Don’t Hit on Strangers in Elevators

So, to the guy who works in my building (possibly as a custodian or maintenance man), I only told you my name because I couldn’t think of a way not to.

And no, I don’t want to model for you. I don’t care if you think my hair is amazing.

I’m sure there are plenty of aspiring models who will respond to a Craigslist posting. I’m pretty sure photos for a portfolio aren’t cheap.

But you’re not a photographer. Real photographers don’t have to stop random women in elevators and ask to model for them, they don’t ambush them.

Real photographers don’t complain that girls are ‘taking selfies in their underwear in their bathrooms’ and aren’t letting you take pictures of them in ‘regular clothes.’

Maybe someone else might have been flattered. But I doubt it. Your approach wasn’t subtle, and you approached in an enclosed space, which doesn’t leave a way for me to exit gracefully. Or at all. I’m stuck with you until I get to my floor. I don’t know you, you’re talking about a situation where I would be alone with you after complaining about women who don’t want to let you take their picture. It’s creepy.

And I’m not saying that because you’re a man, or because I don’t find you attractive. I’m saying that because you’re a stranger with a lack of boundary awareness, and that’s the best case scenario. If that is the case, educate yourself and quick, because you are going to cross the wrong person’s boundaries one day, and they might not just want to run away from you, like I did.

Because come on.

You know what I’m thinking? And I may not be right, but I think there’s a good chance that I am.

You don’t want to take my picture. Maybe that’s how you’d start it, but again, there are legitimate ways to acquire photography models.

You want to get me alone and vulnerable, and you want to see how far you can push. You think you can trick or convince me into having sex with you.

And you clearly didn’t care about the fact that I was uncomfortable, or wasn’t interested in talking to you.

So I’m saying this: Cut it out. Don’t stop random women and ask to take their picture or ask their name when they’re clearly not interested.

I’m not saying you can’t have a sex life, or make your interest in a woman clear.

Just have some respect while you do it. That’s all.

Sincerely yours,

J.J

 

 

 

How Long is the Honeymoon Period, anyway?

I’m at work, so I guess technically I’m not supposed to be blogging, but a. Nothing is going on except for the occasional phone call and client coming in, b. no one is watching me, and c. it’s New Year’s Eve and I’m bored.

So whatever.

I think I have a cold, which means it’s probably advisable not to get super drunk tonight? Right? Anyone?

Nah. Totally drinking anyway. Also possibly getting cake. ‘Cause it wasn’t just my birthday or anything and I didn’t eat…about half the cake? No, it wasn’t half the cake. I mean, Magpie (my boyfriend, so nicknamed because of his propensity to spot and pick up shiny things on the ground) had some, Mom had some, and two others had some, so…maybe I ate a third of the cake over…four days? (Guess what my New Year’s Resolution is? Back on Weight Watchers!)

Cake cake cake cake cake. Seriously, if anyone’s ever in New York City- (Is this the first time I’ve actually mentioned where I am? No one come look for me! Tee hee. Actually, if I ever met anyone who read this blog I’d probably be all OMG let’s be friends and want to swap e-mails.)

Anyway, if anyone’s in New York City, go to Sal’s and…is it Dino?’s Crap, I don’t remember and I can’t check Yelp on my-oh, never mind, I can. (I’ve been surfing the net for the last fifteen minutes or so. I am easily distracted. Especially by Cake Wrecks.) Anyway, it’s Sal’s and Dom’s. Best red velvet cake I’ve had. So. Good. OMG. It’s in the Bronx and around the holidays it’s a madhouse but OMG CAKE. EAT IT.

Ahem. I love cake. That is all.

I really do have to work out more, my stamina is crap. It probably doesn’t help that I stopped working out after I got the stomach flu, which wiped me out even after I stopped throwing up. Nausea plus dizziness plus exhaustion equals J.J. curled up in front of Netflix and eating sour candies and drinking ginger ale and not moving.

I have really started baking. For the holidays I made gingerbread cookies, brownies for Magpie’s parents, sugar cookies for a holiday party, and now I want to learn to make bread, so I’m doing what I always do and going online to read tutorials. …I supposed I will have to buy a loaf pan. I mean, I think I have one, but a. I have no idea where it is or what shape it’s in, b. I really don’t feel like ransacking my entire kitchen to find it, and c. I seem to end up needing two for this recipe I found. So two new loaf pans it is.

I also need to practice piping icing, ’cause holy hell it is harder than it looks. You think you just squeeze the bag, the icing comes out in a neat little line, and you paint smiles on your gingerbread people/decorations on your cake. No! You have to squeeze the bag with both hands, and keep it steady or it looks like you’re trying to make dashes instead of lines, and the icing has to be fresh and if you squeeze too hard you just make a mess and if you squeeze too lightly nothing happens or the icing comes out in these dots that look like white bunny poop. Man, this sudden desire to be Betty Crocker is difficult.

It’s so quiet. I think I’ll play some music. *goes to Pandora* Ooh, Rent. Light My Candle is pretty depressing, really. ‘Hey, my girlfriend died/I do drugs and I’m a S&M dancer/I think I like you/Me too/Our lives aren’t that great.’

Oh, I got my first rejection! A few weeks ago, from the student literary magazine. I was almost expecting it, because I rushed my submission, but I still hoped. But no. I was apparently trying to be Lolita, cliché, and lacking editing skills. Ouch. I guess I’d better step it up, or get into a new gig, no? It’s a little humbling, when I thought I could just go on in, but I guess writing really is like everything else, in which you have to practice.

Holy cheese, 700 words and I just now get to the topic mentioned in the title of the post.

How long is the honeymoon period? After lengthy research (by which I mean whatever sites I could get to from Google that aren’t blocked at work), it seems to be anywhere from a few months to two years after marriage. So, what, I’m going to be happy to see Magpie for…well, I don’t think we’re getting married anytime soon, but we’ve survived my mood swings, my stomach flu, his issues, my issues, small arguments, and the fact that we both live with our parents, and it’s only been six months-ish. So, is our honeymoon period over? How are you supposed to know? And I’ve seen people together twenty years who act like they’re still mad about each other and people who break up a few months in, so how does that work?

I think this is typical me. ‘I’m happy with something. WHAT’S GOING TO GO WRONG?’

You know what? I’m just going to go with it. I’m happy. I’m not going to try to dissect it for once. If our biggest issue that he doesn’t like that I eat pork (he doesn’t on the grounds that pigs are smart and that chicken and fish are stupid and therefore okay to eat) and I get annoyed that he tries to do high kicks on the subway platform and people stare, I think we’re fine.  (I’m considering maybe giving up pork. Maybe. I like pork. If he promises not to do high kicks on the subway ’cause it’s embarrassing and I worry that he’ll accidentally kick someone and then we become the people who get into a fight on the subway.)

I think I might buy him some pants next paycheck. He needs new pants that don’t look like they’re made to do construction in. He doesn’t really dress up ever ’cause he’s that type. But he looks so good in a button down! /stupid girlfriend whining

I try not to be the ‘omg change your clothes fix your hair what are those shoes’ girlfriend, I really do, but it’s like, ‘Babe, you dress like you’re in high school, stop it.’ Oh well, it doesn’t seem to bother him much. He’s pretty unflappable. Unless I make him watch Project Runway, which he doesn’t like. Probably because it’s about drama and clothes, two things he doesn’t care about. But he says I’m a good girlfriend, so I will try to stay that way. Also we have excellent cuddles and he’s emotionally supportive and- *stops before she goes on and on about how awesome the BF is*

Quick really shameful shallow note: I sometimes wish he were hotter. I mean, I’m attracted to him, and he’s not ugly by any means. But I think my urge to dress him up is a shallow need to have other people think he’s attractive and think that I have an ugly boyfriend. But that’s treating him like a status symbol, and he’s a person, and a good person at that, so I’m trying to get over it. I’m no model anyway. (I’m pretty, but that’s totally different.) Well, actually, a lot of models aren’t that pretty, if we’re talking about conventionally pretty. They’re too tall and angular and such. Whatever. My point is that I love him, but I am apparently shallow enough to wish that he would not dress and cut his hair like a high schooler! I’m going to get stopped one day by a cop who thinks I’ve got a boy-toy!

Okay, this post is getting long, so I’m going to stop now. Happy New Year, everyone!

Sincerely yours,

J.J