Are Guys Pigs Or Are Some Girls Asking For It?

Before I begin, let me just state for the record that by, “asking for it,” I’m not talking about rape. I am a very firm believer that no matter what a woman is wearing, she is never asking for a man to force himself on her.

That being said, I am beginning to wonder that maybe, sometimes, women are asking to be ogled, even treated like pieces of meat.

It was Friday at 5:00 p.m. on the corner of 18th and Market Streets. For those of you that don’t live in Philadelphia, it was cloudy, rainy, windy and approximately 40 degrees. I was hiding in a corner of a building, doing my best to protect myself from the wind, sipping a cup of hot tea I just picked up at the Fourbucks, when a woman turned the corner and brushed by me.

In her heels she was about an inch or so taller than me, so 5’10” (I was slouching). She was wearing a tank dress that was so short, it barely covered her ass. It was so short (and tight) that as she walked up 18th Street she was holding down the hem so it wouldn’t inch up. If it did inch up, she would have been committing a crime. But that wasn’t even the worst part. She was a triple-D or a double-E (when they get that big it is hard for me to tell) and the scoop in the front was doing nothing to hold those girls in place. In fact, really the only thing the dress was doing was covering her nipples. I wish I could tell you what her face looked like, but as I explained to Salty later, I couldn’t see past her boobs.

As I stood there, aghast, I noticed I wasn’t the only one. Women were fighting their umbrellas against the wind to stop and stare. Men were hitting each other in the arms to make sure they saw what they were seeing. I turned away, shaking my head and smiling, only to see one guy stopped, almost paralyzed, staring, hoping that she would lose her grip on her hem and he would catch a glimpse of more of her. Another man stopped and asked, “Did you catch that?” He nodded, “I’m still catching it.” Then they both watched her walk into the wind tunnel.

But not before the second guy said, “You know that girl over there totally knows what you are doing.” That girl over there, was me.

The first guy shook his head and said, “I don’t care.”

And thus, the internal struggle begins. The feminist side of me wanted to scream -- she’s not a piece of meat you pig and defend this stranger's right to wear whatever she felt like without be objectified. But then the pragmatist in me stepped in and said, “Tati, let’s be real here.” After all, she wasn’t wearing that outfit for comfort. It was freezing and the skirt was so short and tight she had to hold it in place -- from experience I know that that isn’t comfortable.

So she was looking for attention. And there is nothing wrong with that. But then one can’t get upset when men stop and gawk as you walk down the street. See, it’s a lot like planting flowers in your backyard. Yes, they are pretty and smell nice and make it so much lovelier out there when you are enjoying your morning coffee. Sadly, though they also bring bees. You have to take the good with the bad.

Of course, in this instance, she could have avoided all the onlookers had she simply put on a coat. She would have also prevented that cold I am sure she caught walking around like that in the cold, wet weather. But I’m not her mother.

Dispatches from The Online Dating World

For purposes of full disclosure, I still haven’t officially signed up for the online dating service. I just can’t. I know people have had success, but the more bozos without photos that send me icebreakers saying if I e-mailed them they would definitely respond, the more I think the membership fee would be better spent belly-up at a bar.

But I do think I ascertained another bit of advice for you out there fighting the good fight. I hypothesize that the more eager a suitor is to be in contact the less pure his intentions. I had one guy send me his phone number as an ice breaker -- saying I should hit him up because we could have lots of fun.

Interesting. My profile is exactly two sentences. What about those two sentences tells you that we would have lots of fun together? Could it be my proximity? I didn’t call him -- he was too fake-baked -- so I guess I will never know.

Then there was bachelor number two, who had a breadcrumb trail in his profile as to how I can contact him without joining the service. And because I thought he was cute and he was tall enough and because he lived in the city and wasn’t an unnatural shade of orange, I decided to go for it; after several days of humming and hawing that is.

So how many e-mails did it take before sex was mentioned? Four. Now, in fairness, he asked for the name of my novel and I told him -- Faking It, which obviously opens the door for some inappropriate comments. Responding back that he hopes I won’t have to fake it with him wasn’t what I had in mind though.

Still, I gave him another chance. Mostly because I have been bored out of my mind, that is when I’m not freaking out about grad schools and query letters. So having someone to e-mail was a pleasant distraction. He kept asking me about instant messenger and finally I relented. So, how long were we IMing before sex came up again? About four minutes.

The scary thing is, I think I read this bit of advice before, I just can’t remember where. But, because I didn’t take the advice seriously, I have to guess it came from either Dr. Phil or Steve Harvey. In this one instance, it would seem, they may have been on to something.

But hell, even fortune tellers get it right every once in a while.

Good Crush Hunting

Since high school I have been playing a game whenever I get a drink with a straw. Though, it’s not really a game. See, I carefully pull the straw from the wrapper, put the straw in my drink and then, while thinking about a guy I like, I tie the wrapper into a knot and pull on both ends. If there is no knot, than he is thinking about me too.

So, the other day I was at a diner, sitting in front of my diet soda, staring down at a straw wrapper that was almost tied. But I couldn’t pull the ends because my mind was totally blank. I could not think of a single guy that I was wondering if he was wondering about me.

Sure, I could have thought about Peyton or Stewart or Curtis, but since they don’t know me, they couldn’t possibly be thinking about me and thus a knot would surely appear. With a sigh, I put the twisted straw wrapper on the table and sipped my diet coke.

A girl without a crush is such a sad sorry sight. She no longer cares about calories consumed or the last time she shaved her legs. When my black bean burger arrived, I ate all the French fries. I couldn’t help myself.

Later, when I got home, I opened an e-mail from an online dating site I used many moons ago. The e-mail claimed they had new matches for me. I looked and it did seem like there was one guy with a little potential and so I clicked on the link. Unfortunately you have to create a profile before you can look at someone else’s. I posted the quickest profile possible, including two photos of myself, one with blonde hair one with long hair. I figured if any suitor asked I would explain to him that I now have long blonde hair so he will have to use his imagination. I wasn’t, under any circumstance, going to take a “MySpace” shot of myself. I don’t care what dating site experts say about those photos effectiveness. I think they look stupid.

So, my quickie profile was posted and I went back to Bachelor #1’s profile. He hasn’t been active for at least two weeks. Blast.

I closed out of the site and wished I had a pint of dairy-free ice cream.

The next day I got another email telling me that 67 men had viewed my profile and I had three new messages. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. What the heck, I thought. I need a new crush and I do know at least one couple that met online.

Man, was that a mistake.

Once I weeded through the guys without pictures and had headlines with the word “looking” in them -- for those of you that don’t know, that’s code for married or in a serious relationship. And the guys with the creepy, poorly lit webcam shots of themselves -- guys, seriously, nothing makes you look more like a serial kill than a webcam shot as your profile picture. I was left with a guy whose headline actually read something to the effect of, “Hunter Looking For A Trophy.”

Umm, excuse me, but aren’t “trophies” plaques of animal heads that hunters hang on the wall. I’m sorry, guys, I lied earlier. Nothing makes you look more like a serial killer than saying you are looking for the next head to hang on your wall. The webcam shot is the second creepiest thing you can do.

Thank goodness we are getting back on the water soon. If I can’t find a crush amongst rowers, than I really am in trouble.

After Shocks After The Rose

Do any of you watch The Bachelor? More importantly, did any of you receive an out-of-the-blue text or phone call from an ex saying he was sorry or that he made a mistake Monday night? Because I think the two may be related.

Let me say, before I get too far into this post, that I don’t watch The Bachelor. Never have, and god-willing, never will. However, from the tweets and Facebook and coverlines on magazines, I’m guessing that Jake tossed good girl (and fan favorite) Ally and then proposed to crazy in the head, so she must be crazy in the bed Alana. (Please tell me if I’m wrong here because my theory here depends on these facts).

Those same coverlines told me that Ally (who just from pictures looks adorable and sweet and very nice) has since moved on and Jake now regrets proposing to Alana (who, quite frankly, looks a bit trashy).

I can understand Jake’s predicament. It is one I have seen time and time again. Guys passing on the girl next door for the wild child only to realize later that while the wild child may be fun, she is also crazy. And while crazy can sometimes be fun, it can also be kinda scary. Like when she cuts out all the women from your pictures (including your mom and your sisters) or starts beating your dog because she thinks you love Tiger more than you love her.

Which brings me to the second question I asked. See, I think it is always easier to to see someone else making your mistakes. There is probably even a psychological word for this phenomenon (Bridie?). And I’m betting as our exes watched The Bachelor (with their crazy girlfriends) they shook their heads when Jake made “the biggest mistake of his life,” turned to their girlfriends who had been rooting for Alana and had their “a-ha” moment that led to the phone call or text.

At least that is what I think precipitated the Republican sending me a text yesterday.

See, I know the Republican watches The Bachelor (a fact I didn’t know until after we stopped seeing each other). I also know he had a girlfriend that he started seeing after he stopped seeing me. Now, I think he fancies himself Bachelor material, so I speculate that he was probably seeing both of us at the same time. And after going out with us, he extended his rose to the crazy, though not exactly attractive one.

Before you start in on me about how can I be so conceited - I'm not. My looks are the one thing I am insecure about (well, that and my boobs). Other than looks, I think I am a pretty awesome package. I’m smart, funny, well read, fit, good with kids, an excellent dresser and I love watching football. I’m also not a nag and I have a lot of friends so I’m not the sort that needs a man to keep me entertained.

Still, even with my insecurity about my looks I can say when I think a girl is not as cute as me. This girl wasn’t. As for how I know she’s crazy? Well, that is based solely on the outfits I have seen her wearing in pictures on Facebook.

So, what’s a girl to do? I guess if I were a contestant on The Bachelor and I knew after only spending a couple of days with a guy that I (sob) love him (sob), I would give him another chance. And one day we would appear on the cover of People as a happy couple, planning our wedding and laughing about how he picked Alana first. But then again, there’s a reason why I've never been a contestant on The Bachelor.

Okay, counting my small chest there’s two reasons.

Dance, Dance, Dance, Dance, Dancing Machine

I accidentally found myself out dancing this weekend. And while at first I was disturbed, I soon realized dancing is exactly what has been missing from my life.

See, I was in Allentown again this weekend. And before you start asking why I have been spending so much time at my parent’s place understand two things. 1) I get my hair done in Allentown and don’t trust anyone but Hairdresser to show these locks love; 2) ever since Lana left and I started applying to grad schools Mom and Dad have been wigging out. So I have tried to spend a bit more time there, helping out and letting them know they are still loved.

Okay, so Saturday, Hairdresser was doing my hair and asked what I was up to this weekend. I told her that my best friend from high school, Colleen, and I were going to get together to catch up. She asked where and I told her I wasn’t sure. She suggested we go to this new sports bar, which was by far the newest, hippest place to hang out. I shrugged and said cool. Later, when Colleen sent me a text message asking what I was in the mood for, I recommended the sports bar.

I should have known by the delay in getting back to me that I made a poor choice.

But, Colleen was gracious, agreeing to meet me there. Only after getting lost (briefly -- why aren’t Union Street and Union Blvd. the same road?) did I learned why Colleen was hesitant about the coolest, hippest place in Allentown. Because it wasn’t a sports bar. It was an adult arcade.

No, not like “adult” arcade with nearly naked women walking around (at least not before 10 p.m.). No, adult arcade like a place with bowling alleys and ski ball and Dance Dance Revolution. Not the best place to catch up, still Colleen and I managed. Fortunately, thanks to Facebook, most of the catching up had been done and so we entertained ourselves making fun of the band and the other bar patrons.

Now, earlier when we were sending text messages back and forth, Colleen had said that 12 Pack was going to be at the bar. I stupidly assumed 12 Pack was a band and so when we got there I thought it was 12 Pack that was wreaking havoc on our ears. Colleen soon cleared up the confusion. She explained 12 Pack was a reality star. Memories of a Sunday spent hungover in the Duchess’s living room, drinking vegan shakes and watching Daisy Chain of Love came flooding back to me. When I asked Colleen if he was called 12 Pack because he had more than a six-pack she laughed. This would explain why the sports bar was starting to fill with women in short satin dresses, teased hair and heels that were not appropriate for a bar smack in the middle of a city that was hit with 8 to 12 inches of snow just the day before.

So, how did I find myself accidentally out dancing? Well, between the really bad band and the appearance of 12 Pack, a dance party broke out next to the VIP lounge (which much to 12 Pack’s chagrin, I’m sure, was nothing more than a couple of chairs pushed around a coffee table) and in front of the stage where a hula-hoop girl enthralled us all. And since we had nothing better to do, and Colleen’s dancing fool fiance had shown up, we decided to join the fun.

As Colleen’s fiance made a bit of an ass of himself, but in a good, goofy way, Colleen and I stood on the sidelines and did what we do best -- made fun of everyone else (including her fiance). But as I stood there, laughing, judging and occasionally busting a move, I realized the only thing missing was my get-up. Sure I was making fun of those girls out there, but secretly I was jealous. Even as much fun as I was having listening to old school hip-hop and drinking cheap beer from plastic cups, it felt somewhat incomplete in my GAP trouser jeans and cute flats. Not that I had packed scut gear for my trip home, but suddenly I wished I too was wearing a really short dress and inappropriate heels.

See, somewhere in between all those storms we recently had, I complained to Salty, Bridie and the Duchess that I was sick of neighborhood bars and desperately wanted a big girls’ night out complete with fancy drinks and heels. Now, the Duchess has promised to take me out to celebrate finishing my novel and I think I'm going to insist on a night of dancing. I can’t remember the last time we went dancing (and no, I don’t count the shore). I think a night out, all gussied up and rubbing my badunkadunk against some stranger’s junk is just what the doctor order.

Oh, and before you ask -- yes, we did wait around to meet 12 Pack and all I have to say about him is he’s a lot shorter than I expected.

Give It To Me Baby

Warning: I am about to speak favorably about an establishment here in Philadelphia. No, they didn’t pay me. Nor did I hook up with the bartender or the owner. I don’t even know the owner. Just thought I would spread some love.

Contrary to what my ex-boyfriends may say, I am not hard to please. I just want what I want the way I want it. And, to be fair, I let them know what it is. I don’t make them guess or read my mind or say I want one thing but really I want something totally and completely different.

Never is this more true than when I am out to eat.

Theresa and I saw Valentine’s Day last weekend and after we decided we needed a couple of beers. So we stopped at a bar and after a couple of rounds, we decided it was time to eat. We decided to leave our current bar, much to the bartender’s chagrin, and head over to Pub and Kitchen.

When the bartender asked us why, Theresa responded, “She’s a vegan.” He then looked at his menu and said. “Yeah, good luck,” told us to say hi to the bartender there and walked away.

It’s cool. I’m used to it. Mostly, when I’m out I just make do with whatever is on the menu as I try to be a cool vegan. I had been to P&K with Theresa before and so I knew there was something there for me to eat. Of course the last time I was there, I was slightly intoxicated and so the details as to what it was they had for me to eat were a bit fuzzy. Maybe that was the real reason I wanted to go back -- to actually taste whatever meal I had ordered that night.

When we arrived, I told the bartender that the other bartender said hi and he raised his eyebrows. I just assumed they knew each other, but maybe this was some sort of code. He then asked why we had left and Theresa responded, “We wanted to get something to eat, and she’s a vegan.”

This bartender didn’t skip a beat. He smiled and said, “Let me see what the cook can do for you.” And when he came back he said, “He can put something together.”

I didn’t ask for details about what it was or how it was going to be prepared. Why? Because I’m not difficult to please (see above) and when it came out, it was delicious. Simple, but oh so good. I even made Theresa eat some -- trying to seduce her away from the pork chop she was enjoying.

My point? Well, first that the Pub and Kitchen rocks! And I don’t think it is just because the bartender had a thing for me (as Theresa kept suggesting). Second, I don’t think the bartender had a thing for because while he was super nice and accommodating, he is also a bartender. And what have I told you about bartenders.

Oh, and before you ask, no Theresa and I didn’t meet anyone out. We almost did, though. A group of very tall, handsome men came in just as we were about to leave. But sadly, they ordered pink drinks that were served in martini glasses (too frothy to be cosmos) and didn’t seem at all interested in us.

Faking Disappointment

Let me start by saying I love my dad. I do. I really do. But like so many men, sometimes he just doesn’t get it.

Yesterday, we were sitting in the living room. I was finishing up a press release and my dad was simultaneously watching curling and playing solitaire on his computer. My e-mail alert chirped and so I switched screens and learned that school number three sent me my second rejection letter.

Understandably, I was disappointed and so I turned to my father and said,”Well, I won’t be going to Syracuse.”

“Oh, why?”

“Umm, because I just got their rejection letter.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

I would add details about emotion or inflection, but there wasn’t any. He barely looked away from the curling match. And he doesn’t even like curling.

So, looking for someone to commiserate with, I sent a mass text to friends and then tweeted about my sad news. While on Twitter I learned that Brian Westbrook was released from the Eagles.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“The Eagles released Brian Westbrook.”

He threw his head back. “Jesus. What the hell? I swear that Andy Reid has his head up his ass. Why did they get rid of Tony Hunt if they were just going to turn around and get rid of Westbrook. And what are they doing with Vick? Or McNabb?” He shook his head. Visibly upset that Brian Westbrook, not even his favorite player on the Eagles, was being released from the team.

I struggled to hold back my righteous indignation. Instead I told him he really needed to get over the loss of Tony Hunt.

I realized my old man couldn’t help himself. I also realize that there are probably a lot of guys out there that struggle with this very problem. So I think you should take a lesson from my dad.

First, I want you to think of a sports scenario that would really upset you. Then, the next time your girlfriend or fiance or wife comes to you, upset about something that happened during her day, think about that scenario (as if it just happened) and react accordingly.

Of course instead of saying things like “I swear that Andy Reid has his head up his ass.” Make it personal to her: “I swear that boss of yours has his head up his ass.” See, not so hard. Plus you really can’t overreact in this sort of situation. Even if you get so angry that you throw something, the woman in your life will probably appreciate it. Even laugh at your bravado and feel better about her crummy day -- making you an even bigger hero to her.

And men think women are so complicated.