Don’t ask

Let’s face it.  If you know me, you pretty much know by now I say what’s on my mind.  I can not tell a lie and my guts churn when I’m “supposed to” twist the truth.  Lying just isn’t in me.  It makes people uncomfortable. They squirm.

Blame it on Montessori school. They told me at three-years old  to stay true to my essence and it stuck.  So sue me.  People have liked it so far and it hasn’t hurt me.  Well, not with any consequence I’ve felt anyway.

So today I’ve had a hell of a day at sea, if you will.  Yeah, I’ve had a hard time with “go along to get along ” but I FEEL BETTER.  I mean, it may not satisfy others, but it satisfies my soul, ya know?  Anyway, somehow, somewhere, somehow, the world thinks that “pretty girls” have it easier.  Well , they don’t. I cried all day, and I’m drinking tequila now just to calm the frig down and I don’t care who in corporate America knows it.  The equality thing is bullshit.

Since I hit puberty  I’ve had men making lewd gestures towards me to the point where my dad had to threaten them with a bat and my mother get in their face in traffic with no uncertain Sicilian mother terms what she would do to them if they looked at me sideways again.  

Now, I’m no writer, and I don’t begrudge my good looks, but can I tell ya?  I don’t really want to contain myself from kicking some 70-year old in the balls when he asks me to sit on his lap and asks me for my phone number, when all I really want is his information to process his paperwork.  Really!  Who raised you?  Is this some secret?  Would you talk like this if your sister, mother or wife were around?  And do the other women in your life put up with this shit like it’s normal, like your waitresses or sales girls anywhere else?  Cause my first instinct is to punch you in the face or kick you in the balls, but that’s not the way to do business so instead I suck up your harassment.  I lock myself in the empty office and cry like an asshole and drink some tequila when I get home and wish that your dick falls off.  Seriously.  It’s not my fault that I have the sex appeal of Sophia Loren.  It’s your fault you’re a cave man with no manners.  I just wanted your address for the contract, dude.

So after three, four, five passes at me, I politely ask you if you want a male manager to deal with, cause clearly you can’t handle a broad.  You decline and apologize.  You say you do this all the time and are just kidding. Well, buddy, maybe  this will be your last.  Shame and humility may be something you felt today.  That will serve you well in the future and can I tell ya that I’m the furthest thing from a feminist you can get?  I WANT the door opened for me!  I WANT to be home and pregnant!  I want to do the laundry and be waiting at home for my man with dinner on the table!  

Anyway, it was uncomfortable. Boys, don’t do that.  Don’t touch me.  Don’t ask me to sit on your lap.  Don’t ask me for my phone number.  And by all means, don’t tell me how happily married you are for 35 years after I politely tell you no, no, no, no, no.

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