I’m operating on about two hours of sleep this morning. Thank goodness for strong coffee. *yawn*

Dawn arranged with me to watch Vedder yesterday so she could stay the night with her man. It was a nice surprise to come home and have him greet me at the door, since she normally closes him up in her bedroom. I always feel bad doing this, so I generally leave him roaming free but try to ensure there is nothing on the tables he can chew, the garbage bin is moved to the back porch and my bedroom door is closed. Dawn and I didn’t coordinate well before she left yesterday morning, though, so I left my bedroom door ajar. You can imagine the mess that greeted me when I went upstairs. Vedder got into my trash, pulled out a few Luna Bar wrappers, an empty tampon box and various other papers and ripped them to shreds all over my floor. He also must have eaten something from my trash, old chewing gum or part of the Luna Bar wrapper that still had a smidgen of chocolate on it (I otherwise don’t throw away food in my bedroom trash) because he kept me up all damn night needing to go outside.

The little sleep I was able to catch in between Vedder’s need to relieve himself was rudely interrupted around 1:15am by a man outside yelling. That isn’t terribly new to me given the neighborhood in which I live, so I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep. This guy apparently had a lot to say, though, because he just kept going and going. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, it sounded like nothing but drunken slurring to me. I crawled to my bedroom window to see it was a man on the front porch of a house across the street, a house that has nothing but Spanish people living in it. I see them all the time sitting on the porch when I come home, and coming and going with their many children. I swear there must be a good 12 people that live in this house…or maybe they just visit a lot.

Anyway, as soon as I saw the house, it registered that this guy was yelling in Spanish. The few words my brain comprehended were, “aqui,” “Dios,” and I think “Puta” was said several times, too. I’m a gringa, though, so don’t take my word for it.

It was quite amusing to watch this guy. He took off his shirt, threw it over his shoulder, lit a cigarette, and gesticulated wildly all while letting whomever he thought his audience was know his opinions. He paced back and forth across the porch, leaned against the brick pillar with one hand, dragged on his cigarette with the other, and continued his tirade.

After it seemed this guy wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, my need for sleep got the best of me so I called the non-emergency police line at 1:48am. At 1:52 (not bad for a non-emergency response), two patrol cars entered from both ends of the street and all four cops got out and approached the front steps. Drunken Spanish guy actually didn’t stop his speech until the police were at the first stair! One of the cops instructed the guy to come down and show some ID. I thought for sure drunken spanish guy was going to fall flat on his face the way he swayed down each step. I couldn’t hear the ensuing conversation, but after a few minutes the guy staggered back up and went inside.

By then, though, I was wide awake and Vedder was ready for another bathroom break. I think I managed to fall back to sleep around 3am, but my internal alarm clock inevitably wakes me around 5am, so I just tossed and turned until 6:30. *yawn*

Current Mood: Exhausted

I just got back from having dinner with my wonderful friend Dee. I met her last year while she volunteered for Mautner Project, just after things fell apart with my last relationship. Dee is such a wonderful person, she offered me her spare bedroom after I shared with her that I was looking for a new place, and that trying to live with my ex until I found a roommate was absolutely unbearable. She did this after a mere 10 minutes of talking and not knowing me from another lesbian on the street.

And now, just over a year later, Dee is helping me again. Not only did she remind me her spare bedroom is always available to me should I need it, she even offered to loan me some money if I found myself in a tight situation. I was humbled and speechless as she insisted I ask her for help, telling me she would help in any way that she could.

Thinking back to my Tarot reading, I have to wonder if Dee is the human form of one of my angels. :smile:

The ultimate point to this entry, which applies to the title, was my catch-up with Dee about my leaving Mautner and searching for new employment. She immediately inquired if I had nice interview clothes, to which I replied I had not purchased anything really dressy since I’d lost this last chunk of weight. I said my intention was to purchase something on Monday with my next paycheck, to which she replied that we were right next to the mall and she’d be happy to spot me some cash for a nice outfit. Her logic was, what if I got called for an interview *this* week? What was I going to do then?

Those who know me know I hate imposing, and asking for financial help has always been a difficult thing for me. I’ll help others out with money in a heartbeat if I am able to, but I simply hate having to ask for myself. That being said, my attempt at saying, “I really appreciate it, Dee, but I can’t do that to you,” didn’t get me very far.

So, I agreed that we could hit Macy’s after dinner. Oh, but she didn’t stop there.

To give you a little background: Being the stylish and relatively well-to-do lesbian that she is, Dee has critiqued my choice in mens apparel because of the way the pants I purchase sag in the ass. When she met me last year, I was 30 pounds heavier than I am now. Whenever she sees me, she makes it a point to tell me I should buy clothes that better show off my figure. I’ve always just smiled or laughed it off and allowed her to stand behind me to tug my jeans upward.

History now established, you shouldn’t be surprised as you read that Dee highly suggested we take a look in the womens section.

I know my mouth went agape and the french fry I had been chewing now showed itself as mashed potatoes on my tongue.

I tried to reason with her. I’ve been wearing mens clothes for 12 years… I can’t stand how womens pants settle on my waist… I haven’t a clue what size I am… I wouldn’t have any idea what is stylish and what would look good on me… etc., etc.

My attempts were in vain. While she did not insist the only way she’d help me is if I left the store with womens attire, she did ask that we at least take a look, and that she was certain she could find something I would look smashing in for an interview.

Okay. I can at least look, I thought. That shouldn’t be too bad. But my stomach was already knotting with anxiety.

We leave the restaurant, head over to Macy’s and up the escalator to the womens section. For each step the escalator inched upward, my stomach tied itself into another knot. I tried to chat about mundane things, all the while listening to my subconscious ask me what the fuck was I doing?

We reached the floor and I just stopped. I had no idea where to go, after all. Dee was already making a beeline to the right to a display of those suits that get their foundation from mens suits, but are tailored for a woman’s body. I followed. I will admit that I’ve always thought those suits are attractive… on other women. I did not think I could pull one off at all.

Stopping at a rack of dress slacks, Dee begins reaching for pairs and holding them up to my waist as I stand there looking around, feeling like the entire store is staring at me. Mind you, I was wearing baggy cargo pants and a Polo shirt. Mens, of course. I felt like I had a huge arrow bobbing up and down over my head, shouting in a sing-song voice, “Lookee here! A dyke in the womens section! Lookee here!”

After a few moments of this, Dee asked me to pick a pattern I liked.

Ummm… I looked at a black and white pinstripe pair, a pair that was, for lack of a better color description, brown with red and black pinstripes…. then, I just blinked a few times, swallowed past the dryness in my throat and said, “can we please go to the mens section?”

Dee just laughed. I think she could tell how panicked I had become. She said the only reason she wasn’t going to press harder at trying on womens clothing was because one of the biggest parts of an interview is being comfortable with yourself physically. If you’re not, then that uncomfortable feeling carries over into the actual interview.

Thank Buddha! I totally agree!

We made it to the mens section and in FIVE minutes I picked out a pair of black Calvin Klein dress slacks and a reddish Tommy Hilfiger oxford. Finding some fitting rooms, I tried on the outfit, showed it to Dee and in 15 minutes flat we were walking back to her car.

Yay! Now I’m prepared for an interview should I be given the opportunity at some point this week. If not, that’s okay, too. I want to find a good fit for me. At least I know I’ll look good going into each interview now. :wink:

Current Mood: Amused & Grateful/Thankful

I have been browsing Banterist.com, one of my all time favorite sites, and found the entry I’m copying below. Read, laugh, then finish reading my post below:

Dear Cyclist Whom I Will Be Beating

I am not certain of the circumstances that will lead to you, the cyclist, being beaten by me, the pedestrian, because I am writing this letter in advance.

First off, I would like to offer my apologies for the beating, and say that when it occurs it will be a spontaneous event, not pre-meditated or in the First Degree of any sort. You and your lawyers will have to understand this.

You should know that this behavior will be unusual to me. I prefer diplomatic resolution over violence. In fact, even when presented with a blessed opportunity to ruin a wee Frenchman for purposely drinking my beer, I instead chose a non-combative approach. I sought the path of enlightenment. I also didn’t want to ruin my honeymoon by getting tossed in a foreign slammer.

But unfortunately for you, the frenzied beating you shall receive will be an anomaly. It will be uncontrollable, and frighteningly furious. It helps that I am 6′ 3′, but more importantly, the appearance that I have completely lost my mind will be amazingly alarming to you — regardless of your physical build and potential self-defense skills. You will be paralyzed by my personal shock and awe campaign. I will proceed, undeterred, until I have sufficiently proven my point. My point will then be followed by the Grand Finale, which involves a lot of jumping on your spokes.

You will have to understand that this has been a long time coming. Not coming at you personally, as I can not say that I know you since I am writing this in advance of beating you. Rather, this has been a long time coming towards cyclists in general, as I have felt a growing animosity towards the Cycling persuasion. This is the end result of countless near-death experiences at the hands, or wheels, of your kind. These near misses could have been avoided if you were to use the roads the city has to offer, rather than the sidewalk path that leads to my crotch. Your behavior has rendered the sidewalks and streets more lawless than a Somali flea market. You will reap a juggernaut of vengeance.

The most recent pre-cursor to your future beating set my nerves on edge for the umpteenth, and possibly last, time: I crossed a street — looking the correct way — only to have a two-wheeled bullet traveling the wrong direction graze my head and scream ‘Watch out!’

That took two years off of my life, no question.

By the time my heart stopped racing and I was able to collect myself, I knew it was only a matter of time. I know the feeling. It’s the same one I had when I knew I would kill Scott Yarman if he kept making fun of my mother’s breast cancer. He kept it up. I tried to strangle him to death. We both got suspended.

As I am writing this in advance, I can not tell you of the exact circumstances that will lead up to this horrible event. I imagine it will be fairly simple. I will be walking on the sidewalk, as pedestrians do. You will be riding on said sidewalk, which is illegal. You will strike me in some way. I will completely freak out. The bottled up rage will overwhelm my conscience and self-restraint. My adrenaline will go off the charts, like an ex-con strung out on PCP. Presuming you are not well armed, I will then beat you to within an inch of your life. Two centimeters if you prefer metric.

Take note, my cycling friend.

I’m not sure what you’d call a person who hates people on bikes. You certainly can’t call them Cyclists. Perhaps Anti-Cyclites? Bikeots? Schwinnzis?

Whatever you call them, I am now one. You have made an enemy, sir.

Tread carefully,

A Pedestrian

My daily walk to work is quite similar to the above. While I’ve not had a two-wheeled bullet end up in my crotchal region, I have had my arms nearly separated from my shoulder sockets on more than one occasion. I realize DC traffic is atrocious, I realize many streets are too narrow for a cyclist to ride comfortably and not fear the lodging of a side view mirror into one of their hips…but, there are indeed bike lanes on a good number of city streets, and there are also a good number of streets wide enough to accommodate vehicles of both the four and two wheel variety. My walking route to work consists mostly of the latter, so it puzzles me why so many cyclists weave haphazardly in and out of pedestrian traffic, especially when they know most people nowadays are blaring their respective personal music devices and will not hear an “on your left” or “on your right” announcement.

Cars are a danger to cyclists, especially in a city where aggressive driving is a necessity. Cyclists are a danger to pedestrians. So, where is the middle ground?

Current Mood: Happy