Charming, but single

A journal in dates and drinks


File this under "Ways NOT to get the girl"

After work I had scheduled an appointment to check out an apartment, as my hunt for new digs is still going on. (I'm being terribly particular because I don't HAVE to move. I would just rather move somewhere closer to work. Traffic and long commutes suck.) So I didn't take the Interstate home. Instead, I drove through town to get an idea of how the commute to this new place would be. (Fabulously short commute, far-from-fabulous apartment.) My car was in direct sun all day, so it was hot and stuffy and the AC just wasn't doing it for me and my still-weak little lungs. I was burning up, with sweat rolling down my face because I was still in my jacket. (I had to look nice to meet my potential landlord.) Suffice it to say that I was a sight. And probably not a good one. I turn onto a mildly busy sidestreet and I notice a car slow down to my left and pull even with me. It was pretty obvious, but I didn't think much of it. I stop at a very long red light. I was checking my voicemail when the same car pulls even with me again and the driver and passenger roll their windows down. I hear a man's voice calling for me. I look down and fiddle with my phone, trying to ignore the man, who is unfazed by me ignoring him and only yells louder -- "Hey, baby! Hey! Baby! Looky here! Hey girl! Heeeeey!" I put my phone back to my ear. I pretend to make a call. I curse the long red light. So these dumbasses start honking the horn at me. Annoyed, I turn and shoot them a Look of Death from behind my sunglasses. They start bouncing up and down and hollering and catcalling like crazy. Now, what did these prospective Mensa members think I was going to do, leave my car parked on the street, jump in theirs and make sweet, sweet love to them in a parking lot? Shout out my phone number? Follow them home? Flash my breasts? More likely than not, it was just a random act of obnoxiousness caused by a need to feel like big men. Machismo gone mad, although I'm not quite sure how getting my attention displayed their virility. Things like this drive me crazy. When I'm out and about, I don't want to be yelled at or honked at by anyone, let alone strange men that I don't know. I don't know many women who do. Guys who catcall, yell, whistle, squeal and generally make a scene when women walk by are always overcompensating and never fooling anyone. These are the same men who feel the need to display their "straightness" when around gay men. (Men don't have the market cornered on this -- I know plenty of women who try to act sexy or play up their femininity to make themselves feel better.) It goes without saying that anyone who feels that they have to prove something isn't really proving anything. When people look at you and think, "Doth thou protest too much?" it is never a good thing. I knew a girl who got really tired of catcalls while we were on Spring Break a few years back. After about the 10th time in as many minutes, she snappily replied, "Oh really! Let's go then, Bring! It! On!" to a guy who loudly suggested that our group of girls perform a sexual act on him. He was left speechless and stammered something before quickly leaving us alone. He wasn't prepared to back up his random act of sexual harassment, and he looked like an ass. It was one of the funniest things I've witnessed. As for the geniuses in the car next to me in traffic today, I sped off as soon as the light changed, leaving them honking and yelling behind me. Jerkoffs.



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Charming, but single is 25 26 27(!), lives in the Southern part of the U.S.A. and likes both her drinks and her boys tall. E-mail (listed below) her and she may respond. You can also IM her in AIM/AOL. (If she ever remembers to sign on.)
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Former taglines of this blog: "A Journal in Dates and Drinks" and "A Dateless Journal of Drinking."




Those Particulars
Some Backstory
Memories of the Way We Were
Updates and Towel Snapping
One Year Wrap-Up
Just As She Is
An Open Letter to Myself
After 26 years, she HAS learned something
An Open Letter to the Men Who Message Me Through Match
Sharing a smoke



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