And no one has told me what a great job I did. I am a slave for approval. I am all kinds of Lisa Simpson. Will one of you guys tell me I did a great job? Can I get it on a post-it?
I haven't done a great job on my little blog. I've abandoned all (both) of my readers and left you to your own devices. I'm sure all (both) of you are thinking:
I know. But, still, my name's not Bob! Although... I think I could pull it off. What do you think? Bob Bon?
Anyhow, in these intellectually bereft, blog-less weeks I've thought of some things. I've been thinking about how white people need to stop being butthurt when black people talk about racism. I've also been thinking about how Laney is 12 (TWELVE!) and that seems so grown up and on the verge. And I've also been thinking about this thing that happened when I was walking to the grocery store, and since race relations in America and incipient teenager-dom feel like too much right now, I'm gonna tell you about the thing that happened when I was walking to the grocery store, cause it made me mad and better out than in, ya know?
So, I was walking to the grocery store and listening to a podcast, probably Nerdist, and I passed a couple of guys. One of them said something which I didn't hear on account of the podcast. So I popped my earbud out (on account of how I am unfailingly polite) and said, "Sorry, I didn't catch that," and he said (and this is a direct quote), he said "Hey, you got them titties!"
Well, I suppose this is empirically true. As an adult female person I come equipped with breasts, of roughly the same size and shape. And as an adult female person, I have had them commented upon dozens and dozens of varyingly insulting and inappropriate times. And, as as adult female person with some sense of self, my first reaction should have been anger. Good, ladylike anger. Like so:
Instead I worried that I wasn't dressed appropriately. I tucked my head down and walked quickly past worried that I was showing off the good china or something. I am a 46 year old woman, who had dressed herself earlier that day in a sports bra, a tank top and a goddamn sweatshirt. But I still thought it was my fault. And I know, intellectually, that even had I been walking to the grocery store wearing nothing but pasties and earbuds, it was still not that asshole's job to comment on my body.
My reaction should have been:
But, the next time it happens, as god is my witness, that man is going to get an earful from me. I'm gonna yell all sorts of swears and embarrass him publicly and make sure he thinks twice before he does it again.
I know. I won't. I'll always start off polite and then be embarrassed.
Do you guys think there's a brain chip out there for this?