Every so often there are a few news stories filmed downtown.
I've gotten approached by news crews on two seperate occasions and managed to embarrass myself both times when my off the cuff comments made the evening story. Apparently, my thinking on the fly skills leave much to be desired when confronted by a camera.
I think I've always suspected I'm a writer, not a film person, and my two experiences with 15 seconds of local Minnesota TV psuedo-fame were enough to convince me I had the right idea all along.
Once, several years ago, Metro Transit employees went on strike, shutting down public transportation services statewide. The camera crew and attendant reporter were interviewing people on Nicollet Mall, getting their opinions on the strike and how it was affecting their commute.
The nice lady reporter asked me how the strike had affected my commuting habits.
"Makes me think about getting one of those corn-oil cars," was the response that made it to TV.
Really? That's what I came up with? I sounded like a country hick!
Okay, so maybe I am a country hick. Or so my hubby tells me. I did grow up in the country. And it could have been worse. I could have said "them corn-oil cars" instead of "those".
My second TV appearance came when I tried to go to lunch one day.
Peter's Grill was a fun lunch spot I sometimes visited when a certain craving hit me. On this particular fateful day, I jaywalked across the street and walked up to the front doors, paying the camera crew standing nearby little attention.
I yanked on the doors and was surprised to find they were locked. It was unfathomable that it could be closed! President Bill Clinton had even visited the restaurant once (as their menus proudly validate by displaying his praise and signature on their glossy covers).
The camera operators, upon seeing my dismay, quickly zoomed in and asked if they could interview me. Naively, I accepted, conviently forgetting my last disastorous foray into primetime news clips.
"Are you surpised to see Peter's Grill closed?" the reporter asked brightly.
"Yeah, it's the first time in my experience," I responded.
"Are you upset to see it closed?"
"I guess so, I was hoping to eat here for lunch today," was my inane response. Perhaps she could sense an embarrassing soundbyte in the making like a bloodhound on the trail, for she asked me only one other question before sending me on my way.
"Why do you like to eat at Peter's?"
"I love liverwurst sandwiches, and this is the only place I know of that serves them."
Guess which answer made the cut.
After running into a coworker on the elevator the next day and having to endure their raised eyebrow and laughing "Liverwurst, huh?" I made a vow:
Next time I see cameras, I go the other way.
Showing posts with label downtown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label downtown. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Adventures on the Bus, Part 1
When I started working downtown a decade ago, it was inevitable that taking the bus would become part of my routine (seeing as how no one had seen fit to make me a VP of something and get me one of those coveted monthly parking passes paid for by work).
Of course, since I lived in the country or suburbs for much of those ten years, my experience was limited to commuter express busses and taking the occasional very short trip on a city bus from work to school.
Those experiences did not prepare me for the city bus, the true city bus.
The differences are multitude.
For instance, the act of getting on the bus: Commuter bus people line up very neatly and get on the bus in the same order they arrived at the stop. Very little incivility takes place. For a city bus? It's a mad dash of who can get to the doors first, little old ladies and people with babies be damned.
My first eventful bus ride came one Friday night when I'd had a few at happy hour after work and was feeling my oats. Or as the Big B would say, I was in the first stage of drinking (according to him, I have two phases when I drink: Obnoxious and Pathetic. Obnoxious drives him up a wall, Pathetic amuses him).
A big part of the dynamic between the Big B and I is the fact that we love to push each other's buttons. I don't recall exactly what was said, but between my Obnoxiousness and his general crank-itude with people who are drinking when he isn't, I got myself worked into a right proper drunken huff.
He had picked me up from the bar downtown and drove us to the poker night his friend hosts every week. Still in a snit, I sat down to play and get snotty. I was quickly out of the game between my attitude and lack of focus, but was still feeling restless and obnoxious. I decided to go home, even though I didn't have my car.
I told everyone goodbye and left. I heard some people asking "How's she getting home?" but ignored it. I was gonna teach the Big B a lesson, dammit!
14 blocks later on Johnson, I'm waiting for a bus to take me downtown to catch another bus that will take me to my part of the urban sprawl surrounding Minneapolis. By this time the alcohol had been walked off, but stubborn, stubborn idiocy remained and I wasn't about to walk the 14 bocks back and concede defeat, oh no!
Very soon I'm downtown, judging the bus as it slides up to the sidewalk so that I am right in front when the doors open (avoiding any shoving/pushing from the masses behind me). It's after ten and the bus is empty to start with, but quickly fills up at this busy stop.
Stupidly, I make my way to the back and sit down. Big mistake! This is typically where the hoodlums and good-for-nothings sit, far away from the bus driver. Very soon I'm surrounded by a gaggle of teens who are intent on various forms of copulation and fun aided by alcohol, who apparently cannot sit in one seat but must instead bounce around from one to another, and even into some laps as they flirt and fast talk each other.
I ignore them as best I can, earbuds in place and book clutched tightly in hand, swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the bus and occasional jostlings from fellow passengers playing musical bus seats.
The scuffle, when it happened, was as predictable and inevitable as a crackhead denying the drugs are his when stopped by the police.
Apparently the group was not as homogenous as I thought, for as some started exiting the bus one young man could not find his phone and this led to a bull rush down the bus aisle. He was met chest to chest near the rear door by another young man and they proceded to shove and shouts of "Who took my phone? I'm not playin'!" and "I don't have your phone, man!" could be heard up and down the bus.
The bus driver is yelling, the lone teen is getting jeered at by the other guy's friends and I'm sitting next to my windown, surreptitiously watching everything. The Lone Ranger stalks off the bus...almost. Before he is all the way off, he stops. One foot on, one foot off, holding the bus hostage.
More verbal sparring, more emphatic shouts of denying any wrongdoing with regards to one missing cell phone. Finally he steps all the way off, but the driver pulls the air brake and the bus shakes and settles closer to the ground, gaining that feeling of permancy you get from a vehicle in park. Through the window I can clearly see the agitated youth, pacing the sidewalk in front of the bus, gesturing angrily now and then.
When the hissing noise sinks into the brains of those around me, a fierce discussion begins on whether they should skeedaddle now since the cops are coming or stand their ground. One tiny girl, white-blond hair surrounding her pale face and eyes ringed in dark racoon makeup, is particularly worried and manages to chivvy her boyfriend into getting off the bus. This leads to a veritable stampede as the rest follow.
The minute the last goon's foot leaves the bus, the driver closes the doors and calmly continues driving the route.
On with business as usual.
However, one person must have been extremely relieved that the situation was resolved without the authorities.
A few stops later I look up as another young man gets on the bus and exchanges one of those " 'Sup" head nods with a passenger in front of me. My elevated seat in the back gives me a bird's eye view of the action, as the new rider greets the seated one with a hand slap/shake and a bag of something is quickly exchanged behind the cover of the seat-back. The bus driver yells back that the newcomer hasn't paid his fare yet and he backs up, smooth as hell, and says, "That's all right, this is the wrong bus" and exits stage right.
I wasn't paying enough attention and missed the money exchange, or perhaps this client was extended credit or allowed to "front".
Either way, it was the slickest random drug deal I've ever seen, because the customer immediately pulled the cord and got off at the next block.
What coordination! Granted, it is the only random drug deal I've witnessed, but you have to admit that was well timed and executed if nothing else.
Of course, since I lived in the country or suburbs for much of those ten years, my experience was limited to commuter express busses and taking the occasional very short trip on a city bus from work to school.
Those experiences did not prepare me for the city bus, the true city bus.
The differences are multitude.
For instance, the act of getting on the bus: Commuter bus people line up very neatly and get on the bus in the same order they arrived at the stop. Very little incivility takes place. For a city bus? It's a mad dash of who can get to the doors first, little old ladies and people with babies be damned.
My first eventful bus ride came one Friday night when I'd had a few at happy hour after work and was feeling my oats. Or as the Big B would say, I was in the first stage of drinking (according to him, I have two phases when I drink: Obnoxious and Pathetic. Obnoxious drives him up a wall, Pathetic amuses him).
A big part of the dynamic between the Big B and I is the fact that we love to push each other's buttons. I don't recall exactly what was said, but between my Obnoxiousness and his general crank-itude with people who are drinking when he isn't, I got myself worked into a right proper drunken huff.
He had picked me up from the bar downtown and drove us to the poker night his friend hosts every week. Still in a snit, I sat down to play and get snotty. I was quickly out of the game between my attitude and lack of focus, but was still feeling restless and obnoxious. I decided to go home, even though I didn't have my car.
I told everyone goodbye and left. I heard some people asking "How's she getting home?" but ignored it. I was gonna teach the Big B a lesson, dammit!
14 blocks later on Johnson, I'm waiting for a bus to take me downtown to catch another bus that will take me to my part of the urban sprawl surrounding Minneapolis. By this time the alcohol had been walked off, but stubborn, stubborn idiocy remained and I wasn't about to walk the 14 bocks back and concede defeat, oh no!
Very soon I'm downtown, judging the bus as it slides up to the sidewalk so that I am right in front when the doors open (avoiding any shoving/pushing from the masses behind me). It's after ten and the bus is empty to start with, but quickly fills up at this busy stop.
Stupidly, I make my way to the back and sit down. Big mistake! This is typically where the hoodlums and good-for-nothings sit, far away from the bus driver. Very soon I'm surrounded by a gaggle of teens who are intent on various forms of copulation and fun aided by alcohol, who apparently cannot sit in one seat but must instead bounce around from one to another, and even into some laps as they flirt and fast talk each other.
I ignore them as best I can, earbuds in place and book clutched tightly in hand, swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the bus and occasional jostlings from fellow passengers playing musical bus seats.
The scuffle, when it happened, was as predictable and inevitable as a crackhead denying the drugs are his when stopped by the police.
Apparently the group was not as homogenous as I thought, for as some started exiting the bus one young man could not find his phone and this led to a bull rush down the bus aisle. He was met chest to chest near the rear door by another young man and they proceded to shove and shouts of "Who took my phone? I'm not playin'!" and "I don't have your phone, man!" could be heard up and down the bus.
The bus driver is yelling, the lone teen is getting jeered at by the other guy's friends and I'm sitting next to my windown, surreptitiously watching everything. The Lone Ranger stalks off the bus...almost. Before he is all the way off, he stops. One foot on, one foot off, holding the bus hostage.
More verbal sparring, more emphatic shouts of denying any wrongdoing with regards to one missing cell phone. Finally he steps all the way off, but the driver pulls the air brake and the bus shakes and settles closer to the ground, gaining that feeling of permancy you get from a vehicle in park. Through the window I can clearly see the agitated youth, pacing the sidewalk in front of the bus, gesturing angrily now and then.
When the hissing noise sinks into the brains of those around me, a fierce discussion begins on whether they should skeedaddle now since the cops are coming or stand their ground. One tiny girl, white-blond hair surrounding her pale face and eyes ringed in dark racoon makeup, is particularly worried and manages to chivvy her boyfriend into getting off the bus. This leads to a veritable stampede as the rest follow.
The minute the last goon's foot leaves the bus, the driver closes the doors and calmly continues driving the route.
On with business as usual.
However, one person must have been extremely relieved that the situation was resolved without the authorities.
A few stops later I look up as another young man gets on the bus and exchanges one of those " 'Sup" head nods with a passenger in front of me. My elevated seat in the back gives me a bird's eye view of the action, as the new rider greets the seated one with a hand slap/shake and a bag of something is quickly exchanged behind the cover of the seat-back. The bus driver yells back that the newcomer hasn't paid his fare yet and he backs up, smooth as hell, and says, "That's all right, this is the wrong bus" and exits stage right.
I wasn't paying enough attention and missed the money exchange, or perhaps this client was extended credit or allowed to "front".
Either way, it was the slickest random drug deal I've ever seen, because the customer immediately pulled the cord and got off at the next block.
What coordination! Granted, it is the only random drug deal I've witnessed, but you have to admit that was well timed and executed if nothing else.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Was That the Glass Ceiling? (Sort of)
I may just be making a big deal.
The signs are subtle. It's the little things that add up.
Take my workplace, for example.
I am mid-level management at the company I work for. My peer, boss, his boss and another manager are all male. We work together frequently, getting together for at least one meeting weekly.
In a recent meeting, we were discussing an employee my coworker was going to have to let go because she was using company email to solicit & conduct her Craigslist escort service (hmmm, maybe that's our problem right there!). The SVP was asking my peer who this woman was and after she was described, he says:
"Oh that dark-haired girl? The fairly attractive one?"
then he looks at me over his glasses and quickly adds, "Not that you're not attractive, too, Sarah!"
WTF?
What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?!?
Why would I be upset that you called another woman attractive? Maybe it was to forstall any HR complaints by throwing a weird compliment my way. Maybe it was just to be polite? Maybe to say that I, too, could have an escort service on Craigslist, if I wanted?
Maybe it's just that these "good ol' boys" have a harder time figuring out where they stand in this age of political correctness.
I get that it's difficult terrain to balance on. As a boss myself, I understand the paranoia surrounding the possibilty of sexual harrassment suits. Once, I winked at a male employee while we were making bantering small talk and then obsessed for days over whether he took it as a lewd wink, rather than just a joking wink, as I meant it to be. (Why oh why did I have to wink? Why did I think it was a good idea? Why, oh why!)
Perhaps it's simply a matter of comfort, or familiarity. But somehow, I can't see the same SVP telling my peer he is handsome, too, if they had been talking about a male.
I'm not really complaining, truly. I haven't been held back for promotions on anything other than my own merits and those of the competing candidates, I get the same consideration for raises as everyone and have received plenty of recognition for my efforts by my boss and the SVP.
It's more about the intangibles--I want to be a member of the "good ol' boys" club regardless of my gender.
I must be needier than I thought! It hurts to know that in the meetings where I don't attend, they are making lewd hand gestures and bawdy jokes that they don't feel free doing in the presence of a female.
I want to shout and say, "I'm just as stuck in the gutter as you are! I want to make jerking-off motions when someone on the conference call says something ridiculous, like you do! I want to be able to laugh at the dirty jokes without seeing you glance my way to see if I'm getting upset. I want to participate, just like you!"
My peer knows that you have to be pretty extreme to offend me when it comes to that sort of thing. In my personal life, I often feel I'm the one to bring it to the gutter first (or at least the first to speak it aloud) and love to play on unintentional sexual innuendos and dirty phrases. He doesn't hold back around me, but it's harder convicing our mutual bosses that I'm down with the bawdiness.
I understand the terror they may feel at the mere thought of exposing themselves (hee hee) to potential harrassment suits, since they don't know me all that well, really.
Perhaps I just need to bust out (I can't stop) my own brand of lechery to show them that my 'tude about lewd is on a par with theirs.
But then I'd have to worry about going too far and dealing with potential harrassment backlash of my own.
Thinking on it, I may just need more patience. As they continue to open up a bit more around me and I don't react negatively, perhaps more filthy jokes will be forthcoming.
Or I could just start with a couple of dirty gestures, to get the ball rolling.
The signs are subtle. It's the little things that add up.
Take my workplace, for example.
I am mid-level management at the company I work for. My peer, boss, his boss and another manager are all male. We work together frequently, getting together for at least one meeting weekly.
In a recent meeting, we were discussing an employee my coworker was going to have to let go because she was using company email to solicit & conduct her Craigslist escort service (hmmm, maybe that's our problem right there!). The SVP was asking my peer who this woman was and after she was described, he says:
"Oh that dark-haired girl? The fairly attractive one?"
then he looks at me over his glasses and quickly adds, "Not that you're not attractive, too, Sarah!"
WTF?
What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?!?
Why would I be upset that you called another woman attractive? Maybe it was to forstall any HR complaints by throwing a weird compliment my way. Maybe it was just to be polite? Maybe to say that I, too, could have an escort service on Craigslist, if I wanted?
Maybe it's just that these "good ol' boys" have a harder time figuring out where they stand in this age of political correctness.
I get that it's difficult terrain to balance on. As a boss myself, I understand the paranoia surrounding the possibilty of sexual harrassment suits. Once, I winked at a male employee while we were making bantering small talk and then obsessed for days over whether he took it as a lewd wink, rather than just a joking wink, as I meant it to be. (Why oh why did I have to wink? Why did I think it was a good idea? Why, oh why!)
Perhaps it's simply a matter of comfort, or familiarity. But somehow, I can't see the same SVP telling my peer he is handsome, too, if they had been talking about a male.
I'm not really complaining, truly. I haven't been held back for promotions on anything other than my own merits and those of the competing candidates, I get the same consideration for raises as everyone and have received plenty of recognition for my efforts by my boss and the SVP.
It's more about the intangibles--I want to be a member of the "good ol' boys" club regardless of my gender.
I must be needier than I thought! It hurts to know that in the meetings where I don't attend, they are making lewd hand gestures and bawdy jokes that they don't feel free doing in the presence of a female.
I want to shout and say, "I'm just as stuck in the gutter as you are! I want to make jerking-off motions when someone on the conference call says something ridiculous, like you do! I want to be able to laugh at the dirty jokes without seeing you glance my way to see if I'm getting upset. I want to participate, just like you!"
My peer knows that you have to be pretty extreme to offend me when it comes to that sort of thing. In my personal life, I often feel I'm the one to bring it to the gutter first (or at least the first to speak it aloud) and love to play on unintentional sexual innuendos and dirty phrases. He doesn't hold back around me, but it's harder convicing our mutual bosses that I'm down with the bawdiness.
I understand the terror they may feel at the mere thought of exposing themselves (hee hee) to potential harrassment suits, since they don't know me all that well, really.
Perhaps I just need to bust out (I can't stop) my own brand of lechery to show them that my 'tude about lewd is on a par with theirs.
But then I'd have to worry about going too far and dealing with potential harrassment backlash of my own.
Thinking on it, I may just need more patience. As they continue to open up a bit more around me and I don't react negatively, perhaps more filthy jokes will be forthcoming.
Or I could just start with a couple of dirty gestures, to get the ball rolling.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
I Need a Quarterstaff
People watching downtown Minneapolis never ceases to amaze & inspire me.
Sometimes the inspiration is to run fast & far away, but thankfully this particular instance did not send me fast-walking away in horror.
Just as I was walking in the doors, I noticed someone walking briskly down the sidewalk going pat, pat, TICK, pat, pat, TICK, pat, pat, TICK...
No, she wasn't drumming as she walked or hitting herself on her flank as if she was riding a pretend cowhorse or even impersonating an analog clock.
That's my approximation of what her walk sounded like as she approached.
The TICK was coming from the tall walking staff she was using to move down the sidewalk. Not just any walking stick, either, but a real God's-honest staff, complete with a funky-cool knob on top and possibly some runic designs carved into its length.
For all appearances, this staff was not needed to help her walk in any way. True, it is winter in Minnesota, but we've yet to have any snow stick *knock on wood* so using a staff isn't required, just yet, to navigate the snow-piles that tend to accumulate on the sidewalks as winter wears on and the MN dept of transportation is running out of places to put the damn stuff.
Immediately I started thinking....
Does she carry this staff to make an artsy-fartsy statement of some kind?
Is she carrying this staff to go to a class on staff-carving?
Does she carry the staff to get attention?
Is she carrying the staff to fend off unwanted men hitting on her?
Eventually I decide that this must not be a neat-o walking staff, but instead is an actual quarterstaff!
This seems much more fun than thinking she's just a bit odd.
Quarterstaffs were my favorite go-to weapon when I first started playing D&D. You have two ends to hit with and as it's a simple weapon almost any character can use one, plus having to obtain a new one is easy if you lose or break your old one. Just find any likely tree, cut it down, scrape off the bark & extra branches and do some smoothing and...VOILA! Brand new goblin-thumping weapon at your service.
My favorite old-school D&D character, a ranger by the name of Tail-Kinker, even got hers modified with blades on the end to deal extra damage when in combat. (I had a very tolerant DM at the time, who not only allowed me to play a made-up race of my own that was basically a humanoid kitty-cat, but also indulged me in letting her turn into any type or size feline if she took a full round action to "meow" and transform. Of course whenever she changed, her gear didn't change with her, so my adventuring PC friends were forced to grab my stuff frequently, seeing as how in feline form I had no opposable thumbs...and there was the tricky aspect that I would be naked when I transformed back....but I digress).
For some reason the thought that this lady was walking around with a deadly weapon hidden in plain sight as she strolled around downtown in the middle of the day tickled my funnybone. Would she get flack for having it on the bus? Would the police that regularly patrol certain areas of downtown tell her she has to peace-holster her stick?
And most of all, does she know how to use that thing properly?
I'll fully admit that while Tail-Kinker knew which end of the stick was what, I personally have no knowledge other than that you whap them with the hard end.
But I'm guessing that if I decided to start carrying a quarterstaff to protect my innocence on the mysterious and sometimes dangerous bus through the bad part of town, it would come in handy, no matter how little I know about actually wielding it effectively.
After all, can you see a random thug/drug dealer/miscreant on the 22 bus through N.Mpls being able to react quickly to a twirling staff? The delay as they pause to figure out what the heck I'm doing as I jump around and swing my quarterstaff should give me enough of a head start to get the hell away.
And if that doesn't work, I'll thump them with the stiff end. Either that, or use it to pole-vault myself ahead to get a lead on them.
Sometimes the inspiration is to run fast & far away, but thankfully this particular instance did not send me fast-walking away in horror.
Just as I was walking in the doors, I noticed someone walking briskly down the sidewalk going pat, pat, TICK, pat, pat, TICK, pat, pat, TICK...
No, she wasn't drumming as she walked or hitting herself on her flank as if she was riding a pretend cowhorse or even impersonating an analog clock.
That's my approximation of what her walk sounded like as she approached.
The TICK was coming from the tall walking staff she was using to move down the sidewalk. Not just any walking stick, either, but a real God's-honest staff, complete with a funky-cool knob on top and possibly some runic designs carved into its length.
For all appearances, this staff was not needed to help her walk in any way. True, it is winter in Minnesota, but we've yet to have any snow stick *knock on wood* so using a staff isn't required, just yet, to navigate the snow-piles that tend to accumulate on the sidewalks as winter wears on and the MN dept of transportation is running out of places to put the damn stuff.
Immediately I started thinking....
Does she carry this staff to make an artsy-fartsy statement of some kind?
Is she carrying this staff to go to a class on staff-carving?
Does she carry the staff to get attention?
Is she carrying the staff to fend off unwanted men hitting on her?
Eventually I decide that this must not be a neat-o walking staff, but instead is an actual quarterstaff!
This seems much more fun than thinking she's just a bit odd.
Quarterstaffs were my favorite go-to weapon when I first started playing D&D. You have two ends to hit with and as it's a simple weapon almost any character can use one, plus having to obtain a new one is easy if you lose or break your old one. Just find any likely tree, cut it down, scrape off the bark & extra branches and do some smoothing and...VOILA! Brand new goblin-thumping weapon at your service.
My favorite old-school D&D character, a ranger by the name of Tail-Kinker, even got hers modified with blades on the end to deal extra damage when in combat. (I had a very tolerant DM at the time, who not only allowed me to play a made-up race of my own that was basically a humanoid kitty-cat, but also indulged me in letting her turn into any type or size feline if she took a full round action to "meow" and transform. Of course whenever she changed, her gear didn't change with her, so my adventuring PC friends were forced to grab my stuff frequently, seeing as how in feline form I had no opposable thumbs...and there was the tricky aspect that I would be naked when I transformed back....but I digress).
For some reason the thought that this lady was walking around with a deadly weapon hidden in plain sight as she strolled around downtown in the middle of the day tickled my funnybone. Would she get flack for having it on the bus? Would the police that regularly patrol certain areas of downtown tell her she has to peace-holster her stick?
And most of all, does she know how to use that thing properly?
I'll fully admit that while Tail-Kinker knew which end of the stick was what, I personally have no knowledge other than that you whap them with the hard end.
But I'm guessing that if I decided to start carrying a quarterstaff to protect my innocence on the mysterious and sometimes dangerous bus through the bad part of town, it would come in handy, no matter how little I know about actually wielding it effectively.
After all, can you see a random thug/drug dealer/miscreant on the 22 bus through N.Mpls being able to react quickly to a twirling staff? The delay as they pause to figure out what the heck I'm doing as I jump around and swing my quarterstaff should give me enough of a head start to get the hell away.
And if that doesn't work, I'll thump them with the stiff end. Either that, or use it to pole-vault myself ahead to get a lead on them.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Too Naive for My Own Good
Despite all my wishes to the contrary, I am still naive.
To prove my point, witness my stupidity the other day whilst outside on my break.
I push open the doors, heading towards my usual spot by the air exchanger for the building where occasional warmth can be blown over me by the constant wind downtown.
"Nice shoes," says the man on the bus stop bench.
I have seen him before...he wears shorts even in 40 degree weather, has an Aussie-style cowboy hat with chin-strap, and a large salt and pepper beard. Almost infallibly he compliments me on my shoes, whenever I see him.
The past couple of times I've entertained the thought that maybe I know this man. He looks sorta like a fellow Minnesota blogger I follow and I've thought about asking him to confirm this.
Who knows? Maybe he IS that blogger and compliments my shoes because he knows I follow him? Although I do wear kick ass shoes...
For whatever reason, I decide that today is a good day to gain confirmation (or denial) of my supposition.
I approach him cautiously.
"Are you so-and-so? You look just like a blogger I follow..."
He shakes his head and says no.
"Oh okay, you look a lot like him!" and I start to walk away, which in hindsight was very smart, however dumb I was just a minute ago to approach him in the first place.
"Nope, but would you like a foot massage?" he says in return.
ACK!
When will I learn?
No matter how kickass my shoes are, the only men who are going to compliment me constantly on my footwear are gay men and people with a foot fetish.
And so I shut my mouth, shook my head vigorously, and proceeded to walk away in my kick-ass black zipper ankle booties as fast as the high heels would allow.
To prove my point, witness my stupidity the other day whilst outside on my break.
I push open the doors, heading towards my usual spot by the air exchanger for the building where occasional warmth can be blown over me by the constant wind downtown.
"Nice shoes," says the man on the bus stop bench.
I have seen him before...he wears shorts even in 40 degree weather, has an Aussie-style cowboy hat with chin-strap, and a large salt and pepper beard. Almost infallibly he compliments me on my shoes, whenever I see him.
The past couple of times I've entertained the thought that maybe I know this man. He looks sorta like a fellow Minnesota blogger I follow and I've thought about asking him to confirm this.
Who knows? Maybe he IS that blogger and compliments my shoes because he knows I follow him? Although I do wear kick ass shoes...
For whatever reason, I decide that today is a good day to gain confirmation (or denial) of my supposition.
I approach him cautiously.
"Are you so-and-so? You look just like a blogger I follow..."
He shakes his head and says no.
"Oh okay, you look a lot like him!" and I start to walk away, which in hindsight was very smart, however dumb I was just a minute ago to approach him in the first place.
"Nope, but would you like a foot massage?" he says in return.
ACK!
When will I learn?
No matter how kickass my shoes are, the only men who are going to compliment me constantly on my footwear are gay men and people with a foot fetish.
And so I shut my mouth, shook my head vigorously, and proceeded to walk away in my kick-ass black zipper ankle booties as fast as the high heels would allow.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Can You Say Gullible?
For me, gullible really is written on the ceiling.
Tell me some kind of preposterous statement, and as long as you haven't made me suspicious of you in the past, I'll most likely respond with "Really?"
Case in point:
Years ago, quasi-boyfriend Charlie and I are at his house, watching the movie Dazed and Confused when he tells me, "You know, I was an extra in this movie."
"Really?!? Cool! Are you in any of the movie scenes? Where are you?"
Charlie, laughing, says, "No, not really. I was just yanking your chain."
Not even 10 minutes later, he flicks one of those fancy (but ultimately worthless) lighters that have the blue/green colored flame like a miniature torch and holds it out in front of us.
"This lighter isn't even hot."
"Really?" I say, putting my finger perilously close to the undoubtedly hot flame.
He snatches it away, laughing and shaking his head, probably wondering if I could really be that dumb. "No! It's hot! I was just seeing if you'd fall for it."
Maybe I'd asked for it in this case since before the movie started we had talked about how gullible I was. Apparently this was irresistible to him, as demonstrated by his testing of my naivete. He could probably no more give up testing the limits of my gullibility than I can keep from saying "PEEP!" very loudly when someone tells me "Not another peep out of you!"
I like to think I've grown a bit less naive and less easily taken since I've entered the "adult" world and began working for an employer who did not serve combo meals or french fries. Especially since I joined that elite cadre of people who work downtown, with all the attendant street scams and hustlers.
I knew to be wary of bums, vagabonds and various other nefarious figures who would happily relieve me of my "spare" change and any cigarettes I might care to part with. I felt confident I could protect myself from these types. I have a great ability to say "No" when I want to.
I was unprepared for how creative they can get and how round-about they will go to get at what they want.
I've been told I have a brisk, bad-ass walk (I choose to believe this observation of it, anyways). That is good--hopefully this means I look scary enough to not bother. Unfortunately, it's not enough of a deterrent. These are professionals, and they've heard "No" so many times the word is unable to faze them anymore.
Once I was walking with my best downtown girl-walk in my strappy wedge sandals and pink floral skirt. I caught the crosswalk at the wrong time and was forced to stop. A man stops next to me, breathing a little heavily, hands on his knees, and wheezes out, "Whoa! You walk fast lady! I had a hard time catching up."
I give him a sideways look but say nothing--speaking only encourages them.
"Anyways, I was trying to catch up with you because you're just what we're looking for! How'd you like to meet Prince?"
Don't get me wrong, Prince is great. I'm all about the Minnesotan celebrities, and I hung out at his club often in my raver flaver days. But I highly doubt this man is on intimate acquaintance with Prince.
"See, I was told to find some pretty young girls like yourself who want to do a photo shoot with Prince! Whaddya say?"
I am still the most gullible person you'll ever meet (outside my immediate family--where do you think I got it?!?) but I like to think I've wised up over the years.
"No thanks," I say, and thankfully the light changes and I'm able to stride away confidently with legs and arms swinging.
If I'd taken him up on his offer, I maybe could have met the Purple Rain man. Or maybe just met someone who really, really liked my purse and what was in it and wanted to separate me from said handbag and contents. Or something more sinister.
Tell me some kind of preposterous statement, and as long as you haven't made me suspicious of you in the past, I'll most likely respond with "Really?"
Case in point:
Years ago, quasi-boyfriend Charlie and I are at his house, watching the movie Dazed and Confused when he tells me, "You know, I was an extra in this movie."
"Really?!? Cool! Are you in any of the movie scenes? Where are you?"
Charlie, laughing, says, "No, not really. I was just yanking your chain."
Not even 10 minutes later, he flicks one of those fancy (but ultimately worthless) lighters that have the blue/green colored flame like a miniature torch and holds it out in front of us.
"This lighter isn't even hot."
"Really?" I say, putting my finger perilously close to the undoubtedly hot flame.
He snatches it away, laughing and shaking his head, probably wondering if I could really be that dumb. "No! It's hot! I was just seeing if you'd fall for it."
Maybe I'd asked for it in this case since before the movie started we had talked about how gullible I was. Apparently this was irresistible to him, as demonstrated by his testing of my naivete. He could probably no more give up testing the limits of my gullibility than I can keep from saying "PEEP!" very loudly when someone tells me "Not another peep out of you!"
I like to think I've grown a bit less naive and less easily taken since I've entered the "adult" world and began working for an employer who did not serve combo meals or french fries. Especially since I joined that elite cadre of people who work downtown, with all the attendant street scams and hustlers.
Isn't my city beautiful?
I knew to be wary of bums, vagabonds and various other nefarious figures who would happily relieve me of my "spare" change and any cigarettes I might care to part with. I felt confident I could protect myself from these types. I have a great ability to say "No" when I want to.
I was unprepared for how creative they can get and how round-about they will go to get at what they want.
I've been told I have a brisk, bad-ass walk (I choose to believe this observation of it, anyways). That is good--hopefully this means I look scary enough to not bother. Unfortunately, it's not enough of a deterrent. These are professionals, and they've heard "No" so many times the word is unable to faze them anymore.
Once I was walking with my best downtown girl-walk in my strappy wedge sandals and pink floral skirt. I caught the crosswalk at the wrong time and was forced to stop. A man stops next to me, breathing a little heavily, hands on his knees, and wheezes out, "Whoa! You walk fast lady! I had a hard time catching up."
I give him a sideways look but say nothing--speaking only encourages them.
"Anyways, I was trying to catch up with you because you're just what we're looking for! How'd you like to meet Prince?"
Don't get me wrong, Prince is great. I'm all about the Minnesotan celebrities, and I hung out at his club often in my raver flaver days. But I highly doubt this man is on intimate acquaintance with Prince.
"See, I was told to find some pretty young girls like yourself who want to do a photo shoot with Prince! Whaddya say?"
I am still the most gullible person you'll ever meet (outside my immediate family--where do you think I got it?!?) but I like to think I've wised up over the years.
"No thanks," I say, and thankfully the light changes and I'm able to stride away confidently with legs and arms swinging.
If I'd taken him up on his offer, I maybe could have met the Purple Rain man. Or maybe just met someone who really, really liked my purse and what was in it and wanted to separate me from said handbag and contents. Or something more sinister.
Either way, I'm glad I wised up at least enough to realize that some gift horses should be looked in the mouth.
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