Of the Jackass in the Red Shirt

Jerk

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Social rules exist. Everyone knows this, or rather, I hope they do. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that there are some things that are just not okay in certain social situations. Swearing at the Pastor’s house. Outing someone. Wearing a long white dress to a wedding that’s not yours. Staring up a girls dress as she climbs a tree. Crashing a baby shower. Talking loudly throughout a movie. These are just things that you should really rethink attempting.

I deal with jerks who don’t understand the basis of social etiquette on a daily basis, but I rarely let it truly bother me. Most the time I throw those people into the column of stupidity and move on. Like the man who insisted on showing me his Yankee tattoo (on his calf). Or the woman who stormed out of Ice Age 4 because she was under the impression that she had bought tickets to a documentary about the ice age and not a children’s cartoon. To these people I think, really?, laugh to myself, and move on.

But when a man insulted my most favorite hobby, the teacher, and the overall Blues culture – that’s where I draw the line.

A man in red. I don’t know his name, I don’t care to, he pissed me off. When I walked into the venue I could sense that he was going to awkwardly hit on me. And I was right. He had that look that men on the prowl get where their eyes squint (as if women are some mysterious object), widen (ah ha! they spy a female), and then attempt a casual smile (target acquired, no way she can say no to this sexy manliness). I proceeded to put on my dance shoes, fill my water bottle, and sit down against the wall. The dance floor was respectably full. Sometimes it’s fun just to watch people twirl around.

He walked up to me and started talking, but I found it challenging to follow his pointless chatter. Here’s the basics: “I’m not really much of a Blues dancer I just like to do my own thing, you know what I mean, more of a freestyle dancer, you know what I mean, like Chris Brown or Kanye West, everyone here is so into pair dancing, I’m more of a solo act, you know what I mean, I like choreography, you know, so I’m trying to figure out what the girls like for choreography, I’m here to challenge myself, I like a challenge, I’m not here just to talk and meet girls, it’s kind of like a school dance, you know?” Ugh, never have I want to wave my rainbow bracelets in a man’s face so badly and yell, “LESBIAN!!” at the top of my lungs.

He asked me to dance, and like any good social dancer, I accepted. I wouldn’t call it a dance, unless I was at a wedding, it was more like me walking back and forth while he attempted to do fancy footwork. It was lame. It was awkward. I was laughing – but he probably just thought I was smitten. For the rest of the night I did my best to avoid him (I suddenly went to go get water more often than normal).

An hour or so later I came down from the bathroom to see the man in red attacking the teacher. He was loud, angry, and contradicting himself about every twenty seconds. I couldn’t believe it! I blatantly sat down and sipped my water as I eavesdropped – not that he noticed. He proceeded to bash the group lesson format, he got mad at her for not asking for a detailed account of his dancing experience, whined that they only taught Blues (at a Blues venue … *rolls eyes*), that he couldn’t dance with any of the girls here, blah, blah, blah. Everything that he said, all of his complaints, came down to him not understanding, or even attempting to grasp the culture.

From what I understood of his conversation, which was so emotionally heated and scattered that I can barely remember what he said, he felt insecure about his dancing and thought that people should pay him a lot more attention because he’s new. Shocking as it might be to understand – we encourage new dancers to dance. Crazy right. I don’t know a single follow who will bitch to her friends that she had to dance with a beginner. She’ll bitch because she had to dance with a weirdo.

Based off his body language I determined that he ultimately he wanted to feel like a star, to have everyone ooo and ahh over his impressive skills, and ideally take a lady back to his apartment. When that clearly wasn’t going to happen, he freaked out. If he wanted special treatment he should have paid for a private lesson. He crossed the line, simple as that, in what situation is it ever okay to yell at someone who was trying to help you? I must say, I applaud the teacher, she spoke gracefully and tolerated his attack much nicer than I would have.

Social dance has rules just like any other scene:

  • If you attend the lesson do what they teach the group, don’t try to move to far ahead – remember that there’s most likely a wide variety of skill levels in attendance, sometimes you’ll have to learn the same dip/twirl/concept multiple times, consider it practice.
  • If you receive a correction don’t get offended, learn from it – I promise you’ll be a better dancer if you do.
  • If you have a question, ask – don’t expect the teacher to know that you’re struggling (like the jackass in red did).
  • If someone asks you to dance, say yes – unless you have a really good reason to say no – like a hurt joint, you’ve already promised this dance to someone else, you’re a lead who needs to change your shirt, or you already danced with him/her and they got really creepy.
  • AND DON’T DISRUPT THE EVENT AND PROCEED TO YELL AT THE TEACHER ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY’VE BEEN TRYING TO BE POLITE AND HELP YOU.

Aka – use common sense.

Of the Battle on Mother’s Day

Traffic

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On Mother’s Day I had to open at work. My family rather than waiting to schedule their party at 4PM, when I could actually be there, decided start without me at 2PM. I was late – nothing unusual there.

Before going to Brother’s house I went to pick up Sister, whose blood-family was in Arizona. Partially for her to help keep me sane and because my family loves her. She’s been around since we were eight-years-old, even the fam calls her Sister as if that was her real name. We were giddy and dancing to pop music as I was driving, normally I head to Brother’s house going south but today I was going north, so I missed the exit.

“It’s cool, we can get to Highway 99 from the next exit can’t we?” I asked.

Sister shrugged, “We can try.”

Within a minute I saw the cars in front of me slam on their breaks sending an unwanted abundance of red lights my direction, great, I thought. We weren’t moving, no one was, after about ten minutes of sitting behind a Canadian semi-truck I realized that we weren’t going anywhere soon.

Hey I’m stuck in traffic on the freeway I don’t think I’ll be able to move for a while, I texted Brother.

Sister and I kept seeing the occasional jerk pull out of the lane and drive along the shoulder. Those cars then aggressively forced their way into the front of the line and take the exit that I was also wanting – in fact, it was roughly 100 feet from where I was sitting in the traffic jam.

“No! That’s no how it works!” Sister was pissed, she hates obnoxious drivers. She began flipping off all the people who drove along the shoulder as if that wasn’t against the law, more importantly to her, it was flat-out rude and thus intolerable behavior.

“Really?” I said talking as if the drivers could hear me, “What made you think that that’s okay?”

In my rear view mirror I saw a car about four people behind me start to slip out onto the shoulder, “Oh Hell no,” I said, “bitch I want the same exit you do.” And with that statement I let out my passive aggressive side and pulled my car half onto the shoulder and half in my lane. I looked behind me and saw at least one other car doing exactly what I did to someone else, this made me happy. The little black car was forced to stop. I stared in my mirror at the rude driver, I’m going to guess she was somewhere between 50-60 with graying hair and a poorly fitted black tank top. Her passenger, a man, seemed to not care at all about the traffic. She was clearly annoyed.

She began pointing, which is quite possibly the weakest threat I’ve ever seen. Soon we began to inch forward, I kept forcing her to go with the speed of traffic. Whenever she tried to move around me I just got more over, but I still stayed in my lane. She had the options of waiting in line or driving into a ditch off the side of the freeway.

One time she tried honking, Sister got even more angry and blatantly flipped her off, “I swear, honking is way worse than flipping someone off. Wait your turn bitch!” she yelled.

“If she honks again you’re getting out and telling her we want the same exit and she has to wait her fucking turn.” I said, Sister nodded in agreement.

For the next ten minutes we were talking about as gangster as we can get, Sister changed the music from pop to rap as her passive aggressive bad ass side got more and more bitter. I don’t think I’ve (or rather we’ve) ever said, “What, what, fucking wait your turn, bitch, what, you got a problem, rude, really? what makes you think this is okay, what?” so many times in my (our) life.

As we got closer to the exit we saw flares on the road, a couple firetrucks, and a policeman passed by on opposite shoulder that I was annoying the lady in the little black car on.

“Damn, I wonder what happened?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Sister replied, “but there’s flares involved. That’s crazy.”

Finally we reached the exit. The black car followed us along the exit as we traveled at a normal speed.

“See?” I said, once again as if she could hear me, “I told you. You had to wait you turn, bitch!”

“That was fucking ridiculous,” Sister said.

At the end of the off ramp we turned right and to our surprise the little black car got BACK ON THE FREEWAY. Why’d they even bother trying to get off so forcefully if they were going to hop straight back into traffic in the first place? We couldn’t figure it out.

“Maybe she thinks the traffic will not exist on the other end of the exit?” Sister asked.

Of course that wasn’t true. I don’t know what the accident was, but I do know that there was not a magical change in traffic between the off and on ramps. That woman was just a rude and dumb driver. Granted, I wasn’t the nicest driver either – but I was a gangster with a justified reason.

Of Them Lipsticks

Hello, my name is Sarah, I'm a human.

I always hear lipstick lesbians whine about people’s idiocy in assuming they are straight. They receive comments such as:

  •  “You’re gay? But you’re so pretty!”

And the ever classic.

  • “You could get a man if you wanted to.”

And of course the always appreciated.

  • “You just haven’t met the right man yet.”

And lastly (said by men).

  • “Sleep with me I’ll make you straight.”

Personally I’ve never encountered such remarks. Course, I also don’t walk around broadcasting my gaiety, plus I’m truthful with most that if a man happened to sweep me off my feet all Disney Princess style, then I would happily be with him (I guess that makes me pansexual – yes, that is a thing). Granted I do have rainbow earrings and a necklace, I also have a pin on my backpack, but honestly that’s about it. I figure, ah hell, if I were straight I wouldn’t have to say: “Hello, my name is Sarah, I’m a heterosexual.” I figure the opposite should really be true and thus I abide by the cliché live and let be.

Not long ago I did get my first “wait what?” remark. Honestly part of me was immensely thrilled in the same way I was when I got my first troll comment on this here blog. She didn’t mean anything by it, clearly she was delusional enough to think that lesbians only have short hair, dress like Ellen DeGeneres, and play rugby. To think that the girl with long crazy hair, rocking a floral dress, and saltwater sandals had something in common with the “ugly” dykes she saw holding hands and making out in the corner was unthinkable.

Apparently one of her friends occasionally makes out with their – not her’s – les friend (the story was  longer than that, but honestly it was a boring typical drunken college heteroflexible charade).

“I just don’t understand lesbians,” she said.

“I’m a lesbian,” I said. I wasn’t offended, I just found the whole conversation funny. That sparked a severe case of what I refer of Triple S – Silly Sorry Syndrome – basically unnecessary apologizes that go on repeatedly for far too long. And the guys would try to get me to make out with other chicks – that I do find annoying – I don’t want people to experiment on me for the sake of attracting men.

Ultimately her last comment was, “At least you’re a cute lesbian.”

Haha, good to know.

Of Stupid People and Lovely Persons

Big Band Theory

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People suck. They come in mobs, they make poor decisions, and they are highly self-centered. Masses of people annoy me – that’s no secret. I don’t like dealing with obnoxious teenagers making out in the hall, whinny grandparents complaining about us young folk, bad parents that let their kids run wild screaming, gossipy individuals who slander those I love or loathe, politically obsessed people convinced that the world is going to hell, nosy coworkers, blah, blah, blah.

I especially hate when people slow me down – literally. I’m a naturally fast walker, I tend to weave around others as if they were puddles and I don’t want to get me feet wet. I’ve noticed that large masses of people tend to spread out and walk as slow as humanly possible. They seem to be completely unaware of their surroundings as I walk about a foot behind them giving my clear, “MOVE FASTER! I’m not afraid to tailgate you on foot,” signal. But no, they giggle and take their time. At the first chance I get I’ll pass them and resume my natural pace. Trust me, just saying, “excuse me” doesn’t always work.

Dane Cook has a joke about how you know you hate your job when you get mad at people for coming into your business. Now, I don’t hate my job, I love most of my co-workers some of us are even outside of work buddies. But if I’m working with a fun crew, I do hate when people come into my work. I enjoy getting paid to socialize and I don’t appreciate all these human beings coming in and ruining my fun with their gluttony, rudeness, and stupidity. Yes, when people come to the movies they tend to check their brain at the door and thus can’t understand the simplest notion. I hate dealing with stupid people, I hate dealing with the guy that always says I look disheveled or tired (he always wears a cowboy hat and you can see his nipples through his sweater, I never say anything), I hate dealing whinny people who blame me for the price of their high calorie snack – as if I can do something about it. And I hate when people treat me without any respect, especially when I know I’m smarter than them.

Persons, or individuals as they are more commonly called, I love them. I greatly enjoy socializing with person’s. Granted there are some that are more fun than others, but ultimately even the most annoying person is better than masses of families littered with small children. I even have a person’s list, it’s a semi-permanent list and consists of the most important people currently in my life, sans family. It rarely RARELY contains more than five person’s.

These are people that I love, that make me laugh, that don’t make me want to punch them. If I were in elementary school I would call them my best friend’s (of course back then you’re only allowed one best friend – silly). Even so, if these person’s were in the pile of people who slowed me down when I was trying to get from point A to point B, or came to my work and took FOREVER ordering when I had a backed up line – temporarily they would qualify as people and thus would irritate me for that moment in time.

As I said, people drive me crazy sometimes, but I always will love my person’s – you know who you are *winky face.*

Comedian

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Of a Dirty Hippie in an Elevator

Dirty hippies are not usually as attractive as James Franco but they are similar in the pothead aspect

I was standing in an elevator. A typical elevator with lots of buttons that was probably designed by someone who thought claustrophobia was funny. I started texting someone something – I forget what exactly – course that doesn’t really matter.

Then the elevator stopped and a dirty hippie entered. Living in Bellingham, WA dirty hippies are everywhere. Note: they are different from the traditional hippies of the 1960’s and must not be confused with hipsters. They dress in mismatched clothes that look as though they haven’t been washed – ever. Use only all natural products. Eat only healthy, typically organic, usually vegetarian meals. And they smell like curry and pot. Usually dirty hippies don’t say much to us conformists, that day was different.

The man had dirty blond hair (Ironic right? Dirty blond – dirty hippie). He was wearing the gloves that only cover your wrists, a winter accessory that I’ll never understand. He had ripped the bottom of his jeans off which gave him the Peter Pan look. The zippers on his back pack were near to busting. And he had brown worn out sneakers.

Politely I nodded to acknowledge his presence and returned to texting.

He broke the traditional elevator silence by saying “I took texting off my phone and got my life back.” He then proceeded to curl the fingers on his right hand into a fist and thrust it forward as if saying hoorah! I’m better than you bitch! Of course … dirty hippie’s don’t generally talk like that, they are more passive in their dialogue. I stood there thinking how rude it was to criticize what someone is doing while they are doing it. It’s not like I was carrying around a gun, drinking, or doing drugs in the elevator. I was texting – a very normal thing to do nowadays.

In the spirit of elevator courtesy I replied “Is that so?”

“Yeah, life is so much more productive with out it.”

The elevator doors opened and to my dismay we had the same exit.

He continued, “Now some of my friends get mad at me because they think I’m ignoring or avoiding them.”

No shit I thought everyone texts now ya weird dirty hippie. However, I try my best to be polite in these peculiar circumstances and instead remarked “Well … you are messing with modern communication.”

He laughed as he beamed with pride. He walked away so overjoyed he was clapping. I immediately pulled out my phone and texted a friend about this dirty hippie in the elevator.

Here is said text (unedited) to my friend with the last name of Bennet:

So i’m texting in the elevator right? (Bennet nods her head yes while saying mmhmm) this guy, total dirty hippie by the way, looks at me and says with his right arm in power fist position “I took texting off my phone and got my life back. Course now people think I’m avoiding them.  I made fun of him in my head, though umm rude, and said “Well, you’re messing with modern communication.” He smiled and walked away. Strange right (Bennet nods yes once more).

Bennet replied:

Bahahahaha!! What a weirdo!!!