff. But he's mine. He's my own. My very Owen.
“The banjo is such a happy instrument--you can't play a sad song on the banjo - it always comes out so cheerful.”
― Steve Martin
Your banjo gal,
The Merry Spinster
Lizzie Borden: (Un)Merry Spinster (01/28/2015)
From time to time on this blog I discuss what I call a fellow "merry spinster." I define a merry spinster as a woman who has never married, who is for the most pretty okay with it, and who is doing something awesome with her life.
I have always struggled with worries that I have crossed the line between Mary Tyler Moore tossing her hat in the air in a moment of pure joy and independence, and Kathy Bates in Misery breaking some guy's legs so he can't leave. I think we can all agree to draw the line on the side of not murdering your parents because you want their money and to be free from their perceived tyranny.
Lizzie Borden was 32 when she was tried for killing her parents which definitely puts her square in the land of spinsters. And it was pretty safe to say she had virtually no prospects for marriage. Among her many motives for murder was her need to get out from under her parent's thumb. This was unfortunately in 1892 possible only though marriage. I am grateful for the fact that when I was ready to leave home I could do so without it being perceived as scandalous. Praise whatever deity or universal force that governs your life that you are free to live anywhere you can afford to pay the rent/mortgage. Be grateful for the door you can slam in your parent's face if want to. (Although, please be polite to your parents for goodness sakes. Hypothetically they fed, and clothed, and put a roof over your head for 18+ years. Don't slam your door in their faces unless they really, really, really have it coming.)
As someone who knows what it is like to feel desperate and crazed by circumstances beyond your control, allow me to say a few kind words about a long dead spinster who died an old maid.
* She was acquitted of the crime. And instead of slinking off to live anonymously she chose to stay in Fall River, MA and hold her head up high. That takes some pretty big ovaries.
* When she died she left $30,000 (approximately $550,000 in 2015) to the Fall River Animal Rescue league. She was an animal lover. Some of the best of us are.
Lizzie Borden was the very opposite of a merry spinster. She got down about her life. Did something awful and gave us all a bad name.
Yeah...You Can Just Keep That Glass Slipper, Prince Charming (08/15/2015)
So…I am trying to convince myself that the world is not full of disgusting toilet men. But I haven’t met a gentleman in a long time. Consequently, I am pretty much disgusted by all men lately. This is as you can imagine problematic for an unmarried woman who is exclusively attracted to men. I am sure the situation will eventually resolve itself. I’ll make the acquaintance of a man, and I won’t develop the sneaking suspicion that he is history’s worst monster. Men of planet Earth I will list your recent sins. J’Accuse!
* Dick pics: What in the ever loving holy fucking hell?!?!? Now I do not speak of sexting. I’ve done it. I didn’t care for it. And I doubt I would do it again. If you want to see my woman bits then there is an easy application process. (1) Tell me I’m pretty. I love that. (2) Buy me food (3) Do something that makes me smile (4) Kiss me well and often. (5) Request sexual contact through word or deed.
I think that is pretty standard. Do not ask me to send you a picture of my gear. And don't send me yours. Especially unsolicited. I hate to use words like “microaggression” and “assault” but that is what it feels like. Let me paint you a picture by illustrating how ubiquitous the dick pic has become. I met a guy at a party. He asked for my phone number so we could maybe hang out or something. I gave it to him. And a few days later the following exchange occurred.
o Dude: Hey girl. Watcha doin’
o The Merry Spinster: Watching the Giants game and making a summer salad
o Dude: (Picture of his semi-erect penis)
He annoyed me. I didn't find it sexy. And I couldn't enjoy my summer salad. And there were heirloom tomatoes in it too. The dick pic is in my opinion no different than old fashioned flashers hanging out in front of elementary schools jacking off at little girls. If you wouldn't do that. Don’t send a dick pic.
* Leering at Teenage Girls: During the summer Ballet West in conjunction with the University of Utah, hosts talented young advanced ballet dancers for an elite program. And every morning I would see many of the dancers on the train going from class to the dorms and other places. And I would also see disgusting men oogling CHILDREN. It was horrifying. These were skinny girls with their hair in buns wearing sweats in the July/August heat chattering away as teenagers do. And yet wolfish men of all stripes were drooling and staring. I was so grossed out that I couldn’t see straight. I asked a friend who I do not ordinarily find creepy about this and he claims, it’s unlikely any of those guys are pedophiles lusting after nubile flesh, so much as guys daydreaming about their teenage selves getting to be with that kind of girl. Nope. Doesn’t make it better. Still gross
* Oblivious Men: I am a member of a Sci-fi singles group. And it is mostly men. But the small number of women in the group are certifiably DTF (For the old folks that stands for DOWN TO FUCK) and yet no one is even dating let alone having sexy times. Because the men are oblivious and apparently none of them were in marching band. Allow me to explain. In most high schools the secret is that the kids having the most sex are in the marching band. They go on trips involving hotels, they learn to do interesting things with their mouths, and they are smart. Smart enough to know that everyone wants to bang, and if the cool kids don’t want to bang us, we’ll bang each other. This Sci-fi singles group I belong to is full of lonely people not getting laid, who could be getting laid if they wanted. But everyone is holding out hope that one of the superhot geeks and nerds they see on TV and on the internet will come along and bang their too fat/too thin/to shiny/too short/too tall/too whatever self. And it might happen...But while it isn't the girls in this group show up with our hair and makeup done and get ignored. If you can't be with Felicia Day, then love the one you're with.
Men of Planet Earth. I'm sure I'll love you again soon.
-The Merry Spinster
Fictional People I Worry About (08/24/2015)
I have what could be called an overactive imagination. This often ruins sci-fi movies in which aliens die en masse during the climactic battle. I can't help but imagine their families back home. Sure to us he is Xuthorpe III Conqueror of Galaxies, but he's someone's son, someone's husband, and probably someone's father and friend. He will be missed. And so will all the nameless little green men that our army blows up. That is a lot of love lost, and mourned.
I also worry a great deal about Lex Luther's girlfriends. He always has one. And he is never nice to them. In Superman the Movie, after Lex says the second bomb is headed to Hackensack, NJ, Miss Tessmacher comments that her mother lives in Hackensack, NJ and will die. They've been dating a while. He probably knew that AND STILL that is where he sent the second bomb. And when she practically sobs to him, he just looks at his watch and clicks his tongue. I'm as much of a ride or die bitch as the next gal but...Why is she with him? Sure Lex often has money. But there are lots of rich guys who are also nice.
And in Superman Returns Lex cuts the brakes on his girlfriend Kitty Kowalski's car. SHE COULD'VE BEEN KILLED!!!!! And was that grounds for breaking up with him?!?!?! Nope. I think we have to assume that Lex Luther is a master cocksman. He is giving the best dick in the world. When he gives you an orgasm Jesus Christ appears over his shoulder and gives you the thumbs up. That and he makes amazing french toast are the only reasons to go out with him.
I love the Gladys Knight and the Pips song Midnight Train to Georgia. LOVE IT! Like listen to it five times in a row at least once a month love it. But I worry about the girl singing the song. Her boyfriend is going back to their hometown because he didn't make it as a musician. But...umm...her career seems to be going well. She's singing on the radio. There are guys behind her singing "Superstar! But he didn't get far." Unsuccessful people do not have back-up singers. It is a beautiful loving thought that she would rather live in his world than be without him in her's. But...Why can't he swallow a little pride and stay with her in L.A.? What about her dreams? She sings like Gladys Knight. She doesn't necessarily have to go back to whatever red dirt road southern town they're from and have babies and help him tenant farm. If I was friends with the girl in the song I would sit her down and tell her that the music business of full of cute boys, she'll likely meet another one. Let him get on that midnight train by himself. And if you still miss him in six months, and are certain you can't live without him, then go home.
Michael Myers is a very confusing horror movie villain. He gives no real reason for wanting his family members dead. He murders one sister, then fails to murder another, and then spends Halloween IV trying to murder his seven year old niece. He murders dozens of people, and the only motivation I can extract is that he wants to be an only child. Now I have a brother and a sister. And I have been lukewarm on them at various times in my life. And there was a two year period in my early adolescence in which it would be fair to say I hated them and wished they would just disappear. But if I had tried to murder them, and failed, that would've been the end of it. I need someone to write a Halloween film in which Laurie goes to some family therapy sessions at Smith's Grove Sanitarium and they get to the bottom of Michael's anger. And they heal and hug and no more teenagers have to die just because they decided to smoke a little weed and have a little sex.
I am obsessed with pop culture. And it is seeping into every aspect of my life. Not cool. Not cool.
Your imaginary friend,
The Merry Spinster
Curse of the Wasp Woman (09/14/2015)
Two weeks ago I got stung by a wasp. And it is still bothering me. Please see the following list of things that you should never say to someone stung by an insect.
1) That’s weird. (Insert insect) isn’t usually aggressive
2) Did it hurt?
3) Are you allergic?
4) I’ve never been stung by (insert insect)
5) (Insert name) is allergic to bees
Why? Because it doesn’t make me feel better if wasps/bees/Girl Scouts/etc don’t usually attack unprovoked. I wasn’t provoking the damn thing, and I don’t need the victim blaming. And yes…It did hurt. If it hadn’t I would’ve said “A wasp gently landed on me and then flew away” Unless this is someone asking me for the tenth time whether I’m an android or not. For the record I have nerves and experience pain when something pierces my flesh and deposits venom. Am I allergic?!?!?! Really?!!?! Again. I am a human being and was injected with venom. No one is immune to venom. We just have varying degrees of reaction. You might as well just come out with it and ask, “Did you almost die?” That’s what you want. A story of life and death struggle. And whoop de doo! You never go outside smelling like something an insect might be interested in therefore one has never interacted with you. Quit bragging. That’s weird. You’re like those people who brag about being tall. Lots of people are tall. And it really isn’t all that much of an advantage in life. And I’m sorry this person I don’t know, experiences more pain and danger when they get stung by a bee than I do. But…Hey…Can we keep this about me for more than 10 seconds? I was injected with venom. Why doesn’t that earn me your full attention?
So now that we’ve covered the emotional pain and aggravation that I experienced at the hands of my friends and acquaintances when I was stung. Let’s go over the physical…Holy Fuck! Not only did it hurt but I am not only allergic to the venom but something the wasp deposited under my skin. I have struggled to stop worrying that it is wasp eggs and I’ll be awoken in the night to find them eating their way out of my ankle. But all I know is that a full week after I got stung the swelling was still getting worse and the area had turned purple. And the itching was keeping me up all night even when I guzzled Benadryl and covered the area in hydro-cortisone. So I went to the doctor. He prescribed a bunch of meds and it is slowly getting better. But…If I’m being honest I was hoping for super powers. Maybe I watch too many movies. But usually when a mild-mannered person gets stung or bitten by an insect they get that insects’ powers. The only characteristics of the wasp that stung me that I’ve taken on is an irrational desire to attack people minding their own business just because I’m annoyed by something. And stealth. Lately I’ve had more stealth. But I would’ve preferred flight and venom. Without those two powers should I attack someone I have no weapon but clever rhetoric with which to injure them. I would also have liked to have the ability to build a nest where I could mate and frighten humans. But nope. I just have a weird looking ankle and am slightly more fussy than usual. If I want superpowers I’m just going to have to start hanging out at the nuclear waste processing plant. Which we totally have in Utah because we let other states and countries pay us to bury dangerous things in the desert and then we ignore the weird happenings.
Love,
The Merry Spinster (But Preferably the Wasp Woman)
Everyone Is NOT Hanging Out Without Me (09/20/2015)
This is very exciting...I have been too busy to finish this blog entry. I started it Thursday afternoon and only now on my way to bed on Sunday night have I been able to sit still. I just couldn't find time. I've been partying, attending Knitters Who Drink club meetings, having girls' nights, seeing movies with Silver Foxes and guys with beards and motorcycles. I've been doing stuff. I was too busy living my life, to write about my life. Isn't that the most delicious thing this side of Girl Scout Thin Mints? But it now it's time to sit still and drink some Sleepy Time tea and catch you up.
I make no secret of my affection for Mindy Kaling.
She is exactly what I’m talking about when I talk about a Merry Spinster. She works hard, builds her dreams by hand, has a great social life, and refuses to let anyone tell her that how she looks or lives her life is wrong. And she doesn’t have a husband. WHAAAAT?!?!?! I know right. WHAAAATTT???! No seriously, she doesn't. Stop saying what.
I follow her on Twitter and Instagram and when her new book came out on Tuesday I raced to the bookstore to buy it like the fawning fangirl that I am. As the clerk at Barnes and Noble rang me up he asked “Did you find everything you were looking for?” And I gently stroked it like Golem admiring his Precious and said, “Yes. It is here. I have it now.” I will not dare pretend I didn’t sound like a crazy person. But it was a book store. He should be glad that someone is that into reading something. If we stop being so excited about books that we refuse to wait 2 days for them to arrive in the mail, he is going to find himself working at McDonalds. But instead of appreciating, he started hating. As I literally skipped out of the book store gleefully all I could do was shake my head and think, “That fool doesn’t know what he is missing.”
I am writing about Mindy not just because I talk about her a lot, but because something she wrote is very relevant to my life right now. An early chapter of her book talks about how much she dreads weddings. And she does an amazing riff on how awful it is to be a bridesmaid. She rightly points out that you are literally “a maid.” Those matching dresses are a uniform and you are there to serve the bride and work for her. She is even expected to materially compensate you with some kind of gift. And after Mindy outlines all the bullshit tasks a bridesmaid does, she states why we do it. And it is because we miss our best friends. As we get older and our lives change, we grow apart from the women who were once like an extra limb. And we basically go through all the bridesmaid torment just so we can have dinner with our best friend. I was moved by that simple sentiment and also how the chapter is about how we feel left behind. I have felt that a lot the last few years. And I felt kind of like a loser. But if Mindy Kaling is getting dropped for husbands and babies and jobs far away, then I’m in good company and it is normal.
Mindy also did a talk at a book fair that I found on Youtube in which she was asked about her goals for the future. And one of the ones she has is to make one good close female friend. And I thought what a noble and amazing goal. And it sounds so easy, but its actually difficult. We both have to find (1) A FEMALE. We’re both usually surrounded by men (2) We must like this female and she must like us. As much as we hate it when someone we’re attracted to us puts in the friend zone, it is a place of better honor. It’s easy to like someone you’re fucking enough to hang out with them. My own parents got through the first 10 years of their marriage with nothing more in common than they both liked Star Trek and they liked boning each other. But if you like someone without the sex chemicals flooding your brain that’s golden. (3) We must have something in common (4) Our lifestyles and schedules have to match up so we can spend time together. That’s more steps than it takes to make a Pop Tart and only one less than it takes to make a lasagna. Mindy and both like to eat, so a food comparison seemed appropriate.
What was great about this goal is it is not only achievable and promises a great reward, but it is under my control. All I have to do is play the numbers game and show enough women that I’m awesome until one likes me back. And I found one. I was at a Ladies Drinking Socially Society brunch and Ayse sat down next to me and told me we were from that moment on best friends. I of course demurred. At the time I had three people sharing the title of “best friend” listed in the following chronological order of acquaintance: Maggie (We’ve been friends since she moved to Iowa City in seventh grade, and was warned to stay away from me because I was weird. And she thought something akin to “I like weird. I’d rather be friends with her than these bland Tiffany/Heather/Jennifer what’s-her-name Stepford teens”; Tim (A dude. An awesome dude. And the only person who can talk sense into me when I’m too happy or too sad about something); Audrey (Female scientist and crafter extraordinaire who will talk poop and periods with me like no one else). The position of best friend was staffed albeit by a person who lives in Maryland, another who lives in South Korea, and a woman I rarely hear from since she fell in love with some dude and got busy at work. It is like the way your company employs more than enough people but you're still doing all the work yourself.
So with my staff of best friends all allocating their resources to other projects I delegated some activities to her. And I found her loud and overwhelming and insane. And at first blush not what I was looking for in a gal pal. She's married with two kids. Bleech! She hates reading and books. I'm a writer. I'm always trying to lose weight and she eats delicious high-calorie food 24/7 and encourages me to do the same. But maybe what a woman like me who knits, has read at least one book on all 44 of our US Presidents including Millard Fillmore, and listens to baseball games on the radio like an old man needed was loud and overwhelming and insane. Because that is how I found myself screaming Motown Philly and Salt n' Pepa's Shoop at the top of my lungs while drunk on whiskey sours, while a giant from Lehi, UT tried to get into my pants. Laughing my ass off between telling my new friends Wendy and Jenny all my troubles and realizing that I'll be okay. Because I'm always okay. And I'm only as lonely as I allow myself to be.
I will never be as clever or successful as Mindy Kaling. That woman has a fire in her belly, whereas I have a 700 watt microwave in mine. She could burn the world down and it takes me 6 minutes to warm up a Lean Cuisine. But we merry spinsters stick together. Thank you Mindy. And thank you to my friends new and old.
Mindy Kaling's Future Best Friend,
The Merry Spinster
The Guacamole Meltdown (03/10/2016)
I love the guacamole. I love it more than Kanye West loves himself. I love it even more than Donald Trump loves defending the size of his svantz*. I love guacamole so much I’m afraid to have a baby, because I may look down at the beaming face of my child and think “Eh. It’s not like you’re a bowl of guacamole.”
My love of guacamole led me to have a bit of meltdown on Monday. I went to dinner with a friend and ordered my meal. And when I said I’d like a side of guacamole the waitress said, “Is it okay that the guacamole is extra?” And I lost my shit. And the following rant occurred.
The Merry Spinster: Yeah. I know guacamole is extra. I can read. It’s written in English which I speak. And Spanish that I have a passing familiarity with. Everyone knows guacamole is extra. And anyone who doesn’t know that guacamole is a luxury item deserves to find out when they get the check that they owe you an extra $0.85. And if they don’t have it, they should have to give blow jobs in the parking lot until they can come up with the money**. Avocados cost $1.50 EACH, and are such magical objects meant to only grace our planet for a short period of time that the time between when you pierce it’s skin and when it becomes a pile of inedible brown mush is so short that you couldn’t achieve an orgasm, address a letter, or say all Elizabeth Taylor’s married names in the same span of time. Why would anyone think you would just give that away?!?!?! Unlike cheese which is cheap and easy to make, guacamole should be extra. FUCK! Have we raised a generation of people so entitled that they think guacamole isn’t a luxury but a right?”
(The waitress was oddly not taken aback by my rant. She added her own comments.)
Waitress: They make me ask that. But I agree. If you can’t read the damn menu you’re an idiot. By the way…It’s really good guacamole. Total worth it. I’ll go get your lemonade.
I’m a black woman living in America. I endure so many indignities. So I don’t understand when the thing that makes me mad enough to go off on someone is guacamole or rain or a coworkers open-toed shoes. I suspect I just let my anger build up until it overflows in the middle of a Mexican restaurant.
FYI…My Five Favorite Mexican Restaurants in Salt Lake City
1) El Chihuahua
2) La Puente
3) Red Iguana
4) Taqueria 27
5) Frida Bistro
Kisses,
The Merry Spinster
*No language has better words for male genitalia than Yiddish
**Ideally they would not have to give more than ONE.
Too Old To Flirt (03/17/2016)
I am going through a transitional phase in my life. I keep doing weird stuff I’ve never done before. Why? I couldn’t say. I’m turning 40 in November, maybe it is a mid-life crisis. So far it has been harmless. But this morning… I was walking to the train and a young man walked past me. Something about his red jacket, his jeans, and his playful sneakers caused me to have what must have been a stroke. And out of nowhere I called out, “Hey Tall and Sexy where you going?” This was followed by grunt and a weird nod. Me, a proud feminist, catcalled. I catcalled a fellow human being. Not okay! I was entirely clothed in shame and was on the precipice of vigorously apologizing when he said, “To class ma’am. I go to law school at the U. I hope you have a blessed day.”
Did I skip about 30 years of my life and now I’m just a dirty little old lady, and thus no longer a threat to men in their 20’s? It can’t be that. I do alright. I find socializing with other people unbearable but when I feel the urge to merge I have never had any trouble getting someone to put their dick in me.
It is possible that like many young men in Utah he is so fresh faced and innocent and above such things that it didn’t occur to him to feel objectified or sexualized. He heard “Hey Tall and Sexy! Where you going?” as a polite and neighborly inquiry. If so…Isn’t that the cutest thing ever?
Lastly, he could’ve been doing what I often do when someone says something nasty to me. I play dumb. A creeper asks me to sit on his face and I look at him blankly and say, “Oh no. That’s not safe. You wouldn’t be able to breathe. You’re such a silly goose.” They usually find that as disconcerting as I found “I hope you have a blessed day.”
Let's hope whatever lapse in sanity I experienced is an isolated even. Men, I respect you. You're not pieces of meat.