The Nasties

I'm done. I'm so over your nastiness, you nasty boys!

Wanna know why? Lemme share.

Last weekend I was getting ready for a birthday party. I put on a pretty little mod dress and experimented with a makeup concept demonstrated in the classic eyeliner video on the MAC website, using a natural mineral liner from Larenim instead. Yeah, I looked good, but whatever. I look good a lot.

So, the cable guy reached the door just as my mom was walking out, and she was audibly irritated that his timing threatened to interfere with her vacuum shopping. I told her I would stay until he was done, even though it would make me late. Why not? Well, as Mom can tell you, I have a history...

We had this conversation as she was downstairs in the foyer, and I was upstairs in my room, so I hadn't seen the man until he was done fiddling with some wires in the living room. He asked for permission to come up. Right away, he was ALL about me. It's always obvious. He asked if my internet was okay, glanced at the router, and peered through the window, mentioning he'd have to climb that pole down the street.

Okay, dude. Climb it.

When he came back in, he called me downstairs, and pulled that typical shet. There I was, counting the minutes until he would leave, while being bombarded with boring questions like "How old are you?" and "Do you have a boyfriend?" and "What are your plans this weekend?" Of course, I was leery from the start--that is, until the moment he revealed he had a wife, whereupon the reasoning mind suggested that my intuition pipe down. "He's married, see? Not a problem."

Well, this is why I'm not so fond of the reasoning mind: it was a problem. At one point, he walked over to me from across the room, grabbed my hands, gazed deeply into my eyes and told me how beautiful I am, and suddenly the ten feet that had separated us became two and then none. Yes, before I knew it, he'd gone in for a hug, and then he proceeded to SQUEEZE MY ASS. That's right.

I pulled away.

"You're married!!!"

"I know, but if I weren't, I'd take you away."

Take me away?!? Omg, no! No!!! It was disgusting, and, for a minute there, it threw me off. Then I remembered the self I'd momentarily forgotten. My posture conveyed a new message: I am no doormat. It was easy enough to decipher, even for someone so ridiculous as to engage in such unscrupulous behavior on Time Warner's dollar. I silently requested that the situation wouldn't escalate, and, except for an absolutely repellent request that I turn around in order to enhance his admiration of my curves followed by an ew-ewww yucky exiting kiss on the cheek and still more mumbling on my gorgeousness, it really didn't get any worse, and, in truth, he's lucky it didn't. A black eye would have upset his boss, and his broken ass would worry his wife.

And this was not the first time, either. Only a few weeks ago, Mom hired a plumber to fix Grandma's shower. It was a stressful time, and we were very grateful that he was able to do the work for us. He had been at our house for exactly one week when his birthday arrived. We'd told him to take the day off, but he refused, so when he showed up that morning, I apologized for my mother's not having made him a birthday cake. I mean, if it had been my birthday, I'd want my employer to give me a sweet treat or make a gesture of some sort.

"I thought YOU were gonna make me one," he tested.

"Oh, well, I meant to bake something, but I've been so busy."

"I thought you were gonna be in it." Straight-faced.

"That would present some logistical difficulties, no?"

"I could help you."

Awkward! Another married man, btw. Or at least that's what he told my Mom initially; his story happened to evolve as the days went by. Needless to say, after that, our interactions were certainly strained. He went on to ignore me, as I had not responded positively to the idea of popping out of a giant birthday cake I had baked for a stranger with a steady lady.

I can't believe what dudes do, but maybe I should start because it happens ALL THE TIME.

Even on the job. Among my personal faves is that time I recorded a song for some quirky project, and the engineer bought me a salad afterward, which I thought nothing of, as Luke and I used to share meals with our former manager quite regularly. I thought more of it, of course, when he called me early the next morning, hoping for a date. There wouldn't be one, I assured him, as we'd already discussed over lunch my re-connecting with an ex. In return, he refused to give me a copy of the song I'd worked on, so I had to buy it on iTunes when it was released two years later. And it doesn't end there, folks. Even some of my fans have sent me nasty mail. No, I'm not talking about those sweet compliments and silly flirty things. I'm talking digits and propositions. Yeah.

No more unwanted attention, s'il vous plaît! Ugh. I must evaluate my vibration. The boy hair is not making me invisible to the average man, as I'd hoped it would. Am I going to have to start being a bitch? Nah, I guess not, but some serious changes must be made, as I will not be entertaining such shenanigans in the future. I'm curious how all of you women out there steer clear of this manure, and I wonder if any of my more testosterone-driven readers can offer any insight on fending off the undesirables, but do NB: these recommendations should not come in the form of several prurient thoughts plus contact info. Merci beaucoup!