~Riot.Jane
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Facebook Friending and the Art of Profile Pics
Just a thought here, fellow Facebookers . . .
That is all.
~Riot.Jane
~Riot.Jane
Reason #9 I Love My Bestie
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| Riot.Jane |
ME: Okay, I have to ask you this because you're the only woman I could ever ask this of.
HER: Okkkkaaaaayyyyyyy.
ME: You have to not wear one of your plunging necklines.
HER: Ummmmmmm, what? Oh. Okay. Sure.
ME: Great, you're awesome, thanks!
HER: Ummmmmmm, why?
ME: My boyfriend's a total perv! And I want him staring at my chest, not yours.
“Love is an Attacker in the Dark”
One of my work spouses (in this sense I am polygamous) recently made this statement to me openly, in front of other co-workers. He simply walked up to us and said that, without apparent provocation “love is like an attacker in the dark”.
“Tell me more,” I said.
He went on to tell me that, when you’re walking down a dark alley, trying to get from here to there, just going along your merry way . . . BAM! Around the corner it swoops . . . An attacker in the dark . . . A blur of motion and limbs and shock that overtakes you before you can blink, before you can register the occurrence . . . Knocking you down and taking control of you.
“Are you seriously equating romantic love with a high-speed mugging?” I asked.
“Tell me more,” I said.
He went on to tell me that, when you’re walking down a dark alley, trying to get from here to there, just going along your merry way . . . BAM! Around the corner it swoops . . . An attacker in the dark . . . A blur of motion and limbs and shock that overtakes you before you can blink, before you can register the occurrence . . . Knocking you down and taking control of you.
“Are you seriously equating romantic love with a high-speed mugging?” I asked.
How to Date a Women’s Studies Major: Just Don’t
Brittany Hunt @ The Miscellany News has posted a hilarious piece, How to Date a Women’s Studies Major: Just Don’t, about the pitfalls of dating radfems. While I don't necessarily agree with with everything in the piece, the serious points she makes about stereotypes and the men who are afraid of (or are intimidated by) radfems bear consideration by those of us who consider themselves feminist. Make no mistake: Hunt is talking about radfems in her piece, not your garden variety (and much more common!) feminist.
While Hunt's piece does bear reading, I'd like to seriously address her bullet points here in my own feminist voice:
Remember: She's a Lesbian Until Proven Otherwise
How do I describe how infuriating it is to have people hate me due to a figment their own imagination? Seriously, people -- If you're going to dislike me, do it because I'm boisterous, loud, outspoken, aggressive, obstreperous, direct, brutally honest, suck with interpersonal politics, have a potty mouth, demand equal treatment, or any one of a number of other characteristics I actually posses in abundance.
If you're so full of hatred and self-loathing that you can't see past your own insecurities and guess as to what gender sex partner I prefer, then redeem yourself a bit by waiting until you actually experience something about me before hating me, okay?
But if She Isn't, She's a Total Slut
Your expectations of when or if I'm going to have sex with you has very little to do with my politics or your financial worth. My sexual activity has much more to do with my hormonal cycle, how charming you are, and whether or not I'm emotionally involved with someone else. The slightest whiff of expectation from you transforms my vulva into the Antarctic -- Dry to the touch, cold, and most uninviting. Whether or not I love the cock in general has little to do with whether or not I'm going to love your cock.
Speaking of male sexual expectations regarding feminists . . . No, we're not all on The Pill. No, we don't all love having abortions. No, we're not all superfreaks in the sack. No, we're not all VD-free. No, we're not all into rampant promiscuity. Some of us can't use hormonal birth control, some of us are intensely anti-abortion, some of us only like Missionary-only sex, some of us are just as irresponsible as some of you are when it comes to safe sex, and some of us are actually fairly chaste.
Deal with it, and stop assuming things that are going to get you slapped, sued for child support, or a venereal disease while you stand there whining, "But she was a feminist!"
Don't Hold the Door for Her
I can't tell you how many times I have an exchange like this with a male stranger:
Holding a door is no different that "Excuse me," or "Please pass the salt," so . . .
Yes, talk about your emotions but don't go overboard. I am a proud human, and a feminist, and as a result I'm generally not going to be a whiny or over-emotional type. There's a huge difference between bitching about an encounter at the office that pissed you off, explaining why it pissed you off while you're trying to work through it and whining like an impotent victim and moping for a week.
If you're more emotional than I am, if you're more "sensitive" that I am, I'm not going to be impressed. Everyone has moments of weakness and struggle, but if it's overboard and if it's a pattern, I'm probably going to toss you like an old pair of shoes.
Check it -- I am a strong person, and I keep strong people around me because I don't have time or patience for anything else.
Congrats! You've Made it to Your One-Year Anniversary -- Things NOT to Buy Her as a Gift
Unless you're replacing items I already own that are broken, that I've run out of, or it's a gift card from a store you already know I love to shop, beauty products and kitchen products are right out. If you haven't figured out by the 1-year mark what I like and/or what I need, and you're not creative enough to come up with something on your own, then you really ought to re-evaluate your own observational skills while you're e-mailing my best friend to ask her advice.
~Riot.Jane
While Hunt's piece does bear reading, I'd like to seriously address her bullet points here in my own feminist voice:
Remember: She's a Lesbian Until Proven Otherwise
How do I describe how infuriating it is to have people hate me due to a figment their own imagination? Seriously, people -- If you're going to dislike me, do it because I'm boisterous, loud, outspoken, aggressive, obstreperous, direct, brutally honest, suck with interpersonal politics, have a potty mouth, demand equal treatment, or any one of a number of other characteristics I actually posses in abundance.
If you're so full of hatred and self-loathing that you can't see past your own insecurities and guess as to what gender sex partner I prefer, then redeem yourself a bit by waiting until you actually experience something about me before hating me, okay?
But if She Isn't, She's a Total Slut
Your expectations of when or if I'm going to have sex with you has very little to do with my politics or your financial worth. My sexual activity has much more to do with my hormonal cycle, how charming you are, and whether or not I'm emotionally involved with someone else. The slightest whiff of expectation from you transforms my vulva into the Antarctic -- Dry to the touch, cold, and most uninviting. Whether or not I love the cock in general has little to do with whether or not I'm going to love your cock.
Speaking of male sexual expectations regarding feminists . . . No, we're not all on The Pill. No, we don't all love having abortions. No, we're not all superfreaks in the sack. No, we're not all VD-free. No, we're not all into rampant promiscuity. Some of us can't use hormonal birth control, some of us are intensely anti-abortion, some of us only like Missionary-only sex, some of us are just as irresponsible as some of you are when it comes to safe sex, and some of us are actually fairly chaste.
Deal with it, and stop assuming things that are going to get you slapped, sued for child support, or a venereal disease while you stand there whining, "But she was a feminist!"
Don't Hold the Door for Her
I can't tell you how many times I have an exchange like this with a male stranger:
Man: Holds door open and allows me to pass through ahead of himI never cease to be amazed that holding a door is considered by anyone to be anything except common courtesy. I hold doors for people all the time . . . The elderly, the young, the infirm, people carrying things, etc. Sometimes I hold it open behind me, sometimes I hold it open in front of me to let them pass. All of it depends upon my mood, the situation, and my level of observance.
Me: Why thank you, kind sir. I appreciate that!
Man: Relieved look.
Man: I'm really glad! I never know when I'm going to get yelled at for that!
Holding a door is no different that "Excuse me," or "Please pass the salt," so . . .
Men: Keep holding doors when you want to do so! Most people appreciate it.Talk About Your Emotions
Women: Get over yourselves! You are not advancing the cause by yelling at strangers in public for extending common courtesy.
Yes, talk about your emotions but don't go overboard. I am a proud human, and a feminist, and as a result I'm generally not going to be a whiny or over-emotional type. There's a huge difference between bitching about an encounter at the office that pissed you off, explaining why it pissed you off while you're trying to work through it and whining like an impotent victim and moping for a week.
If you're more emotional than I am, if you're more "sensitive" that I am, I'm not going to be impressed. Everyone has moments of weakness and struggle, but if it's overboard and if it's a pattern, I'm probably going to toss you like an old pair of shoes.
Check it -- I am a strong person, and I keep strong people around me because I don't have time or patience for anything else.
Congrats! You've Made it to Your One-Year Anniversary -- Things NOT to Buy Her as a Gift
Unless you're replacing items I already own that are broken, that I've run out of, or it's a gift card from a store you already know I love to shop, beauty products and kitchen products are right out. If you haven't figured out by the 1-year mark what I like and/or what I need, and you're not creative enough to come up with something on your own, then you really ought to re-evaluate your own observational skills while you're e-mailing my best friend to ask her advice.
Hints for the BEST Anniversary Gifts:I hope that my effort to supplement Hunt's humorous piece with serious points has been educational. I invite our Janes and Joes to comment about dating feminists and radfems.
If I read, books are a hit if you've taken 10 minutes to look at my bookcase or paid any attention whatsoever to what I talk about. Take your ass to a locally-owned bookstore and talk to a clerk if you're at a loss.
If I'm a science nerd, science museum trips are a winner because it's an experience with you
Receiving flowers at the office is a total win because I get lots of attention from my co-workers. This gives me a chance to bask in the limelight and talk you up with everyone else being jealous! Whatever happens, don't have them delivered on the last day of my workweek -- Send them early if you have to, because wilted Monday flowers are simply sad.
Stay away from topics you don't know -or- consult with a knowledgeable person early. The book item I already talked about? Do this with fashion accessories or technical gadgets or anything else that you're not into but I am. If you don't, you'll look incompetent at best and uncaring at worst. This is why men and women squabble after gift-giving: The appearance of not putting enough thought or effort into the gift that it makes some kind of sense.
Be sure that any object you choose (if you choose an object) is fully, 100% returnable/refundable. At least if you mess up, the two of you can make an afternoon of exchanging/refunding it for a more suitable item. This afternoon can be, if planned properly, a second anniversary celebration. If you pay attention, you can turn a fail into a win!
~Riot.Jane
InfoGraphic: Evolution of the Lady Action Hero
Stumbled upon while wandering the wilds of the WWW . . .
While I will be forever torn between Ripley and Trinity as my favorite, I'd like to find out about your favorites and discuss who was skipped.
~Riot.Jane
[Source: Evolution of the Lady Action Hero]
While I will be forever torn between Ripley and Trinity as my favorite, I'd like to find out about your favorites and discuss who was skipped.
~Riot.Jane
Cosmo's Weird "Untamed Va-jay-jays" Cover
Lolly.Jane snapped this picture in the checkout line at a grocrery store and kicked it my way with the Subject line "untamed WHAT?!?!?!?":
As soon as I saw the cover, I asked, "You didn't happen to thumb through it and see what that headline is about, did you?"
"No," she responded, "I was already holding up the line." That's the Lolly.Jane I know so well . . . Terribly polite and considerate.
I went to the pharmacy to refill prescriptions and was lucky enough to find this issue while waiting. The Table of Contents doesn't mention anything that relates to this headline. A search of the Cosmo website for the headline comes up empty. Odd.
Put a headline like that on the cover of your magazine, then not match it in the Table of Contents? Trying to get me to buy the magazine? Fail.
Sooooooo, I'm forced to come up with my own definition of "untamed va-jay-jays":
Okay, maybe my interpretation is better described as "rampaging" (vs."untamed"), but this really is the picture that popped into my mind when I read that headline.
What popped into yours?
~Riot.Jane
Girls Bug Teachers Lounge
I am torn amongst giggles, disapproval, and jealousy at the story of two Swedish girls who bugged their school's teacher's lounge in an effort to improve their grades.
English-language Swedish news site TheLocal brings us this story of un-named teenagers fined $270 each for their activities:
As for my ultimate reaction -- I think the giggle fit wins, since that allows me to vicariously live through them. :-)
~Riot.Jane
English-language Swedish news site TheLocal brings us this story of un-named teenagers fined $270 each for their activities:
The pair, who are in their mid-teens, came up with the idea after finding a key to the staff common room. They bought basic bugging equipment in a gadget shop, waited until the end of the school day, and planted the device in the staff room.Good Lord, how did I not think of this back in the day?!
The girls, who attend a middle school in the capital, planned to listen in on a meeting the following day at which teachers would decide their grades. They were hoping to glean information that would enable them to get their grades improved.
The plan might have gone off without a hitch if one of the girls in her enthusiasm had not revealed all on Facebook, according to Metro. The girls were prosecuted for trespass and arbitrary conduct and fined 2,000 kronor ($270) each by Stockholm District Court
As for my ultimate reaction -- I think the giggle fit wins, since that allows me to vicariously live through them. :-)
~Riot.Jane
The Great Thumbtack Experiment
I recently heard about the concept of collective wisdom on a back episode of the Best of the Left podcast (sorry, I don't remember which episode, but I think it was from earlier this summer). In short, Jay Tomlinson (the podcast host) told us about a study in which the collective wisdom concept was proven to work in a specific, concrete type of situation.
According the the study (which I can't find), if you present a random sampling of people a concrete item upon which to guess, something to which they could not possibly know the actual answer . . . Their answers will be wildly divergent but, as a group, they will provide the correct answer.
We all know that if I present a sealed jar of jellybeans to a group and ask them to guess how many jellybeans are in the jar, the guesses will be wildly different. The study indicates that if all of those wildly divergent answers are averaged, the average will be spot-on.
I was dubious and tempted to blow it off, but I realized I could replicate the experiment. So I did, on a small scale.
I placed three random handfuls of thumbtacks into a clear box and sealed the box. I made sure that I had no idea how many thumbtacks were in the box so that I could not bias the sample. I then walked around for two days handing the box to everyone I ran into, asking them to guess how many thumbtacks were in the box. I recorded the answers, but I didn't let anyone see those answers until after their guess was made and recorded. I had the fortune of working in two different offices those two days, so I in actuality had two small samples.
First Sample Guesses:
Second Sample Guesses:
Combined Sample Guesses:
First Sample Average: 120
Second Sample Average: 90
Combined Sample Average: 104
Actual Total Thumbtacks: 110
So, the results of my independent experiment correlate with the study. The margin of error is actually smaller for the larger group than for the two smaller groups, and, as you can see, is much smaller than the high guess of 500 and the low guess of 40. When the high guesser told me his guess, I kicked him and told him to give me a real guess. He insisted that 500 was his real guess.
My lesson? Collective wisdom works best when there's a jackass in the crowd. :-)
~Riot.Jane
According the the study (which I can't find), if you present a random sampling of people a concrete item upon which to guess, something to which they could not possibly know the actual answer . . . Their answers will be wildly divergent but, as a group, they will provide the correct answer.
We all know that if I present a sealed jar of jellybeans to a group and ask them to guess how many jellybeans are in the jar, the guesses will be wildly different. The study indicates that if all of those wildly divergent answers are averaged, the average will be spot-on.
I was dubious and tempted to blow it off, but I realized I could replicate the experiment. So I did, on a small scale.
I placed three random handfuls of thumbtacks into a clear box and sealed the box. I made sure that I had no idea how many thumbtacks were in the box so that I could not bias the sample. I then walked around for two days handing the box to everyone I ran into, asking them to guess how many thumbtacks were in the box. I recorded the answers, but I didn't let anyone see those answers until after their guess was made and recorded. I had the fortune of working in two different offices those two days, so I in actuality had two small samples.
First Sample Guesses:
Second Sample Guesses:
Combined Sample Guesses:
First Sample Average: 120
Second Sample Average: 90
Combined Sample Average: 104
Actual Total Thumbtacks: 110
So, the results of my independent experiment correlate with the study. The margin of error is actually smaller for the larger group than for the two smaller groups, and, as you can see, is much smaller than the high guess of 500 and the low guess of 40. When the high guesser told me his guess, I kicked him and told him to give me a real guess. He insisted that 500 was his real guess.
My lesson? Collective wisdom works best when there's a jackass in the crowd. :-)
~Riot.Jane
In Celebration of Nerdy Girls who Love Sci-Fi
I squealed with joy several times while watching this lovely geek rock video for the first time!
Even though I'm fully versed in the nerdy-girl "type" (hell, to one extent or another *I* am a she-nerd), never did I think that I would ever come across a geek rock video celebrating the second-nerdiest of all interests: Ray Bradbury. (The First Place of nerdy pursuits must, by all accounts, be role-playing games, in which I am also fairly well versed.)
So, to celebrate the man's 90th birthday (August 22, 1920), I'm sharing this lovely Andrea James tribute to Ray Bradbury (NSFW: language) . . . F*ck Me, Ray Bradbury.
(You know, "the greatest sci-fi writer in history"?)
Even though I don't consider Bradbury to be "the greatest sci-fi writer in history," he did write one of my five favorite books of all time (that being Fahrenheit 451), so the man does invoke mondo props from me even if I think Arthur C. Clarke possesses more writing skill or I prefer Kurt Vonnegut's actual stories.
About the video, I can't decide which amuses me more: the unabashed expression of James' combined she-nerdiness/sexuality, or the parody of traditional cock rock. Whichever appeals to me most, the fact of the matter is that she's reclaiming traditionally male provinces and making them her own. By doing so, she's helping to liberate us all.
Additionally, the video is a delicous and refreshing whif of fandom at its very best. What's not to love for a nerdy-girl like me?
~Riot.Jane
Even though I'm fully versed in the nerdy-girl "type" (hell, to one extent or another *I* am a she-nerd), never did I think that I would ever come across a geek rock video celebrating the second-nerdiest of all interests: Ray Bradbury. (The First Place of nerdy pursuits must, by all accounts, be role-playing games, in which I am also fairly well versed.)
So, to celebrate the man's 90th birthday (August 22, 1920), I'm sharing this lovely Andrea James tribute to Ray Bradbury (NSFW: language) . . . F*ck Me, Ray Bradbury.
(You know, "the greatest sci-fi writer in history"?)
Even though I don't consider Bradbury to be "the greatest sci-fi writer in history," he did write one of my five favorite books of all time (that being Fahrenheit 451), so the man does invoke mondo props from me even if I think Arthur C. Clarke possesses more writing skill or I prefer Kurt Vonnegut's actual stories.
About the video, I can't decide which amuses me more: the unabashed expression of James' combined she-nerdiness/sexuality, or the parody of traditional cock rock. Whichever appeals to me most, the fact of the matter is that she's reclaiming traditionally male provinces and making them her own. By doing so, she's helping to liberate us all.
Additionally, the video is a delicous and refreshing whif of fandom at its very best. What's not to love for a nerdy-girl like me?
~Riot.Jane
Window Shopping for Marital Aids
When's the last time you had the pharases "Lovecraftian horror" and "non-Euclidian geometry" occur while window shopping for marital aids?
Click the graphic to enlarge and read this particularly riotous installment of Questionable Content in this window. Click the title to read it at the creator's site.
To be honest, I wanted to learn more. Then I found the QC Forum, in which astute reader Random832 commented that the warning on the box is:
~Riot.Jane
Click the graphic to enlarge and read this particularly riotous installment of Questionable Content in this window. Click the title to read it at the creator's site.
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Caution: GSX9500 may suddenly accelerate to dangerous speeds. GSX9500 contains a liquid core, which, if exposed due to rupture, should not be touched, inhaled, or looked at. Do not use GSX9500 on concrete. Discontinue use of GSX9500 if any of the following occurs: itching, vertigo, dizziness, tingling in extremities, loss of balance or coordination, slurred speech, temporary blindness, profuse sweating, or heart palpitations. If GSX9500 begins to smoke, get away immediately. Seek shelter and cover head. GSX9500 may stick to certain types of skin. When not in use, GSX9500 should be returned to its special container and kept under refrigeration. Failure to do so relieves the makers of GSX9500 of any and all liability. Ingredients of GSX9500 include an unknown glowing green substance which fell to Earth, presumably from outer space. GSX9500 has been shipped to our troops in Saudi Arabia and is being dropped by our warplanes on Iraq. Do not taunt GSX9500. GSX9500 comes with a lifetime warranty.I can't decide if that warning makes me more or less intrigued.
~Riot.Jane
New Year McNugget Rage
Apparently an angry drunk, an Ohio woman attacked fast food employees and damaged restaurant employees in the early morning hours of 1/1/2010 because she wanted lunch/dinner food during breakfast hours.
WNWO, the local NBC affiliate, offers a description of the confrontation and the woman's mug shot:
WABC, the local ABC affiliate, reports that "Dushane says she was drunk at the time. She was sentenced to 60 days in jail last month and ordered to pay McDonald's for the broken window."
WRGB, the local CBS affiliate, brings us the complete surveillance video:
WNWO, the local NBC affiliate, offers a description of the confrontation and the woman's mug shot:
Melodi Dushane, 24, of East Toledo, Ohio TOLEDO, OHIO -- Newly released surveillance video shows an East Toledo woman who became so enraged that chicken nuggets were not available at a Toledo McDonald's that she punched through the drive-thru window.
Melodi Dushane, 24, stopped at the fast-food restaurant at Front and Main Streets in East Toledo in the early morning hours of New Year's Day and asked for chicken nuggets. When the drive-thru attendant told her the restaurant was only serving breakfast and that the item was not available, Dushane reached through the window and punched the attendant in the mouth.
Video released Monday shows a visibly angered Dushane get out of her car before throwing punches at the attendant. Employees are seen trying to force the window closed, prying Dushane's fingers from the edge. Dushane then gets back into her car and, moments later, emerges to throw a bottle through the glass window. After the window shatters, Dushane is seen getting back into her car and driving off.
McDonald's employees did not report any injuries to police.
WABC, the local ABC affiliate, reports that "Dushane says she was drunk at the time. She was sentenced to 60 days in jail last month and ordered to pay McDonald's for the broken window."
WRGB, the local CBS affiliate, brings us the complete surveillance video:
The TJP admins have been known to drink and dance all night and hit the local MacDaddy on the way home for lovely Double Cheese Burgers (extra pickles, extra onions!), but I can't imagine seeing something like this happen! Seriously, over McNuggets? Methinks there's something more to this story that we don't know . . .
~Riot.Jane
You Need to Behave!
Greetings to the Ladies Jane!I am currently reading Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women by Elizabeth Wurtzel, and the below passage stopped me cold:
All my life, one person or another has been telling me to behave, saying don’t let a guy know you’re a depressed maniac on the first date, don’t just be yourself, don’t show your feelings. And the truth is, this is probably good advice, men probably don’t like overbearing, hotheaded women who give blow jobs on the first date. In all likelihood the only man who will ever like me just as I am will probably need to believe I’m somebody else at first. I probably do need to learn to behave. But I don’t like it.
Good Lord! Either this woman was a fly on the wall during the entirety of my 20s, or I actually have something in common with a writer this hot!
All my life, one person or another has been telling me to behave, saying don’t let a guy know you’re a depressed maniac on the first date, don’t just be yourself, don’t show your feelings. And the truth is, this is probably good advice, men probably don’t like overbearing, hotheaded women who give blow jobs on the first date. In all likelihood the only man who will ever like me just as I am will probably need to believe I’m somebody else at first. I probably do need to learn to behave. But I don’t like it.
Good Lord! Either this woman was a fly on the wall during the entirety of my 20s, or I actually have something in common with a writer this hot!
Who knew?
~Riot.Jane
And You Thought YOUR Room/Office-mates Are Jackasses!
I'm not really sure who's the bigger jackass on this one . . .The person who's ignoring the need to clean up after themselves or the one who wrote this note, the likes of which we've ALL had the urge to write at some point . . .
The phrase "Let's call him Frank" has just entered my personal vocabulary as a snarky statement on unhygienic matters such as this.
Here's a hint for SkyNet.
As always, click through for the original, larger version.
~Riot.Jane
A Jane to the Rescue!
Greetings to the Ladies Jane --
I arrived at the local discount department store at 8.30 last Saturday morning. I pull up, and I see a young, thin black guy trying to wrestle a (presumably new) bicycle into the back seat of his car. A white lady walking into the store stops, says something to him, smiles, walks towards him. "How nice of her," I think as I park, put away stuff in the car, dally a bit about getting out. I get out and see them, together, trying to wrestle this 10-speed sized bike into the backseat of his car.
He's driving a 4-door small-ish sedan. Like mine. I laugh out loud at this sight.
I open the trunk of my car, get out the crappy yellow dollar store nylon rope that I used to tie something to my own car approximately 3 years ago. I take it over to them, she laughs and looks relieved someone else is here. She's obviously in over her head. He still looks confused as to why this damned thing doesn't fit in his car. I tell her that I've done this before, "Just put it in the trunk and tie it up," I say. She is totally grateful and runs off after telling him, "Oh, look, see? Someone who knows what she's doing!" She scampers off.
He looks at me, relieved, and I tell him to keep the rope, put bicycle in the trunk, tie it all up, and he'll be fine. He takes the rope, and he's grateful. We say a few nice words, I notice that he's probably gay (it's his up-turned '80s collar thing that has become trendy again in the gay bars that makes me think so), that he has some sort of Mediterranean/French/African accent to his perfect grammar, and I head into the store.
No pun intended, but what a colorful (yet strangely formal) young man!
Now, it's not even 9.00 on a Saturday morning in a discount department store. I walk to the middle of the store, buy 5 SpaceBags, pick up a silver jewelry cleaning cloth on the way, and snag a pair of drawstring sweatshorts (without even trying them on) on the way back towards the register. I walk up to an open register, check out, and walk back towards my car. This took maybe 20 minutes.
At this point, you can imagine that the very last thing I expect to see in the parking lot is the colorful foreign young gay black man with perfect grammar still jacking around trying to get his bicycle into his 4-door small-ish sedan, right?
That's exactly what I see.
I walk up to him again and, this time, he looks more embarrassed than anything. "Was there a particular technique you used when you transported yours?" he asks. I blink, but only at the still-surprising formal language. "Well, first, it has to go in the trunk, sweetie!" I reply.
While I was in the store, e'd been trying to tie the door closed, with the bike hanging out of the car. Thank God he figured out that was unwise.
He tries to tell me he is okay, he'd called his (somebody), and he was bringing a truck.
"No need!" I cry. The situation has transmuted from giving a stranger a piece of cheap nylon rope to becoming my mission in life to get this chap, and his new bicycle, to his destination in his little car. "Trust me!" I cry, "It'll go in the trunk!"
He tries to protest, saying that it doesn't fit. "Trust me!" I cry again, "This will work! I know it doesn't look like it, but I've done it, in that car!" pointing towards Betsy, my small-sh 4-door sedan. For extra emphasis, and because of my native excitability, I pantomime putting the bicycle in the trunk.
He looks doubtful, but, partly out of politeness at my sense of interest/helpfulness and partly because of my overwhelming confidence, he pulls the bicycle out of the car and tries to stick one end in the trunk. The problem immediately becomes clear to me.
He'd been putting the wrong end into the trunk.
I laugh out loud, and his expression changes from embarrassed to confused again. "Nope, that's your trouble right there! You have to put the other end in first," and I grab the handlebar and pull the front end of the bicycle towards me (and out of the trunk). He put the back end in, and I moved it diagonally into the back corner. I point out to him that the part of the bicycle touching his bumper paint are tire rubber and that the frame of the bicycle iss actually resting on the rubber seal of the trunk, so that nothing will be damaged. He understands, but isn't figuring out where I am going with this yet. He's still envisioning this thing flopping out of his trunk in the middle of the street on his way home.
Then I wrap the rope around the trunk lid, front-to-back, pull both ends towards me, and close the trunk onto the bicycle. Then I run the rope around the bicycle frame a couple of times, and run them around the trunk lid again.
The light goes off in his head. He beams.
He helps me tighten the whole rig down, running the rope around the trunk lid and the bicycle frame a few more times, and seems very impressed when, at the end, I grab hold of the bicycle and tugged (hard!) and wiggle back-and-forth and it doesn't move.
He grins ear-to-ear and thanks me profusely, and I just laugh and say, "Just help out someone else when they need it." I turn to leave and then turn back, "Hey, go call the guy with the truck and tell him not to come!" He looks confused again, then throws his head back and laughs, scampering off towards the store . . .
After all of that, I really would have let him use my cell 'phone if I had realized he didn't have one. Seriously.
~Riot.Jane
I arrived at the local discount department store at 8.30 last Saturday morning. I pull up, and I see a young, thin black guy trying to wrestle a (presumably new) bicycle into the back seat of his car. A white lady walking into the store stops, says something to him, smiles, walks towards him. "How nice of her," I think as I park, put away stuff in the car, dally a bit about getting out. I get out and see them, together, trying to wrestle this 10-speed sized bike into the backseat of his car.
He's driving a 4-door small-ish sedan. Like mine. I laugh out loud at this sight.
I open the trunk of my car, get out the crappy yellow dollar store nylon rope that I used to tie something to my own car approximately 3 years ago. I take it over to them, she laughs and looks relieved someone else is here. She's obviously in over her head. He still looks confused as to why this damned thing doesn't fit in his car. I tell her that I've done this before, "Just put it in the trunk and tie it up," I say. She is totally grateful and runs off after telling him, "Oh, look, see? Someone who knows what she's doing!" She scampers off.
He looks at me, relieved, and I tell him to keep the rope, put bicycle in the trunk, tie it all up, and he'll be fine. He takes the rope, and he's grateful. We say a few nice words, I notice that he's probably gay (it's his up-turned '80s collar thing that has become trendy again in the gay bars that makes me think so), that he has some sort of Mediterranean/French/African accent to his perfect grammar, and I head into the store.
No pun intended, but what a colorful (yet strangely formal) young man!
Now, it's not even 9.00 on a Saturday morning in a discount department store. I walk to the middle of the store, buy 5 SpaceBags, pick up a silver jewelry cleaning cloth on the way, and snag a pair of drawstring sweatshorts (without even trying them on) on the way back towards the register. I walk up to an open register, check out, and walk back towards my car. This took maybe 20 minutes.
At this point, you can imagine that the very last thing I expect to see in the parking lot is the colorful foreign young gay black man with perfect grammar still jacking around trying to get his bicycle into his 4-door small-ish sedan, right?
That's exactly what I see.
I walk up to him again and, this time, he looks more embarrassed than anything. "Was there a particular technique you used when you transported yours?" he asks. I blink, but only at the still-surprising formal language. "Well, first, it has to go in the trunk, sweetie!" I reply.
While I was in the store, e'd been trying to tie the door closed, with the bike hanging out of the car. Thank God he figured out that was unwise.
He tries to tell me he is okay, he'd called his (somebody), and he was bringing a truck.
"No need!" I cry. The situation has transmuted from giving a stranger a piece of cheap nylon rope to becoming my mission in life to get this chap, and his new bicycle, to his destination in his little car. "Trust me!" I cry, "It'll go in the trunk!"
He tries to protest, saying that it doesn't fit. "Trust me!" I cry again, "This will work! I know it doesn't look like it, but I've done it, in that car!" pointing towards Betsy, my small-sh 4-door sedan. For extra emphasis, and because of my native excitability, I pantomime putting the bicycle in the trunk.
He looks doubtful, but, partly out of politeness at my sense of interest/helpfulness and partly because of my overwhelming confidence, he pulls the bicycle out of the car and tries to stick one end in the trunk. The problem immediately becomes clear to me.
He'd been putting the wrong end into the trunk.
I laugh out loud, and his expression changes from embarrassed to confused again. "Nope, that's your trouble right there! You have to put the other end in first," and I grab the handlebar and pull the front end of the bicycle towards me (and out of the trunk). He put the back end in, and I moved it diagonally into the back corner. I point out to him that the part of the bicycle touching his bumper paint are tire rubber and that the frame of the bicycle iss actually resting on the rubber seal of the trunk, so that nothing will be damaged. He understands, but isn't figuring out where I am going with this yet. He's still envisioning this thing flopping out of his trunk in the middle of the street on his way home.
Then I wrap the rope around the trunk lid, front-to-back, pull both ends towards me, and close the trunk onto the bicycle. Then I run the rope around the bicycle frame a couple of times, and run them around the trunk lid again.
The light goes off in his head. He beams.
He helps me tighten the whole rig down, running the rope around the trunk lid and the bicycle frame a few more times, and seems very impressed when, at the end, I grab hold of the bicycle and tugged (hard!) and wiggle back-and-forth and it doesn't move.
He grins ear-to-ear and thanks me profusely, and I just laugh and say, "Just help out someone else when they need it." I turn to leave and then turn back, "Hey, go call the guy with the truck and tell him not to come!" He looks confused again, then throws his head back and laughs, scampering off towards the store . . .
After all of that, I really would have let him use my cell 'phone if I had realized he didn't have one. Seriously.
~Riot.Jane
Letter Too Late
Fellow Janes,
Do you ever feel like there are a million things you would love to say to someone you’re in relationship with but never do? Then by the time the love is over you’re so disgusted (or still in love!) or have moved on, and those things never get said? A really funny and wise and woman approached me about a letter that she had written to her ex of 12 years.
Linda is cynical, funny and pretty heartbreaking in this letter and I enjoyed reading it so much!
She says:
“Eric and I were high school sweethearts. Our breakup was a defining moment in my life and I was left with a lot of baggage to carry around. All those little (and big) things I never said felt like a weight chained around my neck. So I wrote a letter. Just in case you’re wondering . . . Yes, I sent it to him.
I sent the letter in its entirety and Mellissa has edited it to filter out some really personal parts that I am unwilling to share and made a few changes to the text with my consent. I hope you enjoy it and find in it the courage to do what I never did. To speak your mind.”
Dear Eric,
Remember the time we went to the Jane’s Addiction concert and, against my wishes, you snuck in that ridiculous hip flask you loved to drag around filled with cheap whiskey? Remember when you got so sick from drinking it combined with the heat all those bodies and the humidity and the burning Texas sun that you ended up throwing up all over the lawn in front of you? I told you it was okay, that I wasn’t embarrassed and that I was totally okay with leaving the show early so you could go home and lay down.
I lied.
Eric, sometimes when you did something to piss me off, like got drunk with your buddies, passed out at their place and missed work because of a hangover, I would do things to get back at you in my own way, like giving you food on dirty dishes or scrubbing the house down with bleach before you came home, hung over, because I knew it gave you a headache.
When you got in that fight with that little person at our favorite bar back in ‘99 and got your ass beat and I told you it didn’t make you a pussy.
I lied.
Once when your parents came over to have dinner to have dinner at our first apartment, I excused myself to get a drink from the kitchen. Well, your father came in behind me and made a pass at me. So remember when I said how great your Dad was?
I lied.
Eric, I know you kissed the neighbor by the Dumpsters all those years ago. I know our cat, Bunsen, died when you told me he ran away (he had Feline Leukemia, I just didn’t think you could handle the truth), I know you watched “Life Goes On” marathons when I was at work and cried like a baby because the character Jessie, who had AIDS, reminded you of your brother. I know you peed on the toilet seat to spite me. I know you told my friends I wasn’t home so you could keep me all to yourself. I that know you stared at me while I slept.
Eric, remember when I told you I was better off without you and all those years we spent together were a waste?
I maybe. . . Just might have, lied.
Do you ever feel like there are a million things you would love to say to someone you’re in relationship with but never do? Then by the time the love is over you’re so disgusted (or still in love!) or have moved on, and those things never get said? A really funny and wise and woman approached me about a letter that she had written to her ex of 12 years.
Linda is cynical, funny and pretty heartbreaking in this letter and I enjoyed reading it so much!
She says:
“Eric and I were high school sweethearts. Our breakup was a defining moment in my life and I was left with a lot of baggage to carry around. All those little (and big) things I never said felt like a weight chained around my neck. So I wrote a letter. Just in case you’re wondering . . . Yes, I sent it to him.
I sent the letter in its entirety and Mellissa has edited it to filter out some really personal parts that I am unwilling to share and made a few changes to the text with my consent. I hope you enjoy it and find in it the courage to do what I never did. To speak your mind.”
Dear Eric,
Remember the time we went to the Jane’s Addiction concert and, against my wishes, you snuck in that ridiculous hip flask you loved to drag around filled with cheap whiskey? Remember when you got so sick from drinking it combined with the heat all those bodies and the humidity and the burning Texas sun that you ended up throwing up all over the lawn in front of you? I told you it was okay, that I wasn’t embarrassed and that I was totally okay with leaving the show early so you could go home and lay down.
I lied.
Eric, sometimes when you did something to piss me off, like got drunk with your buddies, passed out at their place and missed work because of a hangover, I would do things to get back at you in my own way, like giving you food on dirty dishes or scrubbing the house down with bleach before you came home, hung over, because I knew it gave you a headache.
When you got in that fight with that little person at our favorite bar back in ‘99 and got your ass beat and I told you it didn’t make you a pussy.
I lied.
Once when your parents came over to have dinner to have dinner at our first apartment, I excused myself to get a drink from the kitchen. Well, your father came in behind me and made a pass at me. So remember when I said how great your Dad was?
I lied.
Eric, I know you kissed the neighbor by the Dumpsters all those years ago. I know our cat, Bunsen, died when you told me he ran away (he had Feline Leukemia, I just didn’t think you could handle the truth), I know you watched “Life Goes On” marathons when I was at work and cried like a baby because the character Jessie, who had AIDS, reminded you of your brother. I know you peed on the toilet seat to spite me. I know you told my friends I wasn’t home so you could keep me all to yourself. I that know you stared at me while I slept.
Eric, remember when I told you I was better off without you and all those years we spent together were a waste?
I maybe. . . Just might have, lied.
About My Shoes . . .
I kissed you three years ago Audrey. In a hot, dark club in Dallas when the last call was feverishly drinking in my money at the bar.
I miss you Audrey.
By the way, I want my Chucks* back.
*Definition of "Chucks"
I miss you Audrey.
By the way, I want my Chucks* back.
*Definition of "Chucks"
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