Strangely enough, that probably would have been easier than my week.
Of course, every odd experience is possible fuel for a follow up to "Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus," right? And boy was there material from this past week.
This last Wednesday I went to visit one of the other social work agencies, that primarily serves men, that I partner with.
When I'm there, I'm usually set up in a conference room with other providers from the area in a long line, like we are the Council of the Caffeine Deprived Social Workers. We usually sit there, looking like this:
While inside we look a bit more like this:
Why might our inner selves look like this?
Well, the first person who came in to talk to me that morning stumbled up to the chair across from me, plopped himself down, hiccuped and passed out in a drunken stupor. I decided against signing him up for my employment program.
He was not a tiny guy, so it took several of us to figure out a way to get him somewhere where he could sleep off his previous nights' fun. This has happened more times on the job than I could probably count if I were to use my hands, toes, and all of my coworkers' appendages.
This, of course, had followed the fact that not five minutes earlier, as I had walked into the building a random guy looked at me and half-shouted, "Hey! I think I'm gonna call you Tits-Mcgee!"
Oh how I do so love getting new nicknames, particularly when they are about a random part of my body (you can only read that statement in your head with a perky Julie Andrews accent by the way).
As I was walking to my next agency stop for the day, I passed by a construction zone, because Spokane is basically one giant construction zone year round, and heard, "Hey, sweet-cheeks! Why don't you wander this way!?"
This didn't happen at one construction site, this happened at three of them.
What was I wearing to provoke these comments? A pair of jeans, utility boots and a big sweatshirt. The only way I could have been more covered is if I looked like this guy:
To be honest, what he's wearing is so much more form fitting than what I was wearing that day. I also don't believe that these comments should have been made, even if I were dressed like Daisy Duke (not that I would, no one wants to see me in those shorts).
Now at this point, I could go on some long rant about how men who speak like this are treating women like objects, but instead, I want to pose a question. That question is, "Has obscenely cat-calling random women worked for any guy ever?"
I mean seriously, your major plan is what exactly? Do you think that simply by uttering some crass comment about how our "butts fit perfectly in our jeans" or how you, "bet we taste just like candy," is going get you some action?
I want to meet the girl who doesn't find a guy attractive until he turns on the ultimate charm of throwing random words together in such Shakespearean prose by calling her, "sweet-cheeks." No, seriously, I want to find this girl so I can smack her with a copy of "Pride and Prejudice" in the hopes that some of the lessons and class from that book stick.
But guys, seriously, yelling random obscene "compliments" at women is at its best dumb and creepy, and at its worst liable to end with some girl's boyfriend/very butch girlfriend/older brother/very protective friend who weight lifts a lot coming after you to turn you from a solid into a liquid.
Stop. It does not work.
Sorry about the late post again, next week I promise to be more on the ball (Disclaimer: Unless I get hit by a car, or kidnapped by bandits or distracted by shiny objects).
No comments:
Post a Comment