the last frontier of disempowerment

There's one big hole in my fully-functioning-adult training. And at the bottom of this hole, you'll find everything to do with cars, including, but not limited to, changing tires, driving a stick, figuring out where to take a car that isn't working, describing car noises, knowing how to not get ripped off by people who know a hell of a lot more about cars than I do, buying a new car, and being able to name, on sight, a single solitary item that lives under the hood of a car. I attribute this dirth of knowledge to two things: a) the relationship I had with my father when I was a teenager and b) that fact that my father is really smart about cars. On the first point, the process of passing knowledge from father to daughter was often quite contentious when I was younger. I'd get bored and he'd get impatient and he'd wind up swearing aloud, while I swore silently in my head. And then I moved away and so-called "teaching moments" became fewer and further in between. The upshot of that is that Fred and I haven't had a screaming match in some years! Most days, in fact, I find that he's pretty good company. And a fine fellow, to boot! And on the second point, well, when your dad is so GOOD at taking care of such things for you, it makes your learning how to do it yourself somewhat unnecessary.

I bring this up because, today, I learned that my transmission case is cracked (does that make sense to someone? Because I really don't know what it means), I need new brake pads and rotors (I could have SWORN I just got new ones, like, 3 years ago! You have to do that every three years??? That's, like, a lot!), and several of my emissions-related sensors are blown and in need of replacement. All in all, they tell me that I need to spend $3300 in order to get my car to pass Virginia safety and emissions standards. My car is already 10 years old and not worth anywhere near that sum. And so, today, Super Fred sprung to action and managed to, in exceptionally short order, procure another car for me. See? For what purpose do I need to learn anything? I've got this amazing dad! Meanwhile, of course, my old, hobbling, sad car is paid off. And now I've got friggin' car payments, like every other American young adult on the planet. Blech!

Now, I've chosen to write a post about all this for only one reason. Car issues scare the crap out of me and make me feel like a totally helpless female person, straight out of a generation other than my own. There are not too many things that make me feel anything other than self-sufficient, but when my car freaks out, I, too, freak out. On one hand, I hate having to have a car in the first place. I feel crappy about myself and call myself a hypocrite every time I put gas in one, because I'm hyper-aware that I'm contributing to the war effort. And global climate change. And the depletion of natural resources. And, pretty much, everything about being a car owner operates in direct opposition to my most core values. But dammit, I'd have to get up two hours earlier if I were gonna take the freakin' metro/bus into work every morning. And I already get up at 6 AM! Owning a car is, for the time being, a necessary evil. And I mean it when I say "evil."

But the truth is, I'm wholly at the mercy of anyone who knows more about cars than I do. And it seems, until now, I've always managed to live with or near someone who is smart about cars-- or at least presents a convincing lesbian tough-girl front when necessary. And in this way, I find that, at thirty years of age, I'm hopelessly ripe for victimization, both at the auto repair shop and at the car dealership. And this is the case sheerly because of my own negligence on this front.

So, because I'm somewhat disinclined to sign up of a class in basic auto mechanics at any point in the near future, I'm going to issue forth a tremendously retrogressive request to the cosmos: Dear Cosmos, please send me a beau who, not only has read some or all of the books on my previously posted reading list, but also knows lots about cars. In my next life, I promise I'll take that auto-repair course. Regardless of whether I have a vagina or penis in that next life. I promise.

Dear Cosmos, please don't take me up on that last promise.

Dear Cosmos, P.S. Please note. Make sure that afore-requested beau does not place undue value or any amount of his/her self-worth in his/her own car. Driving a fancy car does not make for a good suitor of me. Such attitudes make me want to vomit a little. Preferably in said fancy car.

When a bunch of syringes, plastic bottles and cigarette butts get stuck in your net... and nary a fish from the sea to be found

If a friend of yours had a stalker-- even an albeit harmless one-- who annoyed her, mostly by being entirely too presumptuous, how would you tell her to behave? Would you tell her to report the situation to some authority (job-related, law-related...)? Would you tell her that, because he is immune to social cues and oblivious about boundaries, he had the potential to be anything but harmless, thus inciting her fears? Would you tell her that she should ignore the situation and that might make it go away?

On the heels of a post in which I've advertised for the sort of person who would share enough of my values to have read some of the texts that are important to me, I feel I have to acknowledge that sometimes I set a wider net than I intend. I'm striving to be aware that I'm, to some degree, responsible for the attention I attract... and to, above all, not be a friggin' victim of my own psychic emissions. That said, I've had two situations with people-- both of whom happened to be men--who, while not exactly stalking me, did manage to fixate on me in ways that I found unnerving. And I got all of the above advice. None of these guidelines for how to dissuade one's stalker have I find particularly useful.

On the first point, I've tried it. Given, in the curious little fishbowl of my last job, sexual harassment was very de riguer and my supervisors seemed to think I could do my rebuffing for myself. When the returning of inappropriate gifts and unmitigated rudeness do nothing to run these dudes off, and you really do wish someone over your head would just lay down the law, well, don't count on it. If you don't make a move towards retaining an attorney, chances are, your boss isn't gonna think much of your complaints. Especially if you're the girl always getting in trouble for offering all comers glimpses of your exceptionally titillating upper arms. Our legal system supposedly provides a support system such that the person being infringed upon isn't responsible for doing the dirty work when attempting to drive away the infringer. But the system ain't foolproof. And while I'd hate to be the girl cowering behind workplace legal protocol, I also hate to be the girl who has to deal with an irritating situation that she didn't create. So, I would say, when seeking recourse for harassment in the workplace, be prepared that a unfairly large portion of the burden of resolution will still be assigned to the complainer. It sucks, but that's the way it is.

And regarding feeling scared when confronted with stalker-esque scenarios, I think this is also pretty lousy advice. Firstly, the more you fear, the more you draw that which you fear toward yourself. If you stay aware, but assume that the world at large means you no harm, your chances of getting raked over any sort of karmic coals tends to diminish-- or, at least, this is certainly true in my experience. Secondly, learning to trust your instincts is incredibly important. If you find someone annoying and yet you know good and well that person's never gonna track you down and shove the handle of a hairbrush up your ass, well, trust that feeling! Being scared is disempowering. While I would hedge my bets that women and men are equally subject to attracting the attention of unwanted gawkers and stalkers alike, I can't help but feel a little patronized when people feel they should warn me-- something like, "oh, he confessed LOVE for you? You better watch out! Someone like that could mean you harm!" Really, there's a huge difference between someone who is actually psycho and someone who never developed any skills for dealing with people he finds attractive beyond those he'd learned by the time he'd entered the 5th grade. You don't have to be scared of everyone. Some people are stupid, sure, but that doesn't mean they're gonna show up on your doorstep with a meathook and a nasty expression in their eyes.

But, in all honestly, the rule I constantly break in stalker-rebuffing etiquette is that I engage. Yes, fine, it pisses me right the hell off when someone makes the assumption that, because he or she is attracted to me, the chemistry they feel is mutual. A person who pays attention to other people knows when someone is attracted to him or her, and also when he or she has no shot. I have a massive ego and yet, I don't seem to have a problem noticing when someone is completely out of my league. It happens ALL THE TIME. Yes, even I have been attracted to people who are way too hot for me plenty of times. Yes, there ARE actually people hotter than yours truly-- AND I'm even humble enough to acknowledge their existence. Hard to believe? Yeah, I know it is.

But when people are merely polite to me, I do not interpret their actions as flirtations. And so, it really inspires my ire when people who, let's say, happen to have dicks, think something along the lines of "oh, hey, she appears heterosexual and I fit the criterion there. She smiled at me when I said 'good morning,' so clearly she's noticed that I fit the criterion. By criminy! She's aching to rock me ALL NIGHT LONG!" I assure you, when I smile at you and we've exchanged less than 30 words in our entire lives, and it's before 10 AM, I'm probably not thinking about doing much of anything other than not seeming annoyed that someone has butted into my quiet headspace at such an early hour.

So, yeah, I engage and I spout off and it drags it out and I get a sick little thrill that I can illicit a reaction. But dammit, I honestly do think that some folks don't know that what they do crosses lines until you TELL them. And I've learned this, too: you can be as articulate as humanly possible in explaining to that person how they've invaded your space, your life, your head... and how you think it's unfair that you now have to deal with an uncomfortable situation through no fault of your own... and how functioning grown-ups pay attention to the objects of their affection, such that they recognize when said objects just aren't into it, rather than projecting some far-fetched fantasy on the self-same said objects... but there's just no getting through. Some fantasies prove far too impenetrable for even the cold poke of reality to have a fair chance.

But, at least in articulating why I feel infringed upon, I feel as though I can resume some control over the situation. And perhaps that's a false sense of control. But if you don't tell people why they've pissed you off or made you uncomfortable, they're probably not going to take it upon themselves to amend their behavior.

And I don't want to cower. I'm not afraid of you. I'm annoyed by you, yes, but I'm not anybody's victim. All I ask is that you wise up and own your own cluelessness. And not mess with my friends any more.

UPDATE: Here's a link to an earlier chapter in this little mini-drama in my life. It is notable that the date on this post was about a year ago...and its subject matter preceded it by a couple of months. I suppose it's a good thing that I have not actually been present for any of the imaginary excitement this fellow has cooked up about me in his own head. Still, it's time for some getting-over-it, yeah?

Can I at least pee without being patronized, please?

Lately, I've been noticing a weird thing happening to semi-public women's bathrooms all over. When I first began my current job, the women's bathroom on my floor required that female prospective urinators enter a code into a little keypad on the door to the bathroom. This was not required for male prospective urinators. Fortunately, within a couple months of my employment, they removed the keypad from the door and now anyone can charge on thru as they please. I, for one, was kinda annoyed that the whole elimination process, at work anyway, required yet another step for girls that was not required of boys (ok, I'll admit, punching 4 buttons isn't a big deal).

But beyond that, I couldn't help but to feel completely patronized by the fact that it was deemed necessary for women to have this extra level of security surrounding the lifting of skirts/dropping trou that the men who work on my floor apparently do not need (when they, uh, also lift their skirts or drop their trousers!). I mean, heaven forbid one of the nerdy old guys who works for my company got a wild hair to furtively dart into the women's bathroom and then...what?...stand on a toilet so as to peer at our dimpled little knees over the partition? I suppose this is a POSSIBLE scenario, but it's HIGHLY IMPROBABLE, don't you think? Really, I do not fear for my safety at work, nor do I worry about peeping toms. At my last job? Where I acquired a few stalkers over the years? Well, that was a different story... but, even there, it was more likely that the nerdy old men (different nerdy old men, by the way) were gossiping about who'd seen my body parts rather than trying to capture their very own glimpse of them.

I bring this up because, while I'm in OH for work and working in rented office space, I couldn't help but notice a little green plaque underneath the picture of a skirt-wearing figure by the women's bathroom (in said rented office space) that read "Shelter Zone." Directly across from the women's bathroom is the men's bathroom, but there is no analogous sign underneath the pants-wearing figure's picture. There are no locks on either door and they're roughly 20 feet apart... so, I wonder exactly how sheltered a woman running into this bathroom might actually be, but that's kinda beside the point.

Why is it that there is this perception that women need all this sheltering to begin with? I mean, this is kinda the same concept as the "Take Back the Night" business, isn't it? Like somehow, we aren't able to function normally within a totally civilized office space without needing special hideouts and underground networks? Or maybe, there's an assumption that we need someplace to which we can run after a dramatic tearful exit? (Because girls LOVE to make dramatic, tearful exits at work, right?) Or maybe these shelter zones are like those menstruation tents of yore (yeah, let's send all the chicks to a smelly little room so we can get them off our hands while they're bleeding... and let's call it a "shelter zone!" Brilliant! They'll never catch on!)

In truth, I have a hunch that it's really a bunch of misguided womenfolk who are behind these little insipid security measures. I imagine they're probably very well-intentioned in that they think they're providing a safe exit to sad little girls who find themselves in sticky situations. But what they're missing is that, by assuming that women should not EXPECT to be safe in their own workplaces, they've instituted this entirely dis-empowering little practice of putting signs and keypads up in front of doors behind which women might be naked from the waist down for about 90 seconds at a time.

And I suppose these small measures are resulting from various and assorted workplace problems that have arisen and have since been categorized under the heading of Sexual Harassment. And sure, women (and men) should not be physically assaulted in their offices. Nor should women's (and men's) employment or promotional status or payscale be affected by their gender or sexual habits. Nor should women (or men) have to put up with anyone continually infusing the professional atmosphere with sexual entendres (OK, fine, I'll admit, I'm a little guilty of this one). But the fact that women (and men, but particularly women) should have an EXPECTATION of freedom from all these things should render the aforementioned keypads and signs unnecessary. And because they SHOULD be unnecessary, I can't help but feel that their presence is entirely condescending and infantalizing (oh, please, big, tough keypad! Take care of me, save me, for I am weak and cannot handle the mere threat of someone watching me pee! *simper*).

Can we all just agree that the first step to not feeling victimized is NOT assuming that women are, by definition or by nature, victims in the first place? Please?