My Hollaback Story

I was inspired recently to share a story of street-harassment that I went through, because a lot of the anger I carried around for years was about feeling helpless in these situations, and for some reason they happened to me exponentially more when I was unemployed. There is something about being a lone woman at 2:00pm on a Wednesday that makes you more likely to be a target for some reason. This is only one of many stories, but it was by far the scariest:

I was once riding my bicycle back from Trader Joe's during the day, when a man who was also on bike started following me. I didn't notice when he first appeared, but in hindsight, I'm pretty sure he was in the parking lot, and kept a safe distance as I left, then caught up to me on a small quiet side-street where there were less people.

He didn't say anything overtly sexual or lewd, but he was definitely coming onto me in a very aggressive way, not as someone showing interest, but as someone who saw an opportunity to belittle me as he made it very clear with his body language that he could do what he liked with me at any moment. I had bought myself flowers that day, and he kept commenting on how I was very beautiful like those flowers—like a thing, and something about his tone made chills run down my spine. I ignored him, which is when he started calling me a "fucking bitch" and a "stupid stuck-up cunt." I felt like I couldn't even breathe, because anything I did wrong might set him off physically—there was sporadic traffic, but I didn't trust people to intervene, so I just kept my eyes ahead and tried to get to a busier street as quickly as possible without looking quite as terrified as I was. He passed me and slowed down to a snail's pace, just to prove that I was too afraid to pass him, and that's when I truly began to panic. Thankfully, a row of cars came by at that time, and I jolted back into action. I pedaled like hell. I made it to Mass Ave in record time, safely and without incident, and I lost him in a crowd of cars and people.

I later talked to my therapist about it, and it affected him so much that he ended up asking a police officer on traffic duty, out of curiosity, if I should have reported it. The police officer said emphatically that, yes, I should have reported it. Maybe nothing happened to me, but I'm surely not the only woman he harassed that day, that week, that month...Regardless of what he did or didn't do to any other women what he did to me was a crime. I could have (and should have) biked to the closest police station with a description immediately. Better yet, now I know to try to take photos when I can. I have not had another incident quite this scary since then, but I wish I had not had to learn this lesson this way. I don't go down the long quiet street for the pleasant bike ride without being aware of my surroundings, and knowing my options for getting, quickly, to a more trafficked area. I wear a camera on my helmet. I shouldn't have to do any of this. But I do. Because I can't go for a jog without getting honked at, wolf whistled, picked up. And that isn't even the sinister side of street harassment. The wolf whistles are NOTHING like the FEAR that I felt that day, and I don't think that he was just a "guy being a guy"—I have no doubt that if those cars hadn't come by, this would be a very different story.

One day four years ago, a man thought that a lone woman grocery shopping in the middle of the day was a target instead of a person. And that makes me angry for all of the women, and all of the harassment.

I'm So Glad I Put On Pants

I locked myself out of the apartment yesterday.

I had gone out back to check for our recycling toters, and after giving the door handle an assuring jiggle, closed it and went outside. Apparently the door didn't understand "assuring jiggle," because it was locked when I came back to it. Don't ask me to explain the hows or whys. Maybe I jiggled the inside handle, which turns regardless of whether it's locked or not. Maybe I didn't turn the lock 90 degrees and it was jostled when I closed the door, locking me out from the inside.

Regardless, I was so happy that I had put pants on to go outside. And shoes. I so rarely get dressed to peep out onto the backyard.

Other things I could have taken outside: keys, a cell phone, my wallet.

I walked down to MIT, because what other choice did I have? I could have hung out in our laundry area until J came home six hours later. Or the backyard. Those were my choices, and it was cold. Once I went outside the apartment building, I was out, so I had to make the decision quickly. Was there anywhere I could go without money or ID? Not really. So I walked down to MIT, hoping to find J in his lab before his class started, knowing it could be a shot in the dark. At least he wasn't out in Lexington!

I met J's office mate, who told me a story about the time his wife was locked out of their apartment and he found her curled up, asleep, on their landing. I was again reminded of how very glad I was that I had put on pants.

I played spider solitaire on J's computer.

Then, I got lucky. He came back to his desk before his class started. I got the keys and came home. Will this make me more careful in the future? Probably not. I swear I checked that door before I went outside. Which is why I'm never leaving the apartment again. Without pants.

Thanks For the Personal Growth, Though, Assholes.

Every time I see the title on my previous entry, I read "Will Knit for Tacos." Upon further reflection, I have decided that I will also knit for tacos, because I have finally reached the end of my severance funded vacation. This means that next week, I start receiving unemployment benefits. Ouch. Talk about a pay cut.

So the other day, J brought home Bud Light Lime. The king of...lime flavored beers. "It was on sale," he said. "I'm a grad student, and you're not working right now. Tonight we're going to drink like it."

It tasted faintly of limeade, it didn't really taste like...what's the word? Beer. If you visit their website, though, by clicking on the image to the left, you can download a free remix of Santogold's Lights Out. Redemption factor: 3/10.

The time off part isn't so bad, really. I set my own schedule, and as long as I don't wake up in the middle of the night, in a panic thinking about health insurance or the fate of my [former] 401k, I can actually start my day at a reasonable hour and get work done. Last night was, unfortunately, a wake up in a panic night. I bolted out of bed to make a To Do list just to stop my heart from pounding so loudly in my head. I couldn't stop thinking about my health insurance and the library book I had to pick up and how the fuck we were going to pay for rent and utilities and still not have to supplement our diet of ramen noodles by dumpster diving (is it at all that bad? No, of course not. Try telling me that at three in the morning). I felt like a rock was sitting on my chest.

I'm going to level with you, though. The stress of my current situation still hasn't rivaled the stress of working for an understaffed corporate nonentity that is in desperate need of management training. I don't work well under those parameters, and I might point out that my panic attacks started with that job and didn't simmer down until after the side effects of my anti-depressants went away. I may have been comfortable with the steady income, but having my happiness compromised on a daily basis was wearing pretty thin by the end. Sundays were unbearable because of the dread I felt - upon waking up in the morning - that tomorrow was, ugh, Monday.

I need to find something I enjoy doing that pays a teeny bit more than the unemployment insurance - with medical benefits. That shouldn't be so hard. And in the meantime - in the daylight, at least - I am enjoying the time off to the fullest of my ability. Who needs a job when they've got daytime TV?

[Currently Spinning: Yeah Yeah Yeahs]

It's really not that bad, guys. Hair grows back.

The other day, my waxer told me that if I wanted to save money, I should shave my legs -- not try to wax my own eyebrows. I'm going to tell myself that every morning for the next month while I pencil in half of my left eyebrow.

I had to hide another one of my flickr photos today.

I suppose I should stop posting photos of my feet on the Internet.

About a year ago, I found a nail polish at my salon that was called "Ruby Pumps." The concept was a glittery red color, much like Dorothy's slippers in the Wizard of Oz. I took a picture of my pedicure when I got home, to show one of my friends.

This morning, I checked my flickr activity and saw that someone had favorited this year-old (untagged!) photo. Now...from previous experience, I've learned that virtually no one favorites foot pictures unless they're some sort of fetishist or collector of random snapshots of women's body parts. Never mind how he even found the photo in the first place.

And sure enough, there was my photo in his favorites -- sandwiched between a bare breast and an "erotic" foot photo. I know that art is subjective, and maybe some poor, misguided girl thinks that this is not amateur porn, but "art." And while normally I could not care less about what people put up on the Internet (I judge, but I wouldn't want to censor), my foot was next to a woman's breast, for Christ's sake.

I'm just glad I marked it as private before he had a chance to go jerk off to all of his favorites this afternoon, since I can only assume that's what you do with a collection of "naughty" flickr photos. And my foot.

So everybody put your best suit or dress on

So, it's a new year again. New years, new beginnings, fresh starts...it's so arbitrary the way people think their lives are going to change when a new year comes.

Do you get that fresh feeling (musical pun intended -- and enjoyed) at the beginning of a new year? I know I do, but I think I am on "new start" hyperdrive since my birthday is just about a week after the new year. It hardly takes two weeks before I've fallen back into my old routines and bad habits, before the year reaches its expiration date and becomes stale.

However, I'm jazzed for 2007. I am SOOOO over 2006, y'all. If December hadn't snuck up on me the way it did, I would even go so far as to say that 2006 did nothing for me, and that I'm glad to be done with it.

But 2006 brought me so many things. I started to become comfortable in my own skin. I found new confidence, new music, new clothes, and a "new" personality to go with said confidence (the "new" personality really being my very same "old" personality before I allowed my life to be consumed and defined by my relationship).

I'm ready to grab 2007 by the horns, and make things happen. And I have a really good feeling about 2007.

How about you?

[Currently Spinning: Death Cab For Cutie - The New Year]

Lessons Learned the Hard Way

Last night, I did something really really stupid—boy was my face red.
There is back story. On my old phone, I had only two speed dial numbers programmed. (2) was college boyfriend, and (3) was Home. In some areas in my life, I am incredibly adverse to change. Even after I took college boyfriend off my speed dial, Home remained speed dial number (3).
I got a new phone and figured: new phone, new rhythm, so home became speed dial (2), and then numbers followed from there. When I started calling Harvard more frequently, He was assigned to speed dial number (3).
You can see where this is headed: I don't like change, I'm a complete spaz...So, it's not so much that last night I hit speed dial (3) and called Harvard, but that I spent a full minute on the phone trying to figure out what the heck was going on - why it sounded like no one at my house, that maybe my dad was sick or distracted... Finally, I caught on and came clean,
"Uh...so I was trying to call home. I should take you off of my speed dial right now."
Even though it's not weird to have your boyfriend on speed dial, he never really knew. Even though it's weird to not take your ex-boyfriend off of your speed dial, he didn't have to find out this way.
So, life lesson 5748: Take your ex-boyfriends off of your speed dial IMMEDIATELY.