Category: rantish

Not sharp enough to know I was supposed to be humiliated

Ok, so I thought this was an odd title for an online article:

“How not to feel humiliated when dining alone”

Um. Why would I? I rather enjoy eating out alone.

Given the photo of the sad lonely brunette (she HAD to be a brunette, right?) that accompanies the article, I think reading between the lines, the title of the article is more like:

“You sad lonely dried up old maid. How terrible that you have to eat alone.”

Because *clearly* the target audience for this story isn’t guys. I don’t know that most guys would feel humiliated dining alone. They’d pull up a chair to the bar, order a beer and dive in. Isn’t all this fuss and kerfuffle a girl thing?

The story goes on to offer several suggestions for how that lonely gal can make it through such a harrowing experience as having to dine alone like reading a book or staring into her mobile device.

Please. Eating out alone is great. You don’t have to share your dessert, you can drink too many glasses of wine if you want, and you can burp at the table. What’s not to love about this experience?

And oh the people watching. So much to take in!

Plus, plenty of couples look miserable dining together. But they are not “humiliated” because they are not alone, so it’s ok? Bah!

I guess I sort of thought we were past the days when someone eating alone in a restaurant was a weird thing. So many people travel for business or just choose to spend time alone. In my book this is no longer odd.

And the conventional wisdom used to be that as a solo diner the wait staff wouldn’t serve you as well (one person means smaller tab means smaller tip) but I have found the opposite to be true. I think wait staff rather enjoy the ease of just one person at the table. No question where the entrée goes!

I’ve not ever felt slighted or mistreated when dining alone. It works just fine.

Sure, I’d rather have The Good Man there because, mainly, he makes any thing I do a lot more fun (he could make going to the dentist for a root canal a worthwhile adventure!). But if I’m away from him and I’m hungry, well, a girl’s gotta eat!

Honestly most of my girlfriends are the same way. Eating alone in a restaurant is no biggie.

Most girls half my age are twice as bold as me, so I don’t think they have issues either.

Who is this story really aimed at? As I read the comments, most of the ladies chiming in seem to agree with my point of view on this.

And seems most agree that the title of the article is just plain terrible.

I guess my message to the author is to simply quote the comment left by a reader named Melissa:

“Thanks for bashing my confidence in eating alone. I guess now when I take myself out to lunch to be awesome I have to feel HUMILIATED instead.”

So there!

Verbal-Foo Skillz…I has them

: cue the wavy lines and smoke :

Yes, we’re in the wayback machine, set to “semi-wayback”

Lo, these many years ago when I’d first moved to California, I started dating a guy who was (and is) a musician.

A blues musician, which means he played a lot of dark and, well let’s go with “gritty,” bars in the San Francisco and greater Bay Area.

So, being young and a fairly naïve rube from New Mexico, I used to get all dressed up in cute clothes and impossibly high heels, then head out, by myself, to these bars and clubs to see if I could get the musician to notice me.

So being a young, naïve girl all gussied up to go out, it stands to reason that I used to get hit on by the other patrons of the bars I attended.

A lot.

I mean, *a lot*.

Not because I’m exceptionally pretty, though I’m not a mud fence either. But mainly because I was a girl. Alone. In a bar.

Sort of a siren call for the drunk and lonely.

I have pretty much heard every pickup line in the book. And some from books that no one has written and never should.

Oh yes, I’ve heard ’em all…twice.

When I was feeling convivial, I’d play with the drunk, slurring sportos like a cat plays with a dying mouse. I’d bat them around a little bit before slamming down the paw.

If I wasn’t feeling convivial, I’d get out my acid tongue, a genetic gift from a rather acerbic aunt in my family tree, and burn them on the spot.

One of my favorites is still a late night when all the lights had come up in the bar. The guy I was dating was through working and before he began packing up his stuff, he came over to hang out with me for a minute.

Some very drunk fellow, sensing that the lights were up, began scrambling around to find a warm body, ANY body, to take home.

And of course, since I’m the freak magnet (it’s true, been observed by many a friend and even a family member or two), the slobbering drunk made a beeline for me.

His opening gamble was something slurred and incoherent. Honestly, I don’t remember what he said. I do remember his glassy eyed look as he slurred out something and waggled his eyebrows at me.

Weary with a night of fending off such fellows, I looked him square in the eye and asked, loudly, “Are you hitting on me?”

He slurred in return…”um…well, yes. Is it working?”

I replied, “Let me get this straight…you are hitting on me. And *that’s* your opening line? That’s the best you can do?”

Not to be deterred, he nodded and asked again, “It is working?”

“No,” I said very caustically, “And have you met my boyfriend?” who had been standing next to me the whole time.

Thankfully the very large and take-no-prisoners bartender then placed a beefy hand roughly on the drunk’s shoulder and shouted, “Get out!”

I relate all of this to place a context on the story that follows. So that you understand that, basically, I have learned how to handle myself.

However…

I stopped going to those sorts of clubs and bars a very, very long time ago. And I don’t miss them, honestly. Well, I miss the amazing music that the San Francisco blues musicians pump out, because there is some amazing untapped talent in that City.

But the clubs…I don’t miss them.

Which means, in my now suburban lifestyle, I don’t really get hit on like that anymore.

And you’d think my skills in handling the weirdos might have slipped.

Turns out, I still got it.

So there I was…down on Fremont street in Las Vegas with my trusty camera and the goal to shoot many of the restored old Vegas signs that the Neon Museum installed in the area.

It was about 10:00 in the morning, so that was probably my first mistake. Second, I was alone. Third, I was behind the camera and really in creative head.

All of this mixed together meant the moths came dashing over to knock themselves against my flame…so to speak.

At 10:00 in the morning, the tourists aren’t really out, so it was me and the, ahem, locals.

I got a lot of “heeey…wanna take *my* picture?”

Um, no.

“Heeey, what’s *your* name?” (my least fave opening line, btw)

But the best interaction went like this….

“Hey! Hey? HEY!?!?”

And so I finally turned to see who was bellowing at me.

“You are a big girl! I saw you walking by and I said to myself, I said, you know, big girls need loving too…”

Yep. That was his opening line. He called me fat and then decided I was so lonely cuz I’m such a big girl that I needed his, what would it be…pity? Charity? Selfless giving?

I said, “Uh huh.”

“Say baby, what’s your name?” he said, turning on ALL the charm.

“Lucy,” I replied (using my Nom de Bebida) followed by, “And my husband’s name is David.”

My suitor then sharply spun on one heel and walked away.

The rest of the morning was not just photography, but a continual improv show in which I was the only performer.

I was Lucy, I was a photography student at UNLV, my teacher had given me the assignment to shoot the signs, and ONLY the signs (in answer to the continual request to “take my picture!”), I was a local, I lived with an aunt and uncle, I’d been living here for a while, no I don’t have any spare change and by god I have a husband and don’t need your affections.

It was exhausting.

The final straw was the guy smoking a spliff who came up carrying a Wal-Mart plastic bag which he held out to me. “Wanna buy a Coach purse?” he offered.

And with that, I was done. I caught a cab back to my hotel and stayed inside the rest of the day.

I still got it, but mostly, I just don’t want to have to use it anymore.

The why post

I have questions. Lots of them.

Some of those “unexplained issues of the universe.”

I’m sure there are people far smarter than me with very good answers.

But for now, I’m just going to go with a pondering “why?” about the many things I don’t understand.

For example…

Why, when The Feline has finished relieving her bowels and carefully covering it up in the litter box, does she then LEAP from the box and do a couple laps around the house?

I mean at full speed, ears down for less wind resistance, ka-thunka thunk around the place?

Is it because after using the box she feels lighter?

Hmmm.

Why does my next-door neighbor put his trash out a day early every week? Our trash day is Thursday and every Wednesday morning he drags out all his cans and recycling. He’s lived over there about three years. He’s a retired guy at home all day, so this isn’t planning ahead. He knows trash day is Thursday, we’ve even talked about it!

And yet, Wednesday morning, there are his trashcans.

Not that it is hurting anything, but WHY?

Hmmm.

Why is the mailman so cranky everyday? The man never says hi back.

And further, why do I keep trying to say hello when I know he won’t reply in kind?

Hmmm?

Why does my landlord insist on landscaping the yard at my place with only a small hatchet and a chain saw?

No tree, plant or other living thing is immune to his blunt blade approach to landscaping.

Should I send him to bonsai tree school?

Hmmm?

(Then again, the fights he and his son have, in both Italian and English, make for much laughter in my house. The son also doesn’t understand his dad’s landscaping philosophy.)

Why can’t I purchase hotdogs and hotdog buns in the same quantities?

Why are Trader Joe’s Joe-Joe peppermint cookies so gall durn delicious?

Why can’t people figure out four way stops?

Why do the manhole covers in my town blast back water when it rains?

Why do I love coffee so much when it is so hard on my tummy?

Why can’t I win the lottery?

And finally…(thought not the complete list by a long shot)

Why can’t that [curse word] woman in Texas realize that her email address is NOT my email address. She has an underscore in her email address. Mine does not. All the same letters, but she uses an underscore. Big, huge difference.

WHY WHY WHY after about two year’s time has she not figured this out?

Last week I shut down her kid’s account on Disney.com (needed parental verification to open the account). Poor kid.

Why can’t she figure this out!?! WHY?!?!?!?

Grrrrrr!

Oh, I mean…

Hmmm.

So many unanswered questions. So little time.

An Open Letter to my Head Cold

Dear Insidious Little Pinche Bug that has chosen to infest my body:

So, I see you’ve decided to set up camp in my head.

My, how kind of you.

Oh, and you came with your usual matching set of baggage. Stuffed up nose. Sore throat. Plugged ears. And that hacking cough.

How fun it is when you give me a housewarming present as I hack up a yellow globule from my lungs. Such a lovely color!

And the body aches! Oh the body aches, I think those are my favorite! Knees, hips, shoulders, neck. Ow. Makes it almost impossible to sleep!

But you like that, eh? I mean, sleep only strengthens my immune system and THAT’s not what you are about, are you little evil cold germs?

Nope. You like to keep me up late at night, not sleeping, heck, not even breathing!

You know those two funny tubes they call nostrils? Yeah? Those are so I can breathe! When you plug BOTH of them, well, sure, I can result to mouth breathing.

But I sort of resemble a punch-drunk boxer when I do.

Makes my husband that much more enamored of me!

Not that I’m a shining star anyway, with my puffy face and red-rimmed nose.

What I most want to know, Dear Cold Bug, is how in the hell do you get my hair to look like that? I mean, ostensibly, your reach only extends to my upper respiratory system, and yet my hair responds to your brand of illness by standing up at odd angles?

I never knew you were a hairstylist too!

And now, my ears are throbbing. How fun! Since childhood I’ve been prone to ear infections.

But you probably knew that already, didn’t you?

I’ve tried to be nice to you, but nice doesn’t register in your little cell dividing nucleus, does it?

You know what I did this morning? I drank a biiiig glass of orange juice. Oh yes, a blast of vitamin C. As I drank, I imagined thousands of tiny “noooooo’s!” in chorus as many of your offspring were attacked by my newly strengthened white blood cells.

Then you know what I did when I was done with that glass?

I poured another.

I’m done with you.

No, seriously.

You can go now.

And by go, I don’t mean hop from me to The Good Man. He doesn’t need any of your shenanigans either!

Squeaky Sphincter

Yeah, ok, I get uptight about stuff. I try, oh I try to “live and let live”…and in a lot of ways, I do.

One of my employees recently said she admired my, “Zenlike attitude about everything” which I took as a huge compliment.

Only, I’m not exactly Zenlike about *everything*. No, there are a few things that get my knickers in a bunch, falling squarely into Dr. Freud’s line of studies.

Oh I’m anal, baby, but really only about certain things.

So, what’s got my chones in a gather today?

Well, because I’m traveling on a plane, I made sure I went to the library and stocked up on good reading materials. Stuff to keep me engaged as the Sierra Nevadas, the desert floor of Arizona and, finally, the Sandias pass underfoot.

This is a fairly new book, copyrighted last year. It appears by the librarian’s diligent date mark on the front page that it was put onto my local shelves about a year ago. A year. And I’ll be damned if this thing isn’t already dog-eared.

Of course, by dog-eared, I mean SOMEONE HAS FOLDED DOWN THE CORNERS OF THE PAGES TO MARK THEIR PLACE.

I believe there is a special level of hell for someone who folds the corners of a library book.

Look, if it is your book, you own it, bought and paid for, fine. Live and let live. C’est la vie. Vaya con Dios and go for it. Fold those pages with reckless abandon! Crack the binding and drop a forkful of lasagna on the denouement. Smudge the ink with your greasy thumbs and have yourself a careless ol’ time.

But if it’s a book that belongs to the local library, meaning people OTHER THAN YOU will be borrowing and reading it, do us all a favor, and try to keep it nice, ok?

Also, look, I’m sure that smoking and reading is a real pleasure. At heart, I don’t really care if you smoke, when you smoke, how much you smoke. That’s your deal. If you are reading your own book, blow the smoke deep into all the pages. It’s your book, knock yourself out.

But it’s really not all that fun to open a library book and get blasted with your odor. There is no airing those things out, you know.

And finally…if you have the temerity to MARK in a library book with a pencil or heaven freaking forbid, a ballpoint PEN, I will hold a deep and abiding grudge against you for life. It doesn’t matter that I’ll never know it was you who did it…I’ll hold a grudge anyway.

I’m sure you’ll be quite busy being the greeting committee in hell for all those page folders.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to pull my pantalones out of my behind, smooth and straighten my clothes, and walk down to my gate. It appears my flight is boarding.

Don’t EVEN get me started on people who use their roller bags to block my egress while in line to get on the plane. These “open seating” flights bring out the very worst in people……..