\}"Such as....

In the final piece of the Miss Teen USA pageant, the last five contestants were provided "interesting, thought-provoking questions" posed by each of the five judges. The contestants drew a judge's name from a fish bowl and the judges asked their question.

Miss South Carolina's response to "Recent polls tell us that one out of five Americans do not know how to locate the US on a world map. Why do you think this is?" has become wildly celebrated among Canadians and the French alike as confirmation of the lack of intelligence among America's youth, blondes and beauty contestants.

The onstage short circuiting of Miss S.C.'s brain was unfortunate, to say the least. But c'mon, that was a fucked up question in the first place. My response to that question was, "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Um... is it because they're illegal immigrants? Is it because the average mom and dad feel too guilty about working 80 hour weeks to pay for their Range Rover and cabin and Iphones, so they throw money at their children instead of love and attention and discipline? Is it because even CNN has to have an entertainment segment, because people in this country are more worried about Britney and her babies than anything else?" In her heels, I think I'd have said, "Yeah, can I draw a different judge? This one doesn't seem to know this is a beauty contest."

But all things considered, it was a fair segment of the pageant. I mean, the other contestants were provided equally complex, thought-provoking questions:

Miss Colorado, the winner, was asked: "Who do you prefer: Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie or Lindsay Lohan, and why?"

Her response: "Well... first of all I'd say they're not my role models. But... I'd have to say Paris Hilton because she knew, in the end, what was right and what was wrong."

Miss Virginia's question: "At what point in life do you think you officially become a grownup?"

Miss Virginia's answer: "When you can figure out what is wrong and what is right without your parents' help."

Miss North Carolina's question: "What was the biggest risk you've ever taken in your life and what did you learn from that experience?"

Miss North Carolina's answer: "It was when I went to Canada and went snowboarding. That was definitely a big risk for me, um, going down there, because it was very hard."

Miss New Jersey's question: "What skills are most lacking in teens today and how can they be taught?

Miss Jersey's answer: "I think the skill most lacking in teenagers today is public speaking, a lot of teenagers don't find themselves very comfortable talking in front of large crowds or even small crowds and I think if they feel comfortable with themselves then maybe they can have a better chance with their skills in public speaking."

Sounds like the Jersey girl was giving some advice to Miss South Carolina, if not actually explaining how "being comfortable with themselves" can be taught.

I guess when I said it was a fair segment, I meant each contestant provided answers which were just as relevant as Miss South Carolina's. But Miss South Carolina had the unfortunate distinction of being asked the only question that requires more than two seconds to start formulating a semi-intelligent response.

That judge was kind of an asshole.

Here's what all the fuss is about, and although I think it was just her bad luck to get such a bullshit question, I still enjoy the spoof vid:

The original:


And the spoof:

He was a quiet type, kept to himself, and I always knew he was an effing serial killer!

That's what I plan to tell Anderson Cooper about the creepy guy who lives in my apartment building. Right after I ask if Anderson Cooper might like to love me.

The creepy guy in my building is a Where's Waldo sort. The thing about the original Waldo is he's a serial killer. It's true. He's always there on the periphery, blending into the background, being creepy in his Freddy Krueger shirt, his big black spectacles hiding his murderous glare. Killers are notorious for returning to crime scenes to watch the investigation unfold and have a known fondness for horizontal stripes. Why do you think you rarely see people in stripes? The fashion magazines want you to believe it's because they're unflattering, but really it's because the liberal media is trying not to panic the unsuspecting public with the truth. They don't need mass hysteria every time some sweater-wearing killer decides to hit Dairy Queen for a cone between rampages. I could get into why serial killers are allowed to keep killing for the sake of the economy and prevention of Kim Cattrell exposing her breasts in the Sex and the City movie, but I'll save that for another blog.

Fella in my building is just like Where's Waldo. He's always standing around somewhere unexpected, like the laundry room or the parking garage. Before you go accusing me of overreacting, I'll point out that Waldo isn't doing anything when I come upon him. He's just standing there. Exactly like the original Waldo. This is at all hours of the day and night. I go to the gym at 4 AM and have seen Waldo in the garage at that hour, standing alone, hands in pockets. I've come home from happy hour at 11 PM and have seen him in the stairwell, standing alone, hands in pockets. I've seen him on my days off in the laundry room. Once I caught him abandoning a broken stereo cabinet in the laundry room. He asked if I needed a stereo cabinet. When I shook my head no he added as an incentive, "I could carry it to your apartment for you. Which one are you in?" I'm pretty tan, so at this point I just pretended I don't speak English and smiled and nodded and bravely semi-ran away. Who the hell is out and about at these crazy, unpredictable hours? (If you're feeling like a wiseass and would like to point out that I am out at those times, please refer to my blog about how I'm a hypocrite.)

Waldo is never walking to or from a vehicle or throwing away recycling or putting the garbage out or doing laundry. He's just standing in one spot like he's on a holodeck waiting to be beamed to a slaughterhouse for some rest and relaxation. He's bulbous and overweight and no matter what time of year is always wearing a non-distinct grayish/brownish nylon jacket zipped to the neck to hide his telltale striped sweater. Hands in pockets, glasses askew, standing and staring and inevitably mumbling something creepy like, "That's some traffic out there, isn't it?" He gets a rather desperate look in his eye if you try to limit the exchange to four words or less and starts mumbling more urgently and less distinctly. No doubt saying something like, "What size do you wear? I could make a lovely bathrobe out of you!"

You most likely think I'm exagerrating the creepiness factor of a lonely, unemployed guy. But everyone who knows me knows I'm only ever minding my own business and unless I'm working on my resume or match.com profile I don't ever stretch the truth to make things sound more interesting than they are. It's not the words he says, it's the way he says them. He says things exactly the way a kidnapper in a windowless van would call to a gaggle of Girl Scouts, "Hey, would you like to climb in and look through my candy and kitten head collection?" It's like he's counting on your manners to trick you into getting too close so he can gut you with a paring knife. I'm not fooled by these stripey shenanigans. I approach Waldo in much the same manner I approach surprise blind dates and fish products: by making up a sorry excuse and rapidly retreating. I'm just blessed with a natural survival instinct and strong sense of smell.

Dead Like Me

I think part of why I'm enjoying Dead Like Me so much is that I can relate to the main character. When she dies she's a virgin who has never had a boyfriend, her relationship with her mother is combative, she drops out of college and she lives her life on the periphery, trying not to be noticed, her nose buried in a book. That was me at about the same age. That's why I find the idea of you having a mohawk as a kid so interesting. It's the exact opposite of anything I would have done as a teenager. I didn't ever want to be noticed.

This show is strangely reassuring to me. I understand it's fiction but it speaks of a greater truth that I have faith in. While the subject matter is life and death it never delves into any particular religious beliefs, and maybe that's what I like so much. There's no God picking and choosing, shooing away gays and suicides and a-holes. Everybody dies and everybody's soul gets to go into the lights.

I like their version of God better than the Bible's. Their God looks more like the God I pray to. And my God isn't a bouncer at a club kicking people out because of their sexual orientation or because they suffered so much emotionally in life that death seemed a better alternative.

Possibility

My friend Sheila sent me this youtube clip. I love this.

O!

1. Oprah's book club.

I turned up my nose at Oprah's book club the instant she introduced it. I'd been reading since I was old enough to hold a book in my hands without succumbing to the urge to chew on it. I didn't need Oprah and her minions telling me which books I'd like.

A few years ago I picked up a book by Anita Shreve called The Weight of Water. I'd never heard of her, but I was between books and the word water was in the title, and because I feel a special affinity for water I took my chances. (Sometimes I judge a book by even less than its cover.)

It was a pretty good read and compelled me to try another book by Shreve titled The Last Time They Met. Something I noticed about Anita Shreve was the first thirty pages of her books felt like slogging through a marsh to get to a sandy beach and clear waters. But the slogging was always so worth it. The Last Time They Met had me stifling yawns at the beginning and yelling at the pages by the end and became one of my all-time favorites. Even though it was technically a romance and I'm way too cool to read that kind of shit.

I was surprised to discover The Pilot's Wife, also by Anita Shreve, was The First Oprah Book. She was right about that author, and of the books that have since landed in my lap stamped with Ms. O's seal of approval, I haven't ever been disappointed.

I stopped turning my nose up at books endorsed by Oprah at about the same moment that it became cool to view Oprah as the personal savior of sheeple incapable of independent thought.

I've always had a real knack for timing.

2. There are people who refuse to consider the validity of a theory or idea on the sole basis that Oprah endorsed it.

Yet nobody would refuse a polio vaccine just because everybody was getting one. These are the same people who ignore Christmas on the basis that the holiday has become a gross caricature of its intention in the over-commercialization of our evil capitalist society. Of course the rest of us know that you're just a bunch of cheap fucks hiding behind the sadly thin veil of pseudo-self-righteousness.

Christmas is fun. Even Jesus thinks so. Stop being a dick.

An idea being popular and/or eagerly embraced by the masses does not automatically render it stupid and worthless. If it did, we wouldn't be excreting in toilets or adorning our feet with stylish footwear. While it's true that a passionate embrace of new ideas can sometimes result in unfortunate debacles like cults and scrapbooking clubs, it's also true that if everyone limited their investigation of popular ideas to quasi-intellectual online reviews and morning djs, we'd still be scratching our red asses and eating lice off each other's hairy backs. Or worse: we'd still be English. No offense, England.

3. The Secret

At the end of my three hour drive to Hayward in February my mother enthusiastically greeted me with "Shhh!" Oprah was on, talking about The Secret. The Secret is about the law of attraction. According to the law of attraction, you will attract people and experiences based on your thoughts, beliefs and expectations. If you don't like what's happening in your life, you have to change what's happening in your mind.

4. Everyone's a critic

Run a news search on The Secret and you'll find plenty of negative press. One of the chief complaints is that the premises in The Secret are nothing new. Well, no shit. But mating's nothing new and nobody's suggesting sex is a waste of time.

5. They're such copycats.

I'm of the "many roads" mindset in regards to religion. I view spirituality as being much like music, with different types of music appealing to different people. It wouldn't make any sense for God to write just one song and expect everyone to be moved by it. Maybe the most important things to know come repackaged over and over in history, until we find the song that resonates for us.

Buddha, 563-483 BC: All that we are is the result of what we have thought. The mind is everything. What we think, we become.

Paul, est 58 AD: Romans 12:2: Be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind.

Galileo 1564-1642: You cannot teach a man anything; you can only help him find it within himself.

Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882: Success comes from within, not from without.

Norman Vincent Peale, 1898-1993: Change your thoughts and you change your world.

Sir John Eccles, Nobel Laurete, 1903-1997: I here express my efforts to understand with deep humility a self, myself, as an experiencing being. I offer it in the hope that we human selves may discover a transforming faith in the meaning and significance of this wonderful adventure that each of us is given on this salubrious Earth of ours, each with our wonderful brain, which is ours to control and use for our memory and enjoyment and creativity and with love for other human selves. --How the Self Controls Its Brain, pp. 180-1

6. The Power of Positive Thinking!

Expressing overly optimistic thoughts typically results in people assuming you're either a recovering addict or aspiring writer for children's television programming. Happiness as a whole is dismissed as the last bastion for the mentally impaired and intellectually inferior. My, we're a cynical lot!

7. But we're also a depressed lot.

According to the National Association of Mental Health, 9.5% of Americans over the age of 18 suffer from depression every year. I thought that number seemed a bit low. There isn't anyone I know who hasn't suffered at least one bad bout of depression in their adulthood. And I'm not talking about the blues people felt when Ben Affleck knocked up Jennifer Garner and doomed Alias to its untimely end. (Or was that just me?) I'm talking about real depression, the kind that makes you feel like life is best lived asleep and compels you to think showering is more of a social nicety than a norm.

In an ongoing effort to diminish the social stigma attached to mental illness in general, depression is frequently compared to diabetes. This is a dishonest comparison because it suggests depression is a purely physical ailment requiring a lifetime of medication.

8. Depression, as explained by web md:

There is absolute proof that people suffering from depression have changes in their brains compared to people who do not suffer from depression. The hippocampus, a small part of the brain that is vital to the storage of memories, is smaller in people with a history of depression than in those who've never been depressed. A smaller hippocampus has fewer serotonin receptors. Serotonin is a neurotransmitter -- a chemical messenger that allows communication between nerves in the brain and the body.

9. Did you know...

Just as brain chemicals can change thoughts, so too can thoughts change the chemistry and functioning of our brain.

from Mind-Body Medicine by John Spencer, PhD and Karen Shanor, PhD

10. Maybe Pollyanna was on to something.

Thoughts impact mental health which impacts life experience. Cognitive therapy posits our thoughts create our feelings and our life experience, rendering optimism a powerful tool in experiencing life absent the burden of dark lows and suicidal tendencies.

Of course you can't bottle and sell optimism.

11. Meds have their place.

The insidious thing about depression is that unlike its marketing sister diabetes, it makes a person question who they are. Reality is skewed as every experience is filtered through the sludge of hopelessness, unworthiness, anger, sorrow. Working to change one's thoughts in order to change one's brain can be like trying to light a match in a thunderstorm. Meds chase away the storm so a person can work on their thoughts.

I just wish shrinks would have the good sense to put down the prescription Pez dispenser and show people what they're capable of.

12. Depression, as experienced by me:

My depression was a symptom of PCOS. I required meds to balance estrogen, testosterone and androgens. Antidepressants did nothing to balance my sex hormones and the promises made to me by medical professionals writing out prescriptions for Zoloft and Paxil were doomed to be broken.

When it started I was fortunate enough to have a friend who had learned about cognitive therapy in college. He told me about thoughts and how habitual thinking alters the chemical paths in our heads. I fought to change my chemical paths, but I was busy lighting matches in the hormonal imbalance thunderstorm.

I did manage some level of progress. At its worst, I rarely showered and spent every moment I wasn't at work asleep. My wardrobe consisted of three pairs of sweats in black, gray and blue. At 220 my fat thighs wore away the material between my legs and I sloppily mended them because I refused to buy clothes.

I hit my rock bottom hard and didn't tell anyone for a whole year. The person I finally told was a shrink who told me I shouldn't have survived. I agreed, though we didn't mean it the same way. I worked to climb back up the cliff I'd tossed myself off of by laboring to change my thoughts.

By the time I was diagnosed with PCOS I'd managed to fight my weight (which the PCOS caused and makes difficult to lose) down to 185. I wore regular clothes and showered every day. The piece I had great difficulty with was my moods, which still lapsed into a blackness so profound that it was impossible for me to really let go of the comforting thought that I could always choose to throw myself back over the cliff again.

I had depression for seven years before I was diagnosed in 1999 and provided prescriptions which stopped the storm. From there the climbing got a lot easier.

My whole life is different now. At 21 I never could have imagined how fucking great my life would be at 34. I know how powerful the not-so-secret Secret is. It's just a shame to me that people who could benefit from a worthwhile tool dismiss it as crap because they don't like how it's packaged. I'm not even talking about depressed people, I mean people in general. I don't believe anybody was put here to suffer or to fail. I believe we are capable of great things and that the devil is not in the details, but in distractions. Minding one's thoughts is a discipline and it's easy to push that discipline aside in favor of just letting life happen all around you.

13. What if?

What can hurt in the 'what if' of considering a tool even if Oprah endorsed it? One of my favorite quotes: Have you ever noticed that what the hell is always the right answer?

You look fabulous, darling!

A month ago I complimented a woman's outfit in the ladies' room and inexplicably ended up with her phone number. One of my friends told me that's what I get for talking to strangers. He said I need to go through life like he does, waving around an emotional yardstick and keeping people at a distance. Hours later I got into an elevator with an immaculately dressed woman who was wearing a pretty brown dress with hot pink shoes, scarf, and earrings. It's rare to see perfectly accessorized people, so of course I immediately ooh'd over the outfit. She was delighted and stepped out of the elevator glowing happily. I reflected on Thad's warning and thought, "Horseshit! Compliments should always be passed on!" This is something I truly believe, as few people tend to say the nice things they're thinking right out loud. If someone tells me something nice about a friend, I pass it on. But I realized the women I impulsively compliment about their appearance have more in common than fabulous style: they're almost always black.

I wondered what the hell that meant? Why don't I compliment women of other races? Surely I've seen fabulously dressed whites and asians and latinas, yet I have yet to blurt out, "Those are such adorable shoes!" to a total stranger of this ethnicity.

I briefly worried over what this said about me. Maybe these compliments of mine aren't genuine. Maybe they're merely a subconscious reflex of some latent guilt I carry in regards to race?

But then I realized something else: the only women who ever compliment ME are BLACK. In my experience, there are no women more generous towards other women in celebrating physical appearance than black women. The women who regularly shower me with praise over my shoes or my hair or my outfits are all black. I know they're being relentlessly sincere, because they're just as quick to let me know when something I'm experimenting with isn't working. When I paired tights with black slip-on platform sandals in December, I got some negative feedback in the form of, "Jen! Uh-uh" with a head shake and finger wave of disapproval. I wasn't too certain about it myself, chiefly because the sandals were designed to be worn on bare feet, so my tights-clad feet slid around too much and I was struggling to keep the shoes on as I walked. This criticism came from the same woman who had previously let me know my hair color made me look like Marilyn Monroe. I know THAT wasn't true, but I'm betting all women of color expect all blonde white women to consider it the ultimate compliment to be compared to Monroe. Her disapproval of the tights/sandals combo compelled me to relegate this impractical experiment to a "don't." Though I'll add I saw the same look in Vogue a month later on a runway model and felt vaguely triumphant over my innate fashion sense. Then again it's rare that runway looks actually work in the real world.

What's interesting is there are white women I work with whom I would consider work friends, people I don't mind talking to 9-5 but don't really seek out when I'm not paid to be somewhere. Contrary to the outspoken acquaintances, they never ever offer even the mildest compliment nor do they comment in a positive manner about other women privately. One work friend in particular regularly torments me by "jokingly" calling me "slut." She openly criticizes my cleavage, my skirts, everything, and laughs about it. This doesn't bother me, it just strikes me as rather odd and junior high school. And those kinds of remarks would have been devastating to me in junior high. What's the point of lobbing unkind comments at this stage of the game? She is part of the small group of girls I've dubbed The Fox Force Five, though only I, the Tarantino fan, understand the reference. They wanted me to be part of their club, and were very persistent about recruiting me by inundating me with emails until I finally replied. The Fox Force Five exchanges email conversations consisting primarily of ripping on anyone and everyone. They're all white. White women can be universally nasty about everyone. Especially other women. When I participate in FFF verbal evisceration, it's only to make amusing observations or to rip apart corporate America. I once emailed them the names of every single person on our team and provided a sentence or two about what I thought they'd be like in bed, offering often surprising but I believe accurate analysis. When they start ripping on morbidly obese people who are already a Twinkie away from not being able to exit their homes, I bow out.

I don't know what makes me a little different, unless it's that during my wonder years my upper jaw extended too far out of my face and I couldn't even touch my lips together. I was tortured by people like them every fucking day of my junior high school life. Once you've lived through that kind of stuff during the very time when your self-esteem is forming, you don't feel all that compelled to laugh at fat/bald/ugly people because they're fat, ugly or bald. Of course retards are still fair game.

Anyway, it's more than the way black women celebrate all women and don't turn the workplace into a junior high school locker room nightmare. It's that they accept praise as gracefully as they offer it. They're the ones who coached me to accept their compliments with a thank you as opposed to a "no, whatever" wave of the hand. If you wave off a black woman, she'll stare at you with a look of authority unique to black women and take it as you challenging her aesthetic judgement as a whole. She'll punish you by throwing more praise at you in a scolding manner. But also, they accept compliments with the regal grace of royalty and respond with appreciation that makes you feel good that you shared. I've learned to respond as they do, with a happy smile and a gracious thanks.

I think I love you! So what am I so afraid of?

Dear Total Stranger in the Black Range Rover:

Hey there, sexy. I couldn't help but notice you today. I feel like there's a real connection between us. I know you feel it too. I could tell when you drove past me in the Byerly's parking lot and shyly bellowed, "Nice tits!"

I have to admit I was somewhat taken aback to hear such sweet nothings shouted at me in a grocery store parking lot at 6:30 on a Tuesday night. Byerly's tends to cater to a more family-friendly crowd, but the way you took advantage of what can only be described as a serendipitous moment by loudly approving of my anatomy tells me that you, sir, are a hopeless romantic.

I like that in a man.

I thought this was the end of our all-too-brief interlude. I couldn't believe my luck when instead of exiting the parking lot altogether, you actually turned into the next row of cars and looped back, this time waxing poetic with, "Your legs are fucking awesome!" before rolling to a stop so you could wait while I got into my car, backed out of my space, and headed out.

It was so flattering when you pulled up behind me. I know it seems I didn't spend nearly enough time staring lovingly into your eyes through my rear view mirror, but a girl can't appear too eager or where's the thrill of the chase? And clearly you're a man who enjoys the thrill of the chase! Yes, I said man. I was delighted to see you weren't a kid in daddy's SUV showing off for his friends! You were in your late 30's and curiously alone in your Range Rover, sporting adorable black sunglasses and a crisp white long-sleeved Polo shirt. Whatever did I do to deserve you?

I was so excited about our burgeoning romance that I ignored the Stop sign at Portland and swung out into the road without the slightest pause. I've always viewed Stop signs as more of a suggestion than a rule. If they were serious about making us stop, they'd install a light. Most people disagree with this theory, but not you. You jumped into traffic and cut off that Volkswagon the way only a man crazy in love could. When you suffered the brutal bleats of the VW's horn just so you could keep up with me, I had butterflies.

Our whirlwind affair really meant something to me, but maybe I should have done more to show what I felt than pick up my cell phone and dial the first person who popped up on my contacts list. Anne didn't even answer her phone, but as I was leaving her a voice mail - all about my undying love for you and you alone, baby - you abruptly switched lanes and honked your horn repeatedly to get my attention, waving and grinning like a retarded kid at the back of the short bus as I turned left on 42 and you continued down Portland.

You know what I think, Total Retarded Stranger in the Black Range Rover? I think it's bullshit, what they say about it being better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Bullshit!

Yours forever,

Byerly's Shopper

xoxoxo

Anger Management

Being raised by someone with undiagnosed bipolar teaches a kid some unusual lessons. Cool dad was always taking on new projects. He'd have an idea and he'd make it happen. He never ever doubted himself and would follow through on whatever ambitious task he took on until either the pendulum swung low or until the task was finished.



This complete faith in his own ability to accomplish anything so long as he put forth the effort was extended to his family. When I was 12 and told cool dad I wanted to compose a song, he told me to go ahead and do it. When I then reported that whenever I tried to "find new songs on the keyboard," I only came up with old songs, he told me at least I tried and now I can try something else. There wasn't ever any failure in his eyes, just attempts that told us to try something different.



Crazy dad was another story. His trademark was his rage and his frightening silence. Not ever knowing why the pendulum swung low and usually thinking it must have been something I did, I tried to coax cool dad back out by regaling crazy dad with stories and jokes I heard at school. This was ineffective, but I tried anyway. When I was a teenager getting pissed and offended by crazy dad's behavior, I was petrified of confronting him, because I didn't trust crazy dad at all. But I learned that anger was a pretty good tool for pushing my terror back and if not ceasing crazy dad's stormfront, then at least forcing him to go take a nap and sleep the mood off so the rest of the family could have the living room back. These small "wins" were empowering. I never liked to cower. And he really did need to sleep that shit off instead of being a jerk and sending all the rest of us to the emergency exits.



Crazy dad left odd surprises in his wake, like when I had a male roommate and found myself inexplicably worried about immediately cleaning up after myself. I hadn't been like that with female roommates, but with easygoing, never angry Stephen I found that my heart pounded too hard in my chest as some long-forgotten memory of crazy dad urged me to make everything perfect so as not to bring out something crazy and angry in Stephen. But the beauty of life is once you can point a finger at whatever it is that's causing some unwanted neurosis - preferably your middle one - you can let go of it. And that is a scientific fact. It isn't instant, like a genie granting a wish or like Britney grabbing a drink, but your brain starts the process and you reach that point of no longer being freaked out over the idea of a grown man seeing a dirty glass in the sink.



Crazy dad was obviously kind of a pain in the ass, but I'm convinced he also left me something which I believe saved my life.



I'll preface this story by saying this took place the same week my parents were moving from Lakeville to Hayward. They'd opted out of hiring movers, so that week my dad and I packed a U-Haul and made the three hour drive out. I was planning a trip to Vegas the following month and my dad expressed some concern because there was some rumbling in the news about terrorists targeting Vegas. I said I wasn't too worried about it, because Vegas is probably the most secure city in the world. Cameras, cops, security personnel, bouncers, there are tons of people protecting casino money and thus protecting us. Dad asked what about the planes? We talked about that for a bit, wondering what we'd do. Dad likes to say, "It isn't their plane, it's my plane, and nobody's fucking with my plane." I pondered it for a moment and then said, "You know, I think it sucks that bad guys just know they can victimize people. I would never approach somebody with the intention of doing them harm because I'd expect them to kill me. Maybe the best defense is a good offense. Show them fucking with you was a mistake and act like a crazy person so they're the ones who're afraid." My dad laughed and acknowledged this could be an effective strategy.



Fast forward three days later, when I attended a happy hour after work. Happy hour ended at 10ish and my friend Alexis and I enjoyed our evening stroll from Drink back to the building where our cars were parked. The weather was utterly perfect. We enjoyed it so much we sat down on the steps of the building kitty corner from ours to continue our chat. Given security guards for both the Campbell Mithun building and our own building regularly stroll outside, and given we were gabbing only two blocks from a police station, the act of relaxing on a city street only two blocks in another direction from a bad neighborhood did not seem unwise to us. Not to mention we're two suburban girls. It's easy to wander through life assuming nothing really bad will ever happen to you when so far nothing really bad has ever happened to you.



We ended our marathon chat at the ridiculous hour of 3 AM and walked across the street towards our cars, pausing to wrap up our thoughts on the Da Vinci Code. I looked beyond Alexis and saw a guy approaching us. He looked normal enough, wearing khaki cargo shorts and a nice white Polo shirt, and he would have been easy to ignore entirely except for the fact that he was staring up at the sky and mumbling to himself as he ambled along.



I figured since he was in the midst of his riveting self-conversation that he'd walk right on by. But he didn't. He stopped. Still looking up - and since he was now so close I could see his eyes were moving back and forth like he was watching a ping pong match in the sky - he mumbled something almost entirely incoherent. All I really caught was "money" and "charity."



Alexis paused in the middle of her sentence without even turning around. Then she resumed talking as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, keeping her back to the stranger. I admired her obvious streetsmarts, the way she felt no need to be even remotely polite to some strange guy at 3 in the morning. I tried to refocus on our conversation, but the guy was still babbling and still watching his private ping pong match in the sky, so I looked right at him, smiled, and said, "I'm sorry, we don't have any money." I thought this would encourage him to move along, but instead his tone became more insistent as he continued babbling. When he took another step towards us Alexis pointed at the sidewalk behind me and said, "Let's walk."



I didn't hesitate, just turned on my heel and started striding away, Alexis falling in step on my right. Guy suddenly became very articulate as he said, "Oh no you don't. Now I know you got some money for me and I want that money." We were walking on 3rd parallel to the CSC on the sidewalk across the street, heading south. Guy got right up behind us, I could feel him against my skirt every couple of steps. He said, "Don't you understand? I can take whatever I want from you. I can throw you down in this parking lot here. It's dark, there isn't anybody around. I can..."



At this point, I stopped hearing him. Something in my head turned into a tea kettle on a stovetop. I knew he was still talking, but I wasn't hearing what he was saying anymore because the only thing that mattered was that we were in trouble.



All of my attention narrowed down to the feel of him right behind us and the way the sound of his voice told me he was becoming very confident in his ability to follow through on the terrible things he was promising he could do to us. He was testing us with his words first to see what we would do, and all we were doing was walking. Not running, not reaching for our cell phones, not screaming. Just silently walking along. He was in charge.



The tea kettle in my head started its whistle as I rifled through my mental files, throwing things around, desperately seeking any small thing I'd ever learned about how to handle a situation like this. This wasn't even supposed to be happening. I was with somebody else, we were right across from our work building and two blocks from a police station. How the fuck was this even happening? File after file after file, I remembered my mother warning me about dangerous dogs and how they'll often attack because they can smell your fear. The tea kettle's whistle got louder, escalating into a shriek. My brain was substituting Asshole's words with its own internal warning system so I could figure this shit out, but the louder it got the less time I had before Asshole stopped talking and did whatever he wanted to do. I was afraid, but I had a built-in defense mechanism to handle my fear, thanks to crazy dad. My anger. Rage started blossoming in my gut, chasing away the weakness that was overwhelming me, taking away the rubbery feel in my muscles and filling me up with something red and hot and making me stand taller, reminding me that this fucking bullshit is unacceptable. The bad guys should be fucking afraid of us.



I very abruptly turned around, leaned into Asshole's face, and screamed at the top of my lungs, "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM US, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!!!"



Asshole recoiled as if he'd been punched, but recovered himself quickly to lean into my face. Asshole was a lot taller than me and he was so close I could feel his eyelashes on my forehead and smell his breath. Asshole said, "Nobody talks to me like that." This was supposed to be very intimidating, but what Asshole didn't know was I'd been in that position a thousand times before with crazy dad. Somebody leaning into my face doesn't intimidate me, it just pisses me off even more. And I was fucking furious. What Asshole didn't know was in spite of my short black skirt and pale pink blouse and high heels and hair piled on top of my head, I would absolutely love the opportunity to beat the piss out of him. Because as far as I could tell, there was no cool version of this guy that I needed to hold out for. Just an Asshole who needed a lesson in what happens when you threaten to rape a woman. It didn't matter that I hadn't ever been in a fight, or that I was in heels or that he was obviously bigger and stronger than me. I was willing to bet that I was a lot more fucking mad than he could ever be and that my anger was enough. I was ready for him to make a grab for me or hit me because I really wanted the opportunity to try to kill him.



When Asshole leaned down like that, I didn't lean away. I said, "Fuck you. You started this."



There was a long pause, with neither Asshole nor myself moving. Finally I said, "Alright, I think I've had enough of this bullshit." I reached into my purse for my phone. Asshole leaped away from me as if I might have a gun in there, managing to put about 20 feet between me and him in about four seconds flat. I was so startled by this that I actually stopped what I was doing to stare at him. Asshole demanded, "Whatchoo got in there?" I said, "A fucking phone, you fucking asshole." He said, "Oh yeah? I'm gonna call the cops on you!!" He tapped one of his pockets confidently to suggest he too had a cell phone.



It was at this point that I knew any danger we'd been in was over. Now I was just dealing with a common thieving motherfucking asshole idiot. I glanced over at Alexis, who also had a cell phone, but she hadn't reached for it and was only standing there in complete silence, looking like she could really use a cigarette. I wondered if I was misreading the entire situation, if I'd overreacted and we weren't ever in any real danger. Alexis didn't look remotely alarmed, just mildly uncomfortable, like it was kind of embarrassing to watch Jen act out and she'd sure be glad when it was over and she could have a smoke. I didn't want to make even more of a scene by wasting time for the police, so I didn't take my phone out of my bag. But I also didn't take my hand out. I kept it there, because Asshole's worry over what might be inside seemed to be working to my advantage. I laughed without humor and asked, "Oh? And what will you call the cops for?" He paused for a moment to think and then said triumphantly, "For insubordination. I'll tell them about your insubordination!"



This time I really did laugh. I laughed and laughed and asked, "Are you fucking serious? Do it. Call the cops on me and you tell them that I wasn't being cooperative when you attempted to mug and rape me. You let them know, they'll be right over to save you from me."



Asshole slouched, stuffed his hands in his pockets and complained, "I don't need this shit." I stepped towards him and watched him immediately take two steps back. Encouraged by the shift in the power dynamic, I yelled, "THEN GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!! BEAT IT!! GO!!" He started walking away through the parking lot, tossing a "Whore" over his shoulder, to which I called back, "FUCKING LOSER!" Alexis and I resumed walking. Unbelievably Alexis resumed her Da Vinci Code thought as she lit her cigarette and as I looked around like a secret service person, ready to take on anyone else collecting money for a fake charity.



Of course by the time I got home that night all the anger and adrenalin was gone and I cried and trembled violently over the whole thing. I kept thinking through the evening, how fucking smart that guy had been, approaching as if he was on something or maybe mildly retarded so he'd seem especially innocuous and could get as close to us as he did. How he'd had the good sense to get some distance between him and me because he had no idea what was in my purse, while I didn't even think to worry that he might have a weapon in one of his pockets. The following Monday I emailed Alexis and asked, "Were you scared? Or did I overreact?" She replied, "I was terrified. I was so glad you did something because I couldn't move."



My dad was horrified by the entire thing, especially when I told him that I'd turned around and screamed at Asshole because of the conversation he and I'd had about letting the bad guy know it was a mistake to fuck with you. Dad was imagining all the horrible scenarios that weren't, like Asshole having a gun or a knife or just killing me by slamming my head into the curb. But my younger brother was elated and proud, passing on the story to his Army buddies and letting me know how awesome they all thought I was. Jeff said, "They count on people being too afraid to act. You did the right thing."



Later that summer channel 9 interviewed and surveyed rapists in Minnesota prisons. They asked them if they had a weapon. 98% of them said no, that they didn't even need a weapon. All they had to do was threaten. They used their victims' fear to get them under control, not a gun or a knife. They said when people get scared, they often don't know what to do and they freeze up. When asked how they choose a victim, they said they go for women who won't put up a fight.



What I learned from this ordeal was how important it is to have a plan in your head. Have SOME idea of how you'd handle a situation. Having an idea stops the fear from freezing you and allows you to act.