A Strange Case of Condiments in Flattery

At the Abq Polyamory meeting I made a mistake.  When Dallas* began introducing himself to the group, I made a joke based on that with which he opened.  He let me know that this was not in fact a joking time, that he was feeling some very deep and significant things.  And he did so kindly, and with concern for my feeling of horror that I'd just stepped on his deep and concerned emotions.  I was grateful.

I'd met Dallas one other time and hadn't been able to decide if I like him or not.  But whether or not I like him, I realized this night that I am attracted to him.  More on that later.

The meeting continued and had various threads of conversation.  At one point a few of us described why we choose the label "queer" rather than "bisexual", my point being that it describes more about me than "bisexual" ever could (as well as other reasons).

I approached him after the meeting in order to thank him for his care and kindness in letting me know how he needed me to respond to him.  He took my hands as I told him.  It felt close.  Maybe a little closer than I wanted, and certainly closer than I expected, but I decided he is probably someone who is very touchy feely by nature.  I can be cool with that.

After I thanked him, he wanted to talk about the term "queer".  I can't remember word for word what he said but it boiled down to asking if I really only get involved with women (no), and saying how much of a travesty it would be for men if I did because I'm so pretty and ... well, he went on.  He's still holding my hands.

I had no idea how to respond.  What was going on for me?  I'm sure my face was red; I was embarrassed.  I had these thoughts all in the space of a few seconds: "He thinks I'm pretty!", "Wow, he's too close to me", "Does he want something?", "Wait... a travesty for men if I was only into women???"

Do you see, dear reader, what again we have here?  This idea that, in some fashion, the role of a woman revolves around the needs of men.  That, and some blatant heterosexism whereby lesbians are just not as okay as bisexual or straight women (unless apparently they're ugly - right, prettiness is for men to enjoy). 

I'd like to apply two things I later heard to this situation.  One, a good thing to do if you wish to interest a woman in you, is to give her a sincere compliment and then WALK AWAY!  You see, she then doesn't have to stand there feeling awkward, thinking up a response, or -if you've done something like compliment her body- get uncomfortable knowing that you're looking at her.  It also gives her a chance to consider how she'd like to respond to you later.

The second thing is, perhaps we should try to offer only nice things in our compliments.  This compliment offered nice and icky things.  As a friend of mine told me upon hearing this story, "Wow, thanks for the waffle.  Did you have to put both syrup AND ketchup on it?" 

Yeah, syrup and ketchup.

*Names changed for the sake of decency.

Seen My Falcon?

I've just read this article (don't worry, it's short):
http://dallasclayton.com/post/2670940787/how-to-meet-the-girl-of-your-dreams-foolproof

For those of you who are just not going to click the link, basically it suggests that in order to win the "girl of your dreams" you should, lie to her, lead her on a fool's errand and manipulate her.

It's probably supposed to be funny.  In fact, I'm sure it is because no one would ever actually do this.  But it's creepy too.

The line about asking her if she would help you look for your bird... does that ring a bell for anyone else?  When my mother was teaching me about Stranger Danger, she often told me that the "stranger" would ask me to help "him" look for his lost puppy.  Can't help it; when I read that line bells from my 6 year old brain resounded. 

Interesting too to think about what makes for a relationship when it was started by a rather large and ridiculous lie. 

I wonder at times at what people might say about my thoughts here.  "Can't I just, relax?  Learn to take a joke?"  Well, no, not in this case.  It may be shared as a joke but how often is it seen as acceptable to lie to people to get what you want?  And how often is it accepted to manipulate them, treat them like they are stupid or thoughtless, jerk at other's emotions for your own means?  It's more often than we all probably pick up on.  And making a joke as if that's okay, isn't going to help unless you follow it up with commentary about it's joke nature.

Tri-Tone Perfecta

It's Christmas day and all through the house...

my phone is dinging.  With text messages from numbers I don't have in my phone.  Wtf?  The first one was from the 806 area code and basically said "merry Xmas" etc.  I just looked it up and that's in the TX, Amarillo/Lubbock area.  I know of one person in Lubbock but we've never met or talked; she's a friend of a friend.

Next I got a text from someone in the 505.  It says "cute picture".  Huh?  I figure I might know this person as I'm also in the 505, and how unlikely is it that someone in the 505 misdial my number (an 802)?  I reply "who is this?"  Answer: "Michael".

Okay, so I do know a Michael here, but I haven't specifically given him my number, nor are we phone/texting buddies, nor are we buddies at all.  We run in some similar circles and I smile at him when I see him, despite the fact that he creeps me out.  I asked "terribly sorry, which Michael?"  (I do know a few, though not from 505.)  No answer.

Oooooookay.  Then I get a picture message from 503 area code, which is Portland, OR.  Excellent as I've heard it is there, I don't think I know anyone from Portland.  I also don't recognize the red headed kid in the photo.  There is no response when I ask who it is, making me think that these are some kind of fishing attempt, creepy though that is. 

The only one I question is the 505 where I did actually get some kind of response, though it's also the creepiest cuz... what picture?  I found this site, which I think is pretty cool: http://www.spydialer.com/default.aspx  It dials the phone number you put in, doesn't say anything to the answer but records what is on the other line.  When calling the 505, I received generic phone woman saying I'd reached 505#######.  At the tone leave a... and that's where my complimentary 10 second recording cut off.

Text scams?  Likely.  To what end I'm not sure, but seriously how has humanity come to a point where bugging people on Christmas day with fake text messages is acceptable?  I want more from humanity than this.

Getting People To Give

It's holiday time, and by 'holiday' I, of course, mean "Christmas". 

Don't look at me like that!  Sure I know there are other holidays at this time of year, but America is decorated and preparing for Christmas.  Even here in the desert, shop windows are painted with accounts of snowmen in red and green scarves (that have nothing to do with chilis) abiding the arrival of the dude in red with a sleigh.  Luminaries adorn building boundaries, lights blink maniacally as if the Christmas light companies own stock in Tegretol, and every grocery/box store front you walk into has someone wringing the neck of a tiny -but very shrill- bell.

Stores are advertising sales, no actually they're selling sales, with advertisements depicting snowflakes and red ball ornaments because this is the season where we think fondly on everyone and try desperately to find something suitable to wrap and give them to indicate our fondness.  Oh man, don't get me started on the gift giving thing, I'll never stop!  But let's step back outside this store for a moment and take another look -fingers in your ears if you must- at the sentry ringing the bell.

Usually adorned with a Santa hat, warm mittens, a red kettle and surprisingly no ear plugs, we expect these people from the Salvation Army to be catching our attention in culturally sanctioned begging.  Begging isn't a new thing by any means, but perhaps it's more successful when warmly dressed representatives beg for money in the name of "others".  But these are volunteer beggars.  What of those who beg routinely for themselves?

I went out today to shop.  No, not for others.  I don't celebrate Christmas and the Christian part of my family is long since passed (sadly, yes, but I don't worry about buying presents anymore).  No, I went because I've been wanting to go shopping for days, I felt crappy, and even though I don't really need more clothing I feel better coming home with something new.

Abq has several fine thrift stores and I couldn't quite decide how I wanted to use the buses.  Take the 141 all the way to Savers and then back to Menaul for Thrift Town?  Or take Lomas down to the 5 to Thrift Town first?  Which ever way I went, it was a long trip, Sunday being the subpar day for public transit.  Rather than waiting for many of these buses to make an appearance, I walked most of the way. 

I had almost reached Carlisle and I was feeling hungry.  "This smell will be the death of me" I lamented as my mouth watered coming upon a Sonic.  I veered towards the outdoor menu as a long, gangling man with shaggy hair, a base ball cap and his pants allowing a large draft through to his nether regions flopped loudly and expressively on the metal seat of the Sonic eatery.

"Got eny change, girl?" he shouted out as I redirected my trajectory to put me back on the sidewalk.

I admit it.  I find loud noise draining.  I find surprising loud noises anxiety producing and triggering.  I find strange men making surprising loud noises scary.  The 5 wasn't arriving for another 1/2 hour, so I decided it was a good time to find out if Lotaburger is any good. 

And also, 'girl'?  I know that's what the world has a tendency to call people who look like me, but if you're going to ask me a favor you'll have better luck comparing me to a tree or a window shade than a prepubescent.

I took the 5 to Lomas.  As I waited to cross the street, two men approached from the other side of the walk.

"Hey, you got some change for us?"

They were already very close to me.  One had some sort of device held in front of him, a radio maybe with one antennae.  I hastily stepped back onto a higher part of the sidewalk as they passed murmuring "Uh, no.  Not today".

I believe in giving money to beggars.  Really.  And under usual circumstances I probably would have given change to the two men with the radio.  My propensity to give is directly and inversely tied to my fear reaction.  I doubt those who beg have much use for thinking in those terms.  Maybe you'd get better results judging how each person is most likely to give you money, but the tried and true method seems to be ask as much and as many as you can -regardless of how it affects that person- because you gotta get something.

While it's sad that some people need to beg to live (and some beg but do not need to to live), if that assessment of the method of begging is true, it could feel a wee bit creepy.  It's one of those "my need is greater than your comfort" arguments. *shudder*

Mr. Bud

As you all know, I take the bus.  It's good for exercising (walking to and from the bus stops), it's better for the environment (than taking my own car everywhere), and it's better for my anxiety levels/road rage.  It's also "better" for creepy story material.

I suppose you can guess that I was waiting for the 66.  I was.  I've had some creepy experiences on other bus lines, but those were before I started this blog.  Anyway, I got off the 140 (second creepiest line I've found so far) and went to wait at the stop for the 66.  There were two men on the blue, metal, covered bench, which is segmented into four equal ass-setting areas.  I wouldn't call them seats because they don't seem actually designed for sitting pleasure; they are purely utilitarian places to set your ass.

As men do, one was sitting on one end of the bench, the other at the other end, as far away from each other as possible.  This left me the decision about which ass area to take: the one next to the pudgy, simple-looking, baseball capped guy with the hangdog look; or the one next to the tall, lanky guy, drinking a bud ice and wearing clothing too big for him.  I looked once, then again, and made the quick decision that Hangdog felt less threatening.  He said "Hi" with an odd cadence that suggested mental simplicity, as I sat down.

Mr. Bud seemed to be trying to catch my eye.  I noticed this in my peripheral vision, but decided to keep looking straight ahead.  There's nothing that invites creepitude like acknowledging someone.  Hangdog decided to head for a different pasture soon thereafter, and I willed myself not to get up and move to that seat, further away from Mr. Bud.

A loud motorcycle zoomed past and Mr. Bud whooped into maniacal laughter that stopped as suddenly as it started, then sat, rocking back and forth muttering in such a way that I suspect he has some developmental disability or a brain injury.  I made out the words "want to tell you something" and the rest disappeared into murmurs.

He burst into the same, short lived maniacal laughter a few more times, then got up to toss his beer can in the garbage.  He made a show of stretching way up high to slam the can into the garbage but since there's a cover on these cans with a hole in them not much larger than the diameter of a beer can, it slammed into the lid and bounced onto the ground, jubilant with defiance.  Mr. Bud picked it up and slid it in this time.  I avoided commenting.

He came back around to his seat and stood in front of it, facing the bench and his strewn effects on the ground.  I chanced a glance in his direction and, with horror, found him fiddling with his belt buckle.  By fiddling I mean it looked a lot like he was trying to disengage its latching mechanism.

I had a choice here.  I could have said something quite pointed like "KEEP YOUR PANTS ON!"  Admittedly, part of me was curious if he really meant to do what it looked like.  But I took the easy way out and swiftly removed myself from the vicinity.  I quickly assessed the wall behind the stop and leaned up on it next to a very secure looking guy.  Mr. Bud came around the stop less than a minute later, his pants on, and disappeared into Walgreen's parking lot.

The Music of Women

Q: What's the difference between someone saying something stupid, or in a way misogynistic, and saying it while staring directly at me?
A: Creep factor.

It's a social/discussion meeting of the Albuquerque Polyamory group.  What Tenpin* had to say, after social time had begun, was about his conception of women as musical instruments and how, if he could play them just right, they make beautiful music.  He stared at me, slight grin on his face, while speaking.  This was in the context of discussing his role as a Top (or maybe Dom) and women's roles as bottoms (or maybe subs).

We all just kinda stood there.  Crickets would have been heard were it not Albuquerque where they're infrequent.  It was awkward beyond belief.  What to respond to?  The presumption that women are submissive?  His construction of himself as the Master of women and the Universe?  His objectification of women as object-like?  His conception of women as instruments for him to affect?  The fact that he's said much the same thing to me, directly referencing me, in the past (a different story, creepy, but too personal to retell here)? 

In the conversation was Tenpin himself, Monkey (my partner) and J1 -a mostly gay man.  Monkey, bless his heart, tried to think about what he would say that would rephrase that sentiment in a more acceptable way.  Finding that he just wouldn't ever say anything like that, he opted to pretend he might, but rephrased it saying that he sees a bottom as a musical instrument that, when you and that person are working together, you make beautiful music together.  Or something like that.

Thanks for jumping in, Darling.

*Since this post involves people I actually know, I'm giving everyone pseudonyms.

BirdBrain

There's this thing about not having a vehicle in most cities.  It takes a really long time to get anywhere.  Even if the bus comes every 15 minutes (which the oft mentioned 66 does, though it's the only one to do so), you still have to walk to the bus stop, wait for the bus, ride the bus and then walk to where you are going once you're off the bus, which might well be another bus.  +1 for fitness, -10 for timeliness.

So that's the way of things, and as such, sometimes I decide to get the multitude of unrelated things I need in not such excellent places.  I mean, it can take me 5 hours to stop at 3 different places!  So... I won't say it but there is a particular store that tends to have a multitude of seemingly unrelated things to buy that sometimes I now shop at, since I haven't a vehicle.  Yes, I'm ashamed.

But that's not the point!  I've been trying to mail a package all week.  The problem?  First I didn't have any packing tape, having run out of it last time I went to send a package and finding that the USPS solution to this was to sell me another whole packaging tape dispenser rather than just a roll of tape.  I wasn't impressed.  So after I managed to get packing tape, then I needed either stickers or markers to blot out the information about what that box previously held.  I've wanted stickers for a while to label my jams but also, in helping a friend move recently, my one lone sharpie got misplaced and it was bad in need of replacing.

I also needed birdseed, terrible kids paintbrushes (for mixing paints), new canning jars and a few other 'seemingly unrelated' items.  So off to the evil store I went where I found all that I was looking for (except some food items that I refused to buy non-organic).

Because of the horribleness of this store, and plausibly the fact that I'd eaten not but an apple that day, I was feeling right weak and a bit fusty.  I decided that a small bit of highly salted and processed snack food with a toxic color was called for.

Everything heaped into a bag, I slogged out of the store in search of a place to sit and consume my amazing-highway-cone-colored-poison as well as use my new stickers and sharpies to cover up the shoe adds on my package of jam.  There were no benches obvious but turning a corner of the building revealed a large shady swath of concrete where employees likely take smoke breaks and where random trash collects to get out of the wind.  Feeling too overwhelmed to be picky about what the seat of my pants touched, I sat my arse right there on the concrete, in between gum stains, and proceeded to fix up my package and consume my heart attack-in-a-bag. 

A group of teenagers had also collected in this cul-de-sac, though there was no indication if they were blown there by the wind or not.  We minded our own business, they having no use for someone as old as me and me having no use for their social gender-education play.  That is, until one of those games ended up in my face, or at least very close to my face.

My package was fixed up and I was crunching, dry-mouthed, through my snack while trying to shake the stoned sensation of being through the evil store, when a pigeon flew fast and furious towards my head!  I'm happy to announce that it missed me and my snack.  It didn't take long to put together the hee-hawing girls, a guy walking away from me, and the replay of the last few sounds I had ignored before the flight of the winged germ bird, to figure out that this boy thought it was the height of his mighty gender based power to rush at a bird suddenly and scare the crap out of it for the appreciative titterings of girl peers. 

Did I mention how I am unimpressed?  There I was, sitting on the dirty concrete, a smudged page of newspaper with a reeses peanut butter cup wrapper stuck to it trying to wind its way around my possessions, and an almost full grown human figures that he's going to show superior masculinity by his ability to scare... a pigeon. 

I doubt most people would consider what he did cruelty.  But I do believe that animals have emotions and I would say he created fear in that bird.  How is it still being passed to the younger generations that scaring and tormenting is a good and appropriate show of power?

I pondered this as the teens blew out of the corner, that boy swinging his lanyard boasting "C'mere birdie!  I gonna' lasso you!"