I have incredibly unreliable internet at the moment. Why oh why do people insist on putting passwords on their wireless connections? It just makes it harder for me to steal.
(For the record, I do pay for internet. However, foreigners cannot legally sign up for internet and things in Thailand until they have a legit work permit. It could take me a few months to get all the paperwork through. )
In Thailand, you can buy pig uterus at the grocery store; it’s packaged up nicely next to the steaks. Fallopian tubes and everything. You can replace pieces of human heart with pig heart: could you do the same, I wonder, with pig uterus? If so, would a shiny new pig uterus stop me from Puking My Guts Up and Passing Out In Public every month?
If anybody has any ideas as to what you can cook with pig uterus, please – send them, and any recipes, along.
Today I went shoe shopping. I detest shoe shopping. I only own three pairs of shoes – I cut down from four when I left winter behind. I hate only one thing more than shoe shopping, and that is jeans shopping. I steadfastly refuse to go jeans shopping, and instead have my father periodically mail me new batches of the exact same pair. That doesn’t work as well with shoes, however, and I think I went into every shoe store in the gigantic four storey mall I found myself in today. Apparently, plain black flat mary jane shoes are not in fashion. Apparently, flimsy ballet flats in an array of ridiculous colours and with no arch support to speak of are in fashion. Apparently, everybody and their mother wears stilettos all. the bloody. time.
Listen: polka-dotted ballet flats are amusing, and I am sure look simply charming when one is prancing about with one’s friends. But I need Clothes I Can Wear To Work, and pink and yellow polka dots don’t cut it. Not to mention, I am on my feet all day, and I teach 5 and 6 year olds. 120 5 and 6 year olds. Who think, at times, that I am a tree, and try to climb me, or fell me. I would not last five minutes in stilletos or satin ballet flats, even if I managed to get them safely through the rain on the way to work.
A flat pair of mary janes in black leather, however, seems like it is Too Much To Ask.
We were sitting on the subway when an older Korean gentleman sat down next to us, sandwiching my friend between him and myself. He stared for a minute, leaning over her, as if amazed to see me, as if I was some mythical animal he was sure didn’t exist.
“I’m a bloody unicorn,” I thought bitterly as I stared back, making it clear I knew what he was doing. He finally spoke.
“Russian?” he said, tentatively, hopefully. “Russia?” he said again, a little more forcefully, still leaning over and gazing at my blonde hair, eyes flicking down occasionally to my cleavage.
“No!” I said, angrily. I got out my teacher voice. “Anniyo!” I said again, then turned away from him. He backtracked a little, though the sad cow look did not leave his face. “Where are you from?” he asked.
I refused to answer, but my friend, after looking at me quizzically, turned to him and gamely started to chat to him in her new Korean. She was stumbling through, giggling, and he was responding but still staring at me. I elbowed her a few times, hissed her name, but she didn’t understand why I was being so rude to this man and continued to talk to him.
Finally, the subway stopped and I pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go,” I said, shooting a dirty look at the man, who continued to gaze sloppily at me. “Hurry.” As we waited for the doors to open, I stared right back at the man, eyebrows raised. The challenge didn’t work: he thought I was gazing into his eyes, and continued to stare.
The doors opened and I pushed through before they’d opened all the way, tripping as I did so. “Fuckl!” I swore loudly, frustrated.
“What the hell?” she asked. “What’s wrong? Why were you so rude to him?”
“..Seriously?” I said.
“He just wanted to know where you were from….”
I looked at her unbelievingly, realizing nobody had told her and she thought I’d been unspeakably, unnecessarily rude.
“Sweetie,” I said. “In Korea, ‘Russian’ means ‘prostitute’. He was openly asking me if I was a whore. He wanted to know if I was open for business.”
Her jaw dropped. “Oh shit,” she said.
“Goddamn,” I said, looking around. “This is the wrong fucking stop.”
* my apologies for my blatant misrepresentation of and insensitivy to those who are actually developmentally challenged. I would rather spend my time with them than with the people this post is about.
The other night I went to a bar. Somehow, every asshole male with an over-inflated sense of self -entitlement and was ALSO at the same bar that night. Somehow, they all wanted a piece. It was like a competition, a fashion show, and they all brought out their best self-entitled behavior to model for me!
LIKE I’D BE IMPRESSED.
Asshole #1! is a man I’ve been working with for eight months. Our staff room functions largely like a high school cafeteria, and there is always somebody sitting at the wrong table. With that in mind, I try to approach any situation with an aim to keep the drama, conflict, and outright hostility out of the way. So when #1! kissed me the first time, I assumed he was just being drunken and silly. I laughed it off. The second time, I firmly took a step backwards, but didn’t tell him off because a) drama! and b) he was to drunk to understand, and I didn’t have the patience to drag it out until he sobered up. The third time, I was starting to get pissed off. This is not a man who has feelings for me. He does not secretly wish to date me. I have not rejected dates or broken his heart. I am, however, ignored until he wants to be made out with (passive voice chosen intentionally) every few weeks. Fuck off, #1.
Ok, you’re saying. A few unwanted kisses. A little bit of unprofessional behaviour, some discomfort at work. Doesn’t really sound like there were any olympics going on, even if kiss 2 and 3 happened on the same night.
Asshole #2! is a man I also have to work with (I’d like to point out that the necessity to work with someone immediately increases the stakes when embarking on assholery). I met him just a few days before and I need to work with him in the cafeteria/staffroom for four more months. He’s also married, but left his wife in his home country for the year. I agreed to dance with him. I did not agree to be fondled, felt up, made out with. I did not agree to have his tongue in my mouth. And I did not agree to be made to feel uncomfortable when, instead of telling him to fuck off, I quietly refused to dance with him again. I’ve already been made to feel uncomfortable on the dance floor, I am in the awkward position of either being gossiped about or causing gossip to happen to someone who just arrived, and I really really don’t need to justify my refusal to dance. What the hell was I supposed to be – a sex toy until his wife showed up? You don’t develop feelings for someone that are worth breaking up a marriage for in 3 days, so…..THE HELL?
Perhaps I need to rethink the priority list – #1 – telling men who cross boundaries to fuck off. #2 – avoiding discomfort at work. NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND.
Asshole #3! is a man I met at the bar. We danced, we kissed a little, and then we went our separate ways. It was fun, but we’re talking 15 minutes of fun here, not a relationship. A little perspective would be nice, here. He chased me out to ask for my number, and when he told the story later (to MY FRIENDS), he said that my demanding that he be polite to me and then kissing him and agreeing to give him my number was my ‘bitching him out and ruining his night’. He didn’t call me. I didn’t hunt him down. Clearly, neither of us were that interested. So when I showed up at the bar two weeks later, with my friends, and saw him with his friends, throwing myself at him wasn’t the first thing I thought of. He came to talk to me, and we made small talk (remember: we’ve never had a conversation!) and then he asked me if I remembered him.
“Yep!” I said.
“Well, why didn’t you come to talk to me?” he said.
“Well, you didn’t call me,” I shrugged.
“I guess you don’t want to hear my REASONS, huh?” he said.
“Uh, not particularly.” Could he not understand that I just didn’t care? He stormed away, stormed back again.
“We just kissed,” he lectured. “That doesn’t mean anything. What exactly do you want?” Uh, I want to be left alone by men who aren’t interested in me, who I am not interested in, and who somehow want me to still feed their ego by being all over them after they don’t call me. I don’t need to have my evening hijacked by some egotistical asshole who gives me lectures at the bar because he’s feeling neglected. What exactly did I owe him?
Asshole #4! is a man that I have spoken to for a collective 4 minutes over 6 months. The second 2 minutes occurred at this bar, where I reminded him of my name and where he had seen me before. Then we both turned away. I began talking to another man, he began talking to…someone. Next thing I knew, he had grabbed me and was dragging me away from my conversation.
“Hey, what are you doing?” he said. I guess he saw my face, because then he said, “What the fuck’s your problem?”
“You,” I said. “You are my problem.”
“Why the fuck am I your problem?” he yelled.
“Because you’re grabbing me,” I said, pulling my arm away. Up his hands went in the air, defensively.
“SORRY!” he said. Like maybe I’d done something wrong in asking him not to touch me. Like maybe I’d requested something completely unreasonable by wanting to decide which part of the bar I was in by myself. If he was my boyfriend, I’d have broken up with him on the spot, but he didn’t even have that excuse for stopping a conversation with another man. I don’t know this man. We are not friends. We’ve never had a relationship.
By the end of the night, battered and exhausted, I went home and called my mother, who told me that ‘girls who drink are unattractive’ and that I ‘must be driving all the good men away’.
ouch.
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Yesterday, I went into a bookstore (always a dangerous undertaking).
I found the children’s section, and, I am not ashamed to admit, spent a ridiculous amount of money on some Dr. Seuss and Robert Munsch.
I can’t WAIT to teach my bouncy balls the song from Mortimor
My bosses are going to hate me.
