Monday, June 13, 2005
And so begins Week 2 of my ongoing humiliation. I just returned from my initial application for food stamps and state health insurance for my kids. I have to go back in an hour. I suppose it's better than sitting there in the plastic chairs for an hour, like I would have had to back home; small town living does have a few advantages. I'm not thrilled about the prospects of food stamps, though. I'm a grown woman with two college degrees and I'm living like a migrant farm worker. But hey, I'm a survivor. Right. I'm so damned tired of hearing that. It's so damned melodramatic, as if it were legitimately possible that upon the news of being laid off, I could have simply dropped to the floor and stopped breathing, or perhaps the only reason my heart still beats today is my sheer, titanium will to live keeps it pumping despite all scientific explanation.
A shitty thing happened to me. I am humiliated by it. My ability to feed my children is hindered by it. The stress it causes makes other aspects of my life more difficult. But I have not walked away from an airplane crash, I am not living with shards of a bombshell embedded in my brain, and I have not been released from a concentration camp. I lost my job. I wouldn't be so callous as to say "Get over it.", because it's a complicated little house of cards I'm trying to manage here, and it's a bitch. But calling me a survivor is like giving the 10th place Little League team a trophy--it may seem like a good idea at first, but in the long run it doesn't change facts, and it belittles the real accomplishments of people who work harder or struggle through more.
On a much lighter note, I had three women hit on me this weekend. Oh trust me, I'm as shocked as you are. Rusty and I decided to take the weekend off from our worries and hit the bars with his co-workers for a little entertainment. I wore a low cut shirt that showcased The Girls quite impressively--yes, I was in serious need of some ego stroking and wasn't above getting it the Quick and Easy way. If you've got 'em, flaunt 'em, as they say. There wasn't much action at the first place we went, despite the fact that every time I leaned over for my turn at the Billiards table, The Girls threatened serious spillage. There was no obvious gawking or stammering, or even drunken admiration. I think Rusty's co-workers were seriously tight-lipped because they're afraid he'd beat the crap out of them. We decided to go to a different bar to dance, so off we went. I wasn't in the door a full minute before some drunk was slurring into my cleavage, "SHOW ME YOUR HOOTERS!" I kept walking while Rusty gave him the "I know, they're awesome!" and "Back off, buddy." combo look. Naturally the comebacks seep into your brain after the moment has passed:
a) Why? You've never seen breasts before?
b) Dude, yours are bigger than mine, why don't you just go sit in front of the bathroom mirror and play with yours?
c) Sorry, viewing is by invitation only.
We made our way to the dance floor and had a little fun. I realize now I was still hanging on to my Despressive Irritation, so my observation was a little magnified, but it's true: Rusty subscribes to the Battery Method of dancing. He seems to think we have to be touching at all times in order for it to work. Now I don't object one bit to touching the man--I often have to restrain myself in order to not do so at inappropriate times, in fact. But when I want to get my groove on and shake a tailfeather, and your partner is right up on you, well, it's easy to begin to feel like you're about to co-star in "A Night at the Roxbury". Of course it doesn't help that this style of dancing seems to be all the rage. Everywhere I turned, I was surrounded by people groping each other and gyrating like strippers. [These were not necessarily attractive people, either, so... well, ew.] Doesn't anybody just DANCE anymore? Back In The Day, I could legitimately go out on the dance floor with three of my best girlfriends and just throw down all damned night, and no one would have thought of asking us if we were lesbians. These days, even total strangers are miming doggy-style and dry humping each other's legs for entertainment. It's just bizarre. So I swallowed my irritation and my quizzical amusement about the dance habits of my compadres, and proceeded to the "Git on Down". Soon after, I was being groped by an unseen individual behind me. Yes, I discovered, we had been joined by V, an Amazon of a woman, who was busy thrusting her pelvis into my ass and simultaneously groping her girlfriend (as in, Lover), D (no jokes about V + D please) who was attempting to do the same to her--sort of a FunkyTown Daisy Chain, if you will. Later, V apologized to Rusty and said she hoped she hadn't offended us, they were just having fun. Rusty, ever the victim of Man's Hope to Witness Two Women Having Sex, offered no objections whatsoever, and encouraged further participation, I'm sure. He danced with D while V & I sat on the sidelines with the drinks. Rusty reported later that D offered her assistance should I ever seek to satisfy a bi-sexual curiosity. Shortly afterward, I was in the bathroom washing my hands when a waitress walked in and began washing her hands as well. "Are your breasts real?" she asked. Now see, I'd never been asked that before, so I was unprepared for a moment, and just laughed. "I'm sorry, I don't usually ask that, but I was wondering..." "Yeah, they're all mine. I don't usually show 'em off like this, though, so I'm a little self-conscious." "Well they're nice. You should show them off more."
I was out the door before I realized, uuuuuh, did she just hit on me?
A shitty thing happened to me. I am humiliated by it. My ability to feed my children is hindered by it. The stress it causes makes other aspects of my life more difficult. But I have not walked away from an airplane crash, I am not living with shards of a bombshell embedded in my brain, and I have not been released from a concentration camp. I lost my job. I wouldn't be so callous as to say "Get over it.", because it's a complicated little house of cards I'm trying to manage here, and it's a bitch. But calling me a survivor is like giving the 10th place Little League team a trophy--it may seem like a good idea at first, but in the long run it doesn't change facts, and it belittles the real accomplishments of people who work harder or struggle through more.
On a much lighter note, I had three women hit on me this weekend. Oh trust me, I'm as shocked as you are. Rusty and I decided to take the weekend off from our worries and hit the bars with his co-workers for a little entertainment. I wore a low cut shirt that showcased The Girls quite impressively--yes, I was in serious need of some ego stroking and wasn't above getting it the Quick and Easy way. If you've got 'em, flaunt 'em, as they say. There wasn't much action at the first place we went, despite the fact that every time I leaned over for my turn at the Billiards table, The Girls threatened serious spillage. There was no obvious gawking or stammering, or even drunken admiration. I think Rusty's co-workers were seriously tight-lipped because they're afraid he'd beat the crap out of them. We decided to go to a different bar to dance, so off we went. I wasn't in the door a full minute before some drunk was slurring into my cleavage, "SHOW ME YOUR HOOTERS!" I kept walking while Rusty gave him the "I know, they're awesome!" and "Back off, buddy." combo look. Naturally the comebacks seep into your brain after the moment has passed:
a) Why? You've never seen breasts before?
b) Dude, yours are bigger than mine, why don't you just go sit in front of the bathroom mirror and play with yours?
c) Sorry, viewing is by invitation only.
We made our way to the dance floor and had a little fun. I realize now I was still hanging on to my Despressive Irritation, so my observation was a little magnified, but it's true: Rusty subscribes to the Battery Method of dancing. He seems to think we have to be touching at all times in order for it to work. Now I don't object one bit to touching the man--I often have to restrain myself in order to not do so at inappropriate times, in fact. But when I want to get my groove on and shake a tailfeather, and your partner is right up on you, well, it's easy to begin to feel like you're about to co-star in "A Night at the Roxbury". Of course it doesn't help that this style of dancing seems to be all the rage. Everywhere I turned, I was surrounded by people groping each other and gyrating like strippers. [These were not necessarily attractive people, either, so... well, ew.] Doesn't anybody just DANCE anymore? Back In The Day, I could legitimately go out on the dance floor with three of my best girlfriends and just throw down all damned night, and no one would have thought of asking us if we were lesbians. These days, even total strangers are miming doggy-style and dry humping each other's legs for entertainment. It's just bizarre. So I swallowed my irritation and my quizzical amusement about the dance habits of my compadres, and proceeded to the "Git on Down". Soon after, I was being groped by an unseen individual behind me. Yes, I discovered, we had been joined by V, an Amazon of a woman, who was busy thrusting her pelvis into my ass and simultaneously groping her girlfriend (as in, Lover), D (no jokes about V + D please) who was attempting to do the same to her--sort of a FunkyTown Daisy Chain, if you will. Later, V apologized to Rusty and said she hoped she hadn't offended us, they were just having fun. Rusty, ever the victim of Man's Hope to Witness Two Women Having Sex, offered no objections whatsoever, and encouraged further participation, I'm sure. He danced with D while V & I sat on the sidelines with the drinks. Rusty reported later that D offered her assistance should I ever seek to satisfy a bi-sexual curiosity. Shortly afterward, I was in the bathroom washing my hands when a waitress walked in and began washing her hands as well. "Are your breasts real?" she asked. Now see, I'd never been asked that before, so I was unprepared for a moment, and just laughed. "I'm sorry, I don't usually ask that, but I was wondering..." "Yeah, they're all mine. I don't usually show 'em off like this, though, so I'm a little self-conscious." "Well they're nice. You should show them off more."
I was out the door before I realized, uuuuuh, did she just hit on me?
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