Dear Diary,
Today I awoke too late to eat breakfast or shower. My paycheck was $120 short of rent. Trying to save money, I only ate half a bag of M&Ms, a cup of coffee, and a frozen dinner all day—but my credit card was still declined for a $1.77 purchase. While I was waiting in the sun for the bus, a man struck up a delightful conversation with me. He was a middle-aged white man with an enormous ass, lots of visible crack, one arm, and a McDonald's medium drink.
"That fucker wouldn't let me on the bus because of my soda,” he said. “That's fucked up, huh?"
Oh, my lucky stars, was he talking to me? "Yeah."
"That's okay.” The man smirked. “I know where he lives."
"Heh." I hoped he was joking. I really did.
"Haha." Long pause. Slurp. "So, do you live in Monterey?"
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Dear Diary,
At work today, a man in his 60s was staring at me near the information desk. A few minutes later, he stopped me in art books. "Now, listen here, you," he teased.
Having no clue what was going on, I fake-laughed. He pulled out a business card—it was electric yellow, with zebra stripes—for his salon. Then he spent the next ten minutes telling me how gorgeous I am, how I'm "dynamite," how I could be a model, and how I might be one of the most beautiful girls on the whole peninsula. That’s right, everyone: the whole, entire peninsula. He said he cuts Clint Eastwood's hair, and Clint is always asking him if he knows any cute girls to come work as hostesses at Mission Ranch, Clint’s resort. I kind of question whether Clint Eastwood is that desperate in his hiring practices, but I digress. Mr. Hairstylist even asked me if I have a picture I could give to him to show Clint. And the whole time, I'm fake-laughing, not wanting to offend him and not knowing how to get away.
There was a time when I thought I was good at deflecting male attention—polite deflection, is how I put it. What I didn’t realize was that I wasn’t so much deflecting the attention as I was absorbing it. I am the ideal doormat: pretty and absorbent. I now know that men don’t notice the desperate, terrified-animal look in my eyes, let alone understand the obvious fact that I’m smiling in self-defense. Not that I'm trying to say I get hit on all the time, but when I do, man, oh, man, is it ever creepy.
Take, for example, my uncle’s wedding. The DJ started playing a Wham!-era George Michael song, “I’m Your Man.” Being a rabid ‘80s fan, I dragged my two girl cousins out on the dance floor. Moments later, an old man I didn't know appeared and started dancing with me. At first I thought he was just being nice, friendly. But then he kept dancing and started spinning me around, and I realized that I was the one being nice. The song kept going on and on and on, an unending dirge to my dignity. While he was a harmless gent and probably a pleasant fellow, things were nonetheless getting more awful by the minute: I was tired; the dance floor was almost completely empty; and the guy was getting this intense look on his face, which—given his age—may or may not have indicated a life-threatening medical emergency. Worst of all, the lyrics to "I'm Your Man" are sexually explicit. (Any Arrested Development fans? Think “Afternoon Delight” explicit.) The chorus is, "If you're gonna do it, do it right/Do it with me" repeated breathily and George Michael-y, and here are some other highlights:
Everybody knows where the good people go
But where we're going baby
Ain't no such word as no!
I'll be your sexual inspiration
And with some stimulation
We can do it right...
All I want is for you to be there
And when I'm turned on
If you want me-
I'm your man!
Halfway through the song, I was praying for it to end. I was no longer dancing and was more...jerking spastically, twitching my arms and kicking my feet in an arrhythmic blur, all the while with a horrible, painful grimace of a smile on my face. Picture Elaine’s dancing on Seinfeld—but smiling. And now, every time I hear that song, I remember dancing with an over-eager old guy and grinning like my life depended on it.
But back to the present. Here's the kicker. I later found out that I'm just the latest in a long string of ladies at work to whom Mr. Hairstylist has given his card. In fact, he offered to buy one of my coworkers some “sexy, strappy” high heels. (If he really is just a nice guy, he needs to find a way to do it that doesn't make him seem like a pimp.) He offered to buy me something as well, but not shoes—no, he wanted to get me some makeup. Because while I'm "dynamite," he said, I'd be REALLY beautiful with some makeup.
Now that is classic.
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Dear Diary,
Yesterday I was walking home from work--tired, hungry, hot, and mostly just feeling sorry for myself. I'd just been in the craft store, and apparently they've taken their musical cues from Walgreens, because it was the all-depressing music hour in there. I'd finally left after hearing a '60s song by Jimmy Ruffin, "What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?", a tune guaranteed to make you feel lonely as hell. (And you know what becomes of the broken hearted? They get the kind of jobs for which you have to wear a smock and a nametag.)
So, I was walking past Motel 6 (of course), and some young blond chick runs out from nowhere to ask me if I like perfume. How was I supposed to answer that in a way that would make her leave? “No, I prefer to smell like dried vomit and roadkill”? Well. Probably that would have worked. Instead, I said yes.
Then she goes on to tell me that she's in some contest for her...school? To sell perfume? Wait a second, that doesn't make any damn sense! Well, it’s too late to interrogate her about it now.
I told her that I'm broke and I'm not buying any perfume. I should have just treated her like she was a homeless person and sped away while looking at my Rolex watch (it’s actually a stick-on tattoo of a Rolex, that I got from a Cracker Jack box). For all I know she was homeless—she was selling things out of a box in a Motel 6 parking lot, after all. Anyway, instead, when she said, "Let's just give it a try," and held out the bottle, I obediently stuck out my arm. What? Why? I don't know.
"This is by Paris Hilton--we hate her, but she makes great perfume--do you like how that smells?"
"Uh...I guess..."
"Normally you know how perfume goes for $60-80 in stores, well, we sell it for $30, but my boss is letting me sell it this weekend for $25. A great deal, huh?"
"Yeah, but, I'm really broke. Sorry, I'm really not going to buy anything." This was the third time, the pleading time. She finally let me go, then she—I assume—went back to wait in the Motel 6 shadows, to pounce on the next person who walked by, for her school-sponsored knockoff-perfume sale.
My arm REEKED. It was nasty. It smelled exactly how I imagine Paris Hilton's armpits smell at the end of the night, actually: overly sweet, almost spicy, but with a strong hint of club-rat-B.O.
I realized something, then, walking home and choking on the smell of my carpet-bombed forearm. Every year I come up with New Year's resolutions. Drink more water, exercise more, pay down my credit cards, etc. But two stay the same from year to year: be nicer and keep my mouth shut. I hold to them about as well as I hold to "exercise more" (which is to say, not very well at all), but I do try.
Yet after a month involving the one-armed bus-accoster, the Clint Eastwood pimp, and now the perfume-peddling co-ed—after washing my arm for the second time, the clinging perfume whispering you stink, you stink at me—after all that, I've realized that I need a third resolution. And that is to stand up for myself. To grow a darn backbone.
Because, really. The last thing I need is to run into more creepy men while smelling like an after-hours beezy.
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Dear Diary,
Today I went into the bathroom at work, and a woman was kneeling in one of the stalls, violently throwing up. I decided I didn’t really have to pee that bad, and left, only to find her still puking ten minutes later. When I was done in the bathroom (and trust me, it is ten times worse trying to pee while someone is yarking up their leftovers, than it is when someone’s talking to their cousin’s fiance’s sister on the goddamn cell phone in the goddamn public restroom), I waited patiently for her to leave, and as soon as the door closed I came out to wash my hands.
But oh, oh, it was too soon, and there she stood, gazing in the mirror, a train wreck of a woman. In her 40s, maybe, with blond hair that couldn’t have been brushed that day, blotchy mascara, and a twitchy eye.
A twitchy eye is always a bad sign, ladies and gentlemen.
“Oh, do you work here?” she asked, blocking the sink. No, I was tempted to say, I do not work in the toilet.
“Yes?”
“Do you like working here? It seems like a nice place.” The woman didn’t even sound healthy. Her voice was high-pitched and fast, the sound of someone who either is on something or should be.
“Yes.” I mean, I didn’t like it right then, but what was I going to do? I’m a germaphobe, and she was blocking the sink.
“I think I should spend some time here more often, get out of the house more, instead of staying inside all the time, I think that’s a good idea, don’t you?”
“Yes.” NO! No, God, no.
“Do you have any books on bulimia?”
.
.
.
My God, it was incredible. Triumphant. You couldn’t write something as good as that. No one could. It would sound fake. But there she was, twitchy Ms. Mascara, asking a store employee if they had books on bulimia after vomiting up her small intestine in a public place.
“Yes, we do.”
“Really? Do you think you could show me where? I think I should get a book on bulimia.”
“Um—yes, but I need to wash my hands first. If you want to go to the information desk, I can meet you there.”
Needless to say, I decided instead to hide in the warehouse. It did me no good, because I few minutes later, I was called to the info desk to help her find some books on bulimia.
“They’re all going to be right over here, in the Recovery section…”
“I think I should buy a book on bulimia, because I’ve had bulimia for more than two years, and I have problems with my esophagus? And I’ve got the digestive problems, too, I have problems with my bowel movements—does this help you?”
“Um—well, they’re all going to be right over here.” And this is not the only time someone has described to me their digestive issues in gruesome detail because they think it's going to help me find the right book for them. Apparently my nametag says "free clinic" in crazy-people-code-language.
“I know they say you shouldn’t be bulimic but it does help keep the weight off, and I don’t want to have a big ass, I don’t want to look pregnant if I’m not, right?” Oh, don’t worry, honey. No one would believe that you’re pregnant. Because no one would have sex with you.
“Well, they’re all right in here…See, there’s this one—“
“Oh, great. Do you ever do things for people here if they ask you?”
“Um…”
“Because I’m having trouble with—“ (super-fast high-pitched mouse-with-bulimia voice) “and I know they told me before that—“ (oh God when does it end) “but I tried calling the police, can you call the police for me and have them come down here?”
“Um—well, I don’t, I don’t think I can help you with that. But here are the bulimia books, and if there’s anything else you need, let me know,” I said, running away.
A breakthrough! It was a breakthrough. I actually said no to someone! I said no, Crazy Person, I will not call the cops for you, for whatever crazy-person reason you want me to. No, I will not stand here any longer and listen to you talk about your bowel movements. No, I say! Be gone with ye!
Do I hear the subtle rustle of a new leaf turning over?
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Present Day
Dear Diary,
Today a man approached me at the registers with a newspaper. It was hard to tell how old he was—maybe late 40s, white, with gray-streaked dark hair, wearing a sweater. It is easy to trust people in sweaters, because they look like sheep, and sheep are trustworthy.
“Hello, Kim. It’s very nice to see you again,” he said, smiling. Smiling a lot. Smiling so much that I began to think that he wasn’t just reading my nametag, that he didn’t just know me from around the store; no, he must have known me from the real world.
“Hi, how are you today?”
“Good. And I trust that it is good for you, as well," he said, slowly and overly formal.
Trust away, buddy, it’s a free country. “I’m doing well, thanks. Do you have a Rewards Card you want me to scan?”
“No, no, I’ll just help out in the usual way.” I assumed he meant that he would pay cash. I was going to do my corporate-automaton song-and-dance about the card, but I was getting embarrassed, what with that crinkly-eyed Prozac-softened smile of his—I thought I must know him from somewhere. An old teacher, probably. And now I was smiling too much, too, because I was in Polite Deflection Mode. I didn’t realize it yet, but I was. Tiny, overly polite alarms were going off and being ignored in my dumb, too-trusting brain.
I took his money, and then he said, “Would you be available for a walk sometime? Or to listen to the violin?”
Maybe he was my violin teacher, I thought. I am serious. And my violin teacher was a woman.
I still couldn’t stop smiling, and blushing, and fake-laughing. It was “I’m Your Man” all over again, except with less dancing. I never know how to respond when men ask me on dates, because there’s always a part of me that is too afraid that if I just say, “I’m taken,” they’ll go, “Whoa, whoa, I wasn’t asking you on a date! I always ask women I’ve never met before to go get coffee. As friends only.” And this is in spite of the fact that the only men who do ask me out are over 40.
“No, sorry, I’m…pretty busy, actually.”
“Ah. Well, if you are ever not busy, let me know,” he said. “You are certainly one of the more…pleasant women in the area. You’re very intelligent and charming.” What’s with men who hit on me and their sense of geography? First it’s the peninsula, then the area. One day, mark my words, it will be “one of the most physically intact women in the dungeon.”
Also, compliments were the last thing I wanted to hear from him at this point. No, maybe not the last; that would probably be bat-like screeches sounding out “I love you,” or something more mundane like, “Your mother is on a bus that will explode if it drops below 60 miles per hour.” But needless to say, I was not flattered. Having that guy compliment me on being charming is like if Kim Jong Il complimented me on my humanitarian efforts.
But he was still smiling, and I was still fake-laughing, and I began to understand what Jim Jones’s followers must have looked like right before they drank the poisoned Kool-Aid.
“Oh, thank you,” I said. Standing nearby was my ex-Navy coworker. Sure, he’s 80, but you’d never guess it from looking at him. Did he step in? No, and why would he? Even octogenarian men do not recognize the desperate-animal look in a woman’s eyes.
Finally, and excruciatingly, Smiley offered his hand and gave me his name—well, his initials, probably because his real name is on the FBI Most Wanted list. No, scratch that. Probably on the Canadian Most Wanted list. Too friendly. And I said, “Nice to meet you.”
Nice to meet you. Ha!
What a day. Once again, my reaction was to smile and giggle and do everything possible to make sure the situation wasn’t the least bit uncomfortable—for him.
And don’t think I don’t know that there’s at least one of you out there saying, “Poor guy.” No. He was not a poor guy. I want to remind you that a man twice my age was essentially trying to get me to have sex with him; in other words, old enough to be my father, and creepy enough to be Jeffrey Dahmer’s cousin. The thing you also have to remember is that if you’re a man, and an older, unattractive woman makes an awkward advance at you, you know that you can probably outrun or outbox her if she goes all Kathy Bates from Misery. But for me, when it comes to survival, I have all the physical prowess of a giraffe with two broken ankles.
Maybe Mr. Pseudo-Violin Teacher was more afraid of me than I was of him, like a spider. But you know what? I’m still afraid of spiders, and they are far less likely to make my skin into a hat.
Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and apparently, my spine won’t be, either. I guess I did make some progress, though. When the hairstylist was trying to lure me in with promises of Clint Eastwood, I listened to him for ten minutes, all along pretending that I was going to call him back. Maybe my response to Smiley was a weak, sad, little lie (I’m too busy?), but at least I clearly turned him down. I didn’t say, “Sure, I would love to listen to you play the violin. That is in no way the creepiest come-on I’ve ever heard, and it absolutely does not fill me with dread in the deepest reaches of my being! Please, tell me more about how you’re happy to see me ‘again.’ I love wondering whether you’ve been watching me for months on end.”
I told Sean that I thought it was somehow more of a brush-off that I said, “I’m busy” (i.e., clearly a polite rejection) instead of saying, “I’m taken” (which could be construed as, “I would date you if I were single”). After a long moment, Sean patted me on the shoulder and said, not unkindly, “Kim, you can’t just make up rules like that after the fact and expect the rest of the world to live by them. It’s ridiculous.”
Well, yes. But before I go take what I hope will be a long, scalding shower, I’m going to go ahead and put this in the win category. A timid “no” is still a “no,” after all. So, if you’re keeping track at home, that brings the current score to: Dangerous, Creepy Losers: 2,386; Kim: 1.
Yes! In your face, Losers!
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Three Days Later
Dear Diary,
Smiley came back today, as I somehow knew he would. He asked me about a book he heard about a few days ago, the day he asked me on a date. No, let me be more specific; he quoted back to me a book-related conversation that he overheard me having with another customer. I don't...I just...I...
All right, Creepy Losers of the world, you win. I give up. Make me into a skin hat.
life's hard for us doormats.
wipe your dirty mouse to go back to BRAINS
