Once or twice a week, I have to trek from Nassau to Suffolk County, NY to the Landlord Tenant parts in the municipality's District Courts. I particularly love to go to the 6th District courthouse in Patchogue.
Sometimes the calendar nears one-hundred in count and my cases aren't up for another half hour or so. I always observe someone difficult trying to manipulate the justice system in creative ways by stalling their case with crappy excuses to secure an adjournment - one week someone was too sick to attend court and the next that same woman was "on vacation." She lost her place by default.
But an assignment to 6th District means lunch at a phenomenal pizza place in Holbrook. Mamma Lombardi's makes the freshest Margherita slices - gigantic plum tomatoes and fresh mozzarella that nearly rivals what I remember having in a small village in Italy. That's saying a lot because the fresh mozzarella and tomatoes in that country are organic even at gas station road stops as you leave Rome. They opened up another restaurant in Port Jefferson which 6th District covers in eviction matters. I pick up two slices on the way back to my office in Eastern Nassau and eat one, saving the other for my lunch the following day or dinner that night. It's definitely worth the trek.
On my way back to the office, I usually am taking bites of my Margherita slice and keeping an eye on the Mack trucks in plain view. Trucks and trying to pass them. That's what I hate about 495. (For you non-New Yorkers, that's the Long Island Expressway or LIE for short.)
One day on the drive back, I saw this truck without cargo in front of me. Usually, these huge trucks have signs on their bumpers that read, "Do not pass on the right" and "If you don't see my mirrors, I don't see you." I've always been nervous about gigantic Mack trucks ever since I was a little kid. As a toddler, I told Daddy I didn't like the loud sound of the engine. And yes, I was intimidated by their size, too.
I was also almost hit by a school bus in the school parking lot on the way to my own bus. A little boy walking next to me said, "They shouldn't drive here while children are walking. They could be killed." Have they so quickly forgotten that your children's safety is their business?
They put these warning signs to escape civil liability should someone be seriously injured. Slippery when wet. Dead end. Caution, wet floor. Do not lean on door. In law school, we read cases about people and entities facing lawsuits for a "failure to warn." When I was studying for the bar and viewing some tapes, the lecturer warned, "They don't do it because they like you. They are protecting themselves." So if I am on a scooter and I barrel into a dead end zone they can come back on me and say, "We told you so, stupid!"
But this time a sign on the back of a Mack read, "Please do not hit me." I was hysterically laughing. This sign would encourage some lunatic with nothing to lose and a penchant for criminal mischief. When I was 6 and attending camp, a bus driver deliberately hit the back of our bus to mess with our driver. Stupid college kids!
Anyone with half a brain knows not to hit the metal bumper on the back of a truck. You'll have to pay for damage for rear ending anyone. And I think a car would sustain more damage from such a collision than the truck. Duh. Do they really have to post a sign to remind someone it isn't wise to hit the back of a vehicle?
"Please do not hit me." That's something you hear from a little kid whose mother caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. He's begging for mercy. And the more you beg, the more a sadist will inflict harm. Some wiseass who just got released from a holding cell at the Suffolk police headquarters in Yaphank will want to play bumper cars on the LIE and speed away. They don't care about their car being smashed in by a Mack. They already drive a piece of shit.
I'm heading to 5th District Court in Ronkonkoma this morning. In the spirit of the Yankees 7-3 win last night over Philly, I don't expect too much traffic. People will be staying in to celebrate like they did in 1998.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Psychic Arrested for Trying to Obtain Large Sums of Money for Bogus Prophecy
In the paper, there was an article about a 22 year old woman from Florida who was arrested in Suffolk County, NY for providing an eighteen year old girl with a bogus psychic reading at the Smith Haven Mall in Lake Grove and charging a ridiculous amount of money for it ("Fortune Teller Accused of Fraud," Matthew Chayes, Newsday, October 11, 2009). According to police, Tiffany Evans told the teenager that she was under a curse and that to lift it she would have to purchase a potion, candles and a supposedly magical stone for over $1,000.
They caught this allegedly fake psychic undercover. The teen paid $25 for an initial reading. And then, authorities say, the young client brought undercover cops with her for a follow-up appointment where the psychic tried to sell the teen the $600 potion and stone and would perform a ritual to lift the imaginary evil spell for another $1,250. It was then that they busted Evans and charged her with fraudulent accosting, three counts of fortune telling and attempted grand larceny.
When I saw this article in the paper, I had to check out Newsday's website for the comments. They were predictable. People asked, "Fake psychic? Is there any other kind?" Most sensible, down-to-earth people possess that level of skepticism about psychic abilities.
What shocked me, however, were some of the charges brought against the psychic. I agree that if she tried to take the teen's money for the purpose alleged she should be charged with attempted grand larceny. Candles do not under any circumstances cost in the thousands. And you can get a body wash from Bath and Body Works at a two for one sale. Do what a Catholic priest does and bless these items. Her actions were fraudulent as accused. But, she also faces three counts of "fortune telling" to quote the indictment.
Until I read this article, I wasn't aware that a source of entertainment that people may find at a carnival or at psychic night was an illegal service subject to criminal prosecution like prostitution. It's one thing to feel that it's all a scam, but purporting to be able to communicate with the deceased or to predict future occurrences is a lot different from trying to charge a teenager an exorbitant price for worthless products.
When you go to a psychic medium or dial one of those 900 numbers which are obvious scams, they advise you that it's "for entertainment purposes only." You aren't expected to take it seriously. Nobody is policing them, and they advertise on TV and in the back of magazines. I think some of those advertising fortune tellers are the biggest frauds of all.
I've encountered some of these mediums who try to sell you $200 candles. This one burly, short-haired woman who swore "God had brought (me there)" told me she could lift a curse on my "aura" and that all I had to do was "pay for the materials." I visited her to be entertained, but she infuriated me. She kept trying to prompt me to tell her things. I wish now that I had the presence of mind at the time to do what that brilliant young woman did. While I don't think she ought to have faced charges for claiming to predict the future and making such general statements to me, she definitely tried to defraud me into a worthless purchase.
This young lady in Manhattan read me for $25. She made general statements about me that were off and others that I could have heard from my family. She's the kind who stops you on the street when you've had a long day and just want to make it to Penn Station. She sees it on your face; she's got that gift! When she offered to bring me back to her office for a "more in-depth reading," I refused.
The majority of psychics are frauds, charlatans who are just out to make a buck, but I do believe there is another kind. They are few and far between. A few have helped police departments solve crimes. I certainly wouldn't want those people to face criminal charges of any sort, especially something as petty as "fortune telling."
I come from a family of skeptics. I was raised to believe in God and went to church growing up, but my family used to ridicule psychics. "If they were truly psychic," my mother once told me, "they'd be millionaires. They could predict the lottery numbers." "Remember that movie Ghost?" my uncle once asked, "Whoopi Goldberg claimed to talk to the dead and then the ghost appeared and she was scared." "She's describing your typical teenager," Mom said of a woman who read me at my friend's birthday party.
And then we got a frightening prophecy about my aunt that came true. A family member visited a psychic medium who went into a trance while she was performing the reading. She predicted the exact spot of my aunt's cancer years before it manifested itself and that she would die of it. This relative did not provide the woman with any information about herself or her family. But as fate would have it, my aunt died of the cancer that appeared right in the same spot on her body that the medium said the tumor would be.
Our views on the existence of psychic abilities changed forever.
I became even more convinced that paranormal activity was possible when my father died. I was living at my parents' house during law school when I lost Dad. For a year or two, unexplained occurrences followed his death from cancer. Still objects suddenly shook by themselves without manipulation. Lights, the computer and our electric garage door operated by themselves, prompting us to look at each other in shock.
Remembering what had happened to my aunt, I visited a woman who provided psychic readings for a reasonable price. She had the ability to detect physical characteristics that only the individual knew - taste, sound, touch, what someone was eating the night before. She sensed a spot in my back that occasionally gave me pain - an injury I got at 13 when I fell down a flight of stairs.
She also purported to communicate with spirits of the dead. Without my sharing any personal information, the woman told me that a man with Dad's name and physical description was claiming to be my father. She worded messages from him in a way that only my father could. There was no other way she could have been capable unless she personally knew him, which she hadn't.
My skepticism faded.
They caught this allegedly fake psychic undercover. The teen paid $25 for an initial reading. And then, authorities say, the young client brought undercover cops with her for a follow-up appointment where the psychic tried to sell the teen the $600 potion and stone and would perform a ritual to lift the imaginary evil spell for another $1,250. It was then that they busted Evans and charged her with fraudulent accosting, three counts of fortune telling and attempted grand larceny.
When I saw this article in the paper, I had to check out Newsday's website for the comments. They were predictable. People asked, "Fake psychic? Is there any other kind?" Most sensible, down-to-earth people possess that level of skepticism about psychic abilities.
What shocked me, however, were some of the charges brought against the psychic. I agree that if she tried to take the teen's money for the purpose alleged she should be charged with attempted grand larceny. Candles do not under any circumstances cost in the thousands. And you can get a body wash from Bath and Body Works at a two for one sale. Do what a Catholic priest does and bless these items. Her actions were fraudulent as accused. But, she also faces three counts of "fortune telling" to quote the indictment.
Until I read this article, I wasn't aware that a source of entertainment that people may find at a carnival or at psychic night was an illegal service subject to criminal prosecution like prostitution. It's one thing to feel that it's all a scam, but purporting to be able to communicate with the deceased or to predict future occurrences is a lot different from trying to charge a teenager an exorbitant price for worthless products.
When you go to a psychic medium or dial one of those 900 numbers which are obvious scams, they advise you that it's "for entertainment purposes only." You aren't expected to take it seriously. Nobody is policing them, and they advertise on TV and in the back of magazines. I think some of those advertising fortune tellers are the biggest frauds of all.
I've encountered some of these mediums who try to sell you $200 candles. This one burly, short-haired woman who swore "God had brought (me there)" told me she could lift a curse on my "aura" and that all I had to do was "pay for the materials." I visited her to be entertained, but she infuriated me. She kept trying to prompt me to tell her things. I wish now that I had the presence of mind at the time to do what that brilliant young woman did. While I don't think she ought to have faced charges for claiming to predict the future and making such general statements to me, she definitely tried to defraud me into a worthless purchase.
This young lady in Manhattan read me for $25. She made general statements about me that were off and others that I could have heard from my family. She's the kind who stops you on the street when you've had a long day and just want to make it to Penn Station. She sees it on your face; she's got that gift! When she offered to bring me back to her office for a "more in-depth reading," I refused.
The majority of psychics are frauds, charlatans who are just out to make a buck, but I do believe there is another kind. They are few and far between. A few have helped police departments solve crimes. I certainly wouldn't want those people to face criminal charges of any sort, especially something as petty as "fortune telling."
I come from a family of skeptics. I was raised to believe in God and went to church growing up, but my family used to ridicule psychics. "If they were truly psychic," my mother once told me, "they'd be millionaires. They could predict the lottery numbers." "Remember that movie Ghost?" my uncle once asked, "Whoopi Goldberg claimed to talk to the dead and then the ghost appeared and she was scared." "She's describing your typical teenager," Mom said of a woman who read me at my friend's birthday party.
And then we got a frightening prophecy about my aunt that came true. A family member visited a psychic medium who went into a trance while she was performing the reading. She predicted the exact spot of my aunt's cancer years before it manifested itself and that she would die of it. This relative did not provide the woman with any information about herself or her family. But as fate would have it, my aunt died of the cancer that appeared right in the same spot on her body that the medium said the tumor would be.
Our views on the existence of psychic abilities changed forever.
I became even more convinced that paranormal activity was possible when my father died. I was living at my parents' house during law school when I lost Dad. For a year or two, unexplained occurrences followed his death from cancer. Still objects suddenly shook by themselves without manipulation. Lights, the computer and our electric garage door operated by themselves, prompting us to look at each other in shock.
Remembering what had happened to my aunt, I visited a woman who provided psychic readings for a reasonable price. She had the ability to detect physical characteristics that only the individual knew - taste, sound, touch, what someone was eating the night before. She sensed a spot in my back that occasionally gave me pain - an injury I got at 13 when I fell down a flight of stairs.
She also purported to communicate with spirits of the dead. Without my sharing any personal information, the woman told me that a man with Dad's name and physical description was claiming to be my father. She worded messages from him in a way that only my father could. There was no other way she could have been capable unless she personally knew him, which she hadn't.
My skepticism faded.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Say What? My Socially Inept Date's Disgustingly Inappropriate Text Comments About Sexuality, Gender and Race
I've been told I lead a very interesting life. Some of the wildest shit happens to me whether I'm targeted by a group of bigoted loonies online or I get hit on by washed out former rock stars on the subway or I run into "Sex and the City" cast members on the Upper East Side or in the airport.
Well, this time I went on a nightmarish date. Okay, a lot of people go on bad dates, so that doesn't sound too wild, but this one really is wild. This can only happen to me, for those of you who know me! It was a second date, and I really didn't want to go on it because I didn't feel the chemistry on Date 1 at the Melville Starbucks, but I thought I'd give this guy another chance because he seemed intelligent. He graduated with honors from high school and college and had a good job even though his social skills left a lot to be desired. But, that wasn't going to stop me, not right away. After all, I've gone on dates where I wasn't romantically interested in the person at first but an attraction developed later on and in a few cases full-blown relationships resulted.
Rewind back to when I first encoutered this asshole.
He found me on the dating site Plenty of Fish and wrote to me. There were a series of pictures on his profile. He's got a nice physique and looks like he takes care of himself. He puts down that he's looking for something long-term. And, he's Catholic! Perfect man for me (on paper)! He likes to go to the gym and says he wants a charming lady. And, I'm this chick who is looking for a guy to exercise at the gym and for a long-term relationship with because I'm sick of all these unsuccessful dates that have amounted to no relationship. So I'm looking forward to meeting him.
I talked to him on the phone and he told me how he likes Latin American music. He was a fan of some of the artists my late father loved. He also said he didn't understand why a lot of guys our age (early thirties) insist on finding twentysomething girls and that he dated women in their twenties and found them to be immature. And I added that with the reproductive technology out there men don't need to rely on younger women for babies anymore. Finally! A guy who gets me and won't be scared off when I'm honest!
He also told me he had been on so many bad dates since he joined Plenty of Freaks, um, Fish a few months earlier. According to him, there was something unusually wrong with each and every one of them. So not only was this guy educated. He could empathize with me. I had my share of bad dates, so the stories he told me weren't surprising. He met a teacher with what he thought was a weird facial distortion, a woman who had someone else call him and say, "I'm here" and then turned out to be a different woman with a different voice once they met face to face and lastly a woman who drove all the way from Brooklyn just to randomly yell at him, take off and drive all the way back there from Suffolk County.
In person, I could tell he was the man from the pictures, albeit a less attractive version. His hair was oddly cropped around his head like it had been glued on, sort of like synthetic hair. He had the nice biceps that I like on a man, but his bizarre way of talking and interacting in person overrode that. He seemed to mean well, but it was coming out all wrong.
He knew a lot about mortgages because of his job. I had been preparing and signing complaints as a foreclosure attorney for a while, so we had a long discussion about the subprime mess for the entirety of our first date. I, of course, explained the bank's position. While I did not feel attracted to him, I thought perhaps his knowledge of the business end of loans and the fact that he was Catholic might compensate for his goofy demeanor.
Note to self: besides refraining from getting yourself so excited about someone you're attracted to who has stopped calling, also be sure not to force yourself to like someone you find repulsive just because you think he's educated and successful.
Fast forward. The setting was at an Irish pub on New York Avenue in Huntington, NY and I was sitting at a booth across from him sipping a glass of wine. He ordered himself a ginger ale at 10PM on a Saturday night, which I thought was odd as most guys who meet me for drinks will have at least a beer. And at an Irish pub?
On the other extreme, a man I met two summers ago chugged down a few Guinnesses during our Sunday lunch date at a pizzeria. Guinness Guzzler questioned my refusal to consume alcohol that early in the day upon his suggestion. And while I wouldn't want to become involved with someone who drinks too heavily, I certainly raised an eyebrow over this lightweight before me in the Huntington bar.
A few sips of a glass of dry, cheap red wine later, the man who went on so many dates with all abnormal women rambled on about how he works out to keep his biceps and how we should be workout partners. He then shifted the conversation to the fact that he lives at home and did throughout college at a local school on the island, that he hasn't had very many relationships with women and that his Long Island undergraduate alma mater was difficult to gain admission to, an assertion contrary to the Barron's book college rankings. He was oblivious to my obvious disinterest - a dating cue that most men observing me at that moment would have picked up on in a heartbeat.
And then he caught my attention when he told me that most people look better in their pictures than they do in person but that I am the exception. I thanked him for the compliment then quietly thought to myself that in that case he was the rule. He continued to discuss plans with me in the near future, but I forget now what we were supposed to do.
I stared blankly to the side, trying to avoid eye contact with him as he spoke in broken paragraphs that made no sense.
He then suggested that we go to a bar on the next street, which was conveniently located near the municipal parking lot where I would make my escape.
"I have something with my family tomorrow morning and don't want to stay out too late," I said and rushed toward my car with him trailing slightly behind. We went by happy couples holding hands, and I bitterly wished I had one of those guys with me instead. He was reaching out his hand for my shoulder. I knew he wanted to get cozy, but he looked more like a scout leader trying to pat a kid on the back - probably because I was taking large strides. I walked faster so he missed me.
I clicked on the remote and hopped hastily into my car to avoid any physical contact with him.
"Nice to see you again," I said quickly, "Good night." I slammed the door shut, locked all the doors and revved up the engine. I still got the sense that he didn't take a hint. If I let him keep yapping, he probably would have told me that he finally found The One.
As I was on the fork on New York Avenue, the phone rang and it was him. I didn't want a ticket from the Suffolk cops. Fighting a ticket downstate is a bitch! So I let his call go to voicemail to deal with later. I continued home to Nassau from Huntington on the Northern State, the highway I take to and from work every morning. In the meantime, he left me three text messages, one after the other.
Now, I had made up my mind that he was a throwback, but for me there's no worse way to reject or break up with someone than disappearing after a seemingly perfect date. And the more indicators you give to someone that you are interested in them, the more frustrating it is for that other person to follow up with you for the plans you said you'd make with them only to be blown off.
If the guy tells me up front he doesn't think it will work or he simply doesn't lay a hand on me and we walk away from the date without even kissing goodnight, I will take a hint and move on. I might initially be disappointed if he outright tells me he doesn't want to see me again, but I won't harbor any resentment down the line because I will not have had false hopes.
But it seriously pisses me off when a guy disappears after telling me how attracted he is and how he wants to be with me. Sometimes being given false hope is worse than the rejection itself. Knowing what a pain in the ass that is, I've promised myself I will never do that to a guy.
While most people would realize I wasn't interested if I behaved the way I did on my date with Lightweight and wouldn't mind if I just disappeared, this guy just wasn't getting a clue. He was so into me and not afraid to express it. I would have to spell my disinterest out for him like you do the ABCs for toddlers. He was so socially tone deaf I thought he would be crushed if he never heard from me again.
There were so many text messages from Lightweight I didn't bother reading them before responding. (Big mistake!) I cut to the chase: "I don't think we're compatible. I don't think we should see each other again. Good luck."
And then I scrolled down to see the text messages. It was inevitable. I'd have to free up some room in my mailbox.
I suddenly wished I had read what he wrote to me before I sent him that very polite, respectful message of rejection.
"You seem very shy and nervous. I'm not used to this. Is it just me or are you like this with everyone?" Okay, he mistakens disinterest for shyness. He's totally out of it.
"Is there something you are afraid to tell me?" he types and follows with, "TS." Now "TS" were not his initials and in either case he didn't really have to sign a text message. I could tell who it was by the number.
Scroll down some more. "Are u a ts?" read the next message.
"What is a ts," I began typing then realized what he was asking me. Holy shit! I couldn't believe what I was reading. Nobody had ever asked me such a vile question in my life.
"Please don't tell me you are asking if I'm a transsexual," I text Lightweight. "I am not a transsexual. That's a disgusting and inappropriate thing to ask."
"I think you are," he simply said, "Come on. I know a lot of Thai's and Flips are."
Okay, first this guy gives me the creeps because he's completely strange. So I want to get rid of him in a nice, polite way because I'm not an insensitive bitch to just disappear on someone who is so obviously infatuated and not taking a hint. No good deed goes unpunished, so I actually read his texts to find he is insulting me by making random assumptions about my gender assignment. There's another strike against him. And now to add insult to injury, this bigoted asshole is making ethnic slurs against me and stereotyping two countries as places where the women are likely to be transsexuals.
I called him a racist for using those terms. His excuse? He just used the term "flip" as a short cut for text. I spoke to some people about this incident who never even realized that "flip" was a derogatory word for a Filipino and that's solely because they've never heard the term before. Those who are familiar with it are aware that it is intended to be racist.
Come on! If he wanted to shorten it, he could have said "fili." "Flip" is not an appropriate shortcut. It's a racial slur that was once used by American soldiers in the Philippines to insult the natives there. It stands for "Fucking Little Island People" or "Funny Looking Island People." Look it up in any standard dictionary or even Urbandictionary.com.
He then went on to say there was nothing wrong with being transsexual and then he said, "I'm not lashin' at all. I still think you are. It's my opinion, observation" after which I informed him that I was "female from birth with a period" and that he got me at a very bad time when I was expecting my period. Again, I told him I was not a man in drag. I then reiterated that it was very disgusting and inappropriate to suggest I was transsexual.
Lightweight defended his comments saying furthermore that "there's nothing wrong with what I said. It's like me saying you're black when you're really Spanish." Okay! Now, he's on a roll. This racist sack of shit had just insulted almost every minority group you can think of. Not only does he not take a hint when someone is not romantically interested, but he just doesn't know when to quit. And, his inappropriate social behavior extends to freely making racial remarks. I almost wished I were face to face with him so I could punch his nose, but then I thought about my license to practice law. I wasn't going to throw away everything I worked hard for over this loser.
I then explained to the clown that I was acting "nervous" as he described it because I was just not interested in him and that I had tried to be nice to him by being up front instead of leading him on. It was quite obvious he was smitten with me. I also told him to never text or call me again upon receipt of my final message. Once I texted that, he was surely "lashin" by now.
This is when I really confirmed he was socially inept. I now knew why he hadn't had so many romantic relationships. I could taste his fury when I read, "I am deleting this number right now. You should have known by the first date if you weren't attracted to me instead of wasting my time this late at night."
This late at night? We got off our date at around 11:30! Give me a fucking break! Two in the morning is not late for a Saturday! Is he fucking kidding me?
And someone can decide after two dates as opposed to one that they are not interested. People can discover after being married for twenty years that they are not with the right person. Giving him a second date was an act of generosity on my part, a benefit of the doubt even though I found him a little too gawky for my taste.
I told him at some point in the texting thread that I could sue him if he told people I was transsexual. He said I could not "on the basis of this." He treated it like it was a serious conversation, so he wasn't even trying to insult me. He was so socially tone deaf that he didn't even know how offensive he was being. I don't even think he was trying to be malicious.
When I was taking the Bar exam, one of the lectures revealed that there is a civil cause of action in the State of New York that allows someone to sue another person for calling them gay or lesbian - even if the assumption of plaintiff's sexual orientation is true. I would assume this statute would protect people who others refer to as transsexual without their consent regardless of whether or not they are.
So, yes I can sue Lightweight if I find out that he uses my name and claims to one of his next dates or to anyone else for that matter that I am transsexual. I have mountains of pictures from childhood which show that I was a female from birth.
Does anyone remember that "Friends" episode when Brad Pitt made an appearance as a former high school classmate of his then wife Jennifer Aniston's character Rachel? When they were in school, Brad's character started a rumor about Rachel that she was a transsexual cheerleader. That's how comical this lunatic's crazy question was. It's so messed up they included a sitcom story line about it.
Who someone is likely to date or sleep with based on gender is a private matter as is someone's gender itself.
I don't dislike transsexuals. But I am not one of them. Someone asking another person if they are a transsexual is like one of those awkward situations where a three year old's Mommy becomes embarrassed because her toddler decides to ask every person he meets if they have a penis or a vagina, based on that little talk Mommy gave him. And then Mommy has to say, "Sweetheart, we had that talk, but it's inappropriate to bring that topic up with people."
I would hope that a man over thirty would realize that questioning people about their genitals is inappropriate and would constitute sexual harassment had it been a workplace environment. And what a random conclusion to make upon trying to decipher my body language that most people would easily construe as disinterest. So bizarre!
I guess this guy wouldn't mind dating a tranny. He still sounded interested even after his suggestion that I was really a dude in disguise. His last message revealed rage at my wasting his time with my disinterest - all that intense anger after he argued with me that I really was trans when I told him I wasn't.
I even shared with him the fact that I graduated from an all-girls' Catholic high school during a time when society was not so trans-friendly. So, I'm not even the kind of girl he's looking for. Why did he have to become so enraged that I rejected him?
In either case, you don't ask someone if they are transsexual even if you have every reason to suspect it. I think that's a general consensus among everyone. If someone wants to come out as gay or trans, let them do it themselves. They know more about themselves than you do. And I think I am a better judge than Lightweight is of whether I was born female or transitioned to become female later in life.
Lightweight had only been on Plenty of Freaks for a few months, yet according to him he had been on about 20 first and last dates.
Maybe Lightweight needed a story to tell his future first and last dates. One woman had to be the lady with the fucked up face. As my luck would have it I was going to be the designated chick with a dick. He sure had plenty of stories to tell me about how fucked up all these women were. I think the problem was him, not them. He made them run like I ran.
Hey, I've seen some beautiful transsexuals - the ladies at Lucky Cheng's make me jealous whenever I attend a Bachelorette party there. Maybe I'll dress up as a character from the Rocky Horror Picture Show for Halloween this year.
Well, this time I went on a nightmarish date. Okay, a lot of people go on bad dates, so that doesn't sound too wild, but this one really is wild. This can only happen to me, for those of you who know me! It was a second date, and I really didn't want to go on it because I didn't feel the chemistry on Date 1 at the Melville Starbucks, but I thought I'd give this guy another chance because he seemed intelligent. He graduated with honors from high school and college and had a good job even though his social skills left a lot to be desired. But, that wasn't going to stop me, not right away. After all, I've gone on dates where I wasn't romantically interested in the person at first but an attraction developed later on and in a few cases full-blown relationships resulted.
Rewind back to when I first encoutered this asshole.
He found me on the dating site Plenty of Fish and wrote to me. There were a series of pictures on his profile. He's got a nice physique and looks like he takes care of himself. He puts down that he's looking for something long-term. And, he's Catholic! Perfect man for me (on paper)! He likes to go to the gym and says he wants a charming lady. And, I'm this chick who is looking for a guy to exercise at the gym and for a long-term relationship with because I'm sick of all these unsuccessful dates that have amounted to no relationship. So I'm looking forward to meeting him.
I talked to him on the phone and he told me how he likes Latin American music. He was a fan of some of the artists my late father loved. He also said he didn't understand why a lot of guys our age (early thirties) insist on finding twentysomething girls and that he dated women in their twenties and found them to be immature. And I added that with the reproductive technology out there men don't need to rely on younger women for babies anymore. Finally! A guy who gets me and won't be scared off when I'm honest!
He also told me he had been on so many bad dates since he joined Plenty of Freaks, um, Fish a few months earlier. According to him, there was something unusually wrong with each and every one of them. So not only was this guy educated. He could empathize with me. I had my share of bad dates, so the stories he told me weren't surprising. He met a teacher with what he thought was a weird facial distortion, a woman who had someone else call him and say, "I'm here" and then turned out to be a different woman with a different voice once they met face to face and lastly a woman who drove all the way from Brooklyn just to randomly yell at him, take off and drive all the way back there from Suffolk County.
In person, I could tell he was the man from the pictures, albeit a less attractive version. His hair was oddly cropped around his head like it had been glued on, sort of like synthetic hair. He had the nice biceps that I like on a man, but his bizarre way of talking and interacting in person overrode that. He seemed to mean well, but it was coming out all wrong.
He knew a lot about mortgages because of his job. I had been preparing and signing complaints as a foreclosure attorney for a while, so we had a long discussion about the subprime mess for the entirety of our first date. I, of course, explained the bank's position. While I did not feel attracted to him, I thought perhaps his knowledge of the business end of loans and the fact that he was Catholic might compensate for his goofy demeanor.
Note to self: besides refraining from getting yourself so excited about someone you're attracted to who has stopped calling, also be sure not to force yourself to like someone you find repulsive just because you think he's educated and successful.
Fast forward. The setting was at an Irish pub on New York Avenue in Huntington, NY and I was sitting at a booth across from him sipping a glass of wine. He ordered himself a ginger ale at 10PM on a Saturday night, which I thought was odd as most guys who meet me for drinks will have at least a beer. And at an Irish pub?
On the other extreme, a man I met two summers ago chugged down a few Guinnesses during our Sunday lunch date at a pizzeria. Guinness Guzzler questioned my refusal to consume alcohol that early in the day upon his suggestion. And while I wouldn't want to become involved with someone who drinks too heavily, I certainly raised an eyebrow over this lightweight before me in the Huntington bar.
A few sips of a glass of dry, cheap red wine later, the man who went on so many dates with all abnormal women rambled on about how he works out to keep his biceps and how we should be workout partners. He then shifted the conversation to the fact that he lives at home and did throughout college at a local school on the island, that he hasn't had very many relationships with women and that his Long Island undergraduate alma mater was difficult to gain admission to, an assertion contrary to the Barron's book college rankings. He was oblivious to my obvious disinterest - a dating cue that most men observing me at that moment would have picked up on in a heartbeat.
And then he caught my attention when he told me that most people look better in their pictures than they do in person but that I am the exception. I thanked him for the compliment then quietly thought to myself that in that case he was the rule. He continued to discuss plans with me in the near future, but I forget now what we were supposed to do.
I stared blankly to the side, trying to avoid eye contact with him as he spoke in broken paragraphs that made no sense.
He then suggested that we go to a bar on the next street, which was conveniently located near the municipal parking lot where I would make my escape.
"I have something with my family tomorrow morning and don't want to stay out too late," I said and rushed toward my car with him trailing slightly behind. We went by happy couples holding hands, and I bitterly wished I had one of those guys with me instead. He was reaching out his hand for my shoulder. I knew he wanted to get cozy, but he looked more like a scout leader trying to pat a kid on the back - probably because I was taking large strides. I walked faster so he missed me.
I clicked on the remote and hopped hastily into my car to avoid any physical contact with him.
"Nice to see you again," I said quickly, "Good night." I slammed the door shut, locked all the doors and revved up the engine. I still got the sense that he didn't take a hint. If I let him keep yapping, he probably would have told me that he finally found The One.
As I was on the fork on New York Avenue, the phone rang and it was him. I didn't want a ticket from the Suffolk cops. Fighting a ticket downstate is a bitch! So I let his call go to voicemail to deal with later. I continued home to Nassau from Huntington on the Northern State, the highway I take to and from work every morning. In the meantime, he left me three text messages, one after the other.
Now, I had made up my mind that he was a throwback, but for me there's no worse way to reject or break up with someone than disappearing after a seemingly perfect date. And the more indicators you give to someone that you are interested in them, the more frustrating it is for that other person to follow up with you for the plans you said you'd make with them only to be blown off.
If the guy tells me up front he doesn't think it will work or he simply doesn't lay a hand on me and we walk away from the date without even kissing goodnight, I will take a hint and move on. I might initially be disappointed if he outright tells me he doesn't want to see me again, but I won't harbor any resentment down the line because I will not have had false hopes.
But it seriously pisses me off when a guy disappears after telling me how attracted he is and how he wants to be with me. Sometimes being given false hope is worse than the rejection itself. Knowing what a pain in the ass that is, I've promised myself I will never do that to a guy.
While most people would realize I wasn't interested if I behaved the way I did on my date with Lightweight and wouldn't mind if I just disappeared, this guy just wasn't getting a clue. He was so into me and not afraid to express it. I would have to spell my disinterest out for him like you do the ABCs for toddlers. He was so socially tone deaf I thought he would be crushed if he never heard from me again.
There were so many text messages from Lightweight I didn't bother reading them before responding. (Big mistake!) I cut to the chase: "I don't think we're compatible. I don't think we should see each other again. Good luck."
And then I scrolled down to see the text messages. It was inevitable. I'd have to free up some room in my mailbox.
I suddenly wished I had read what he wrote to me before I sent him that very polite, respectful message of rejection.
"You seem very shy and nervous. I'm not used to this. Is it just me or are you like this with everyone?" Okay, he mistakens disinterest for shyness. He's totally out of it.
"Is there something you are afraid to tell me?" he types and follows with, "TS." Now "TS" were not his initials and in either case he didn't really have to sign a text message. I could tell who it was by the number.
Scroll down some more. "Are u a ts?" read the next message.
"What is a ts," I began typing then realized what he was asking me. Holy shit! I couldn't believe what I was reading. Nobody had ever asked me such a vile question in my life.
"Please don't tell me you are asking if I'm a transsexual," I text Lightweight. "I am not a transsexual. That's a disgusting and inappropriate thing to ask."
"I think you are," he simply said, "Come on. I know a lot of Thai's and Flips are."
Okay, first this guy gives me the creeps because he's completely strange. So I want to get rid of him in a nice, polite way because I'm not an insensitive bitch to just disappear on someone who is so obviously infatuated and not taking a hint. No good deed goes unpunished, so I actually read his texts to find he is insulting me by making random assumptions about my gender assignment. There's another strike against him. And now to add insult to injury, this bigoted asshole is making ethnic slurs against me and stereotyping two countries as places where the women are likely to be transsexuals.
I called him a racist for using those terms. His excuse? He just used the term "flip" as a short cut for text. I spoke to some people about this incident who never even realized that "flip" was a derogatory word for a Filipino and that's solely because they've never heard the term before. Those who are familiar with it are aware that it is intended to be racist.
Come on! If he wanted to shorten it, he could have said "fili." "Flip" is not an appropriate shortcut. It's a racial slur that was once used by American soldiers in the Philippines to insult the natives there. It stands for "Fucking Little Island People" or "Funny Looking Island People." Look it up in any standard dictionary or even Urbandictionary.com.
He then went on to say there was nothing wrong with being transsexual and then he said, "I'm not lashin' at all. I still think you are. It's my opinion, observation" after which I informed him that I was "female from birth with a period" and that he got me at a very bad time when I was expecting my period. Again, I told him I was not a man in drag. I then reiterated that it was very disgusting and inappropriate to suggest I was transsexual.
Lightweight defended his comments saying furthermore that "there's nothing wrong with what I said. It's like me saying you're black when you're really Spanish." Okay! Now, he's on a roll. This racist sack of shit had just insulted almost every minority group you can think of. Not only does he not take a hint when someone is not romantically interested, but he just doesn't know when to quit. And, his inappropriate social behavior extends to freely making racial remarks. I almost wished I were face to face with him so I could punch his nose, but then I thought about my license to practice law. I wasn't going to throw away everything I worked hard for over this loser.
I then explained to the clown that I was acting "nervous" as he described it because I was just not interested in him and that I had tried to be nice to him by being up front instead of leading him on. It was quite obvious he was smitten with me. I also told him to never text or call me again upon receipt of my final message. Once I texted that, he was surely "lashin" by now.
This is when I really confirmed he was socially inept. I now knew why he hadn't had so many romantic relationships. I could taste his fury when I read, "I am deleting this number right now. You should have known by the first date if you weren't attracted to me instead of wasting my time this late at night."
This late at night? We got off our date at around 11:30! Give me a fucking break! Two in the morning is not late for a Saturday! Is he fucking kidding me?
And someone can decide after two dates as opposed to one that they are not interested. People can discover after being married for twenty years that they are not with the right person. Giving him a second date was an act of generosity on my part, a benefit of the doubt even though I found him a little too gawky for my taste.
I told him at some point in the texting thread that I could sue him if he told people I was transsexual. He said I could not "on the basis of this." He treated it like it was a serious conversation, so he wasn't even trying to insult me. He was so socially tone deaf that he didn't even know how offensive he was being. I don't even think he was trying to be malicious.
When I was taking the Bar exam, one of the lectures revealed that there is a civil cause of action in the State of New York that allows someone to sue another person for calling them gay or lesbian - even if the assumption of plaintiff's sexual orientation is true. I would assume this statute would protect people who others refer to as transsexual without their consent regardless of whether or not they are.
So, yes I can sue Lightweight if I find out that he uses my name and claims to one of his next dates or to anyone else for that matter that I am transsexual. I have mountains of pictures from childhood which show that I was a female from birth.
Does anyone remember that "Friends" episode when Brad Pitt made an appearance as a former high school classmate of his then wife Jennifer Aniston's character Rachel? When they were in school, Brad's character started a rumor about Rachel that she was a transsexual cheerleader. That's how comical this lunatic's crazy question was. It's so messed up they included a sitcom story line about it.
Who someone is likely to date or sleep with based on gender is a private matter as is someone's gender itself.
I don't dislike transsexuals. But I am not one of them. Someone asking another person if they are a transsexual is like one of those awkward situations where a three year old's Mommy becomes embarrassed because her toddler decides to ask every person he meets if they have a penis or a vagina, based on that little talk Mommy gave him. And then Mommy has to say, "Sweetheart, we had that talk, but it's inappropriate to bring that topic up with people."
I would hope that a man over thirty would realize that questioning people about their genitals is inappropriate and would constitute sexual harassment had it been a workplace environment. And what a random conclusion to make upon trying to decipher my body language that most people would easily construe as disinterest. So bizarre!
I guess this guy wouldn't mind dating a tranny. He still sounded interested even after his suggestion that I was really a dude in disguise. His last message revealed rage at my wasting his time with my disinterest - all that intense anger after he argued with me that I really was trans when I told him I wasn't.
I even shared with him the fact that I graduated from an all-girls' Catholic high school during a time when society was not so trans-friendly. So, I'm not even the kind of girl he's looking for. Why did he have to become so enraged that I rejected him?
In either case, you don't ask someone if they are transsexual even if you have every reason to suspect it. I think that's a general consensus among everyone. If someone wants to come out as gay or trans, let them do it themselves. They know more about themselves than you do. And I think I am a better judge than Lightweight is of whether I was born female or transitioned to become female later in life.
Lightweight had only been on Plenty of Freaks for a few months, yet according to him he had been on about 20 first and last dates.
Maybe Lightweight needed a story to tell his future first and last dates. One woman had to be the lady with the fucked up face. As my luck would have it I was going to be the designated chick with a dick. He sure had plenty of stories to tell me about how fucked up all these women were. I think the problem was him, not them. He made them run like I ran.
Hey, I've seen some beautiful transsexuals - the ladies at Lucky Cheng's make me jealous whenever I attend a Bachelorette party there. Maybe I'll dress up as a character from the Rocky Horror Picture Show for Halloween this year.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Another Lying Young Woman Ruins Young Men's Lives with a False Rape Accusation
I'm so happy this is my own blog and not broadcast TV where I could be fined for spewing profanity or using vulgarity, especially when I want to talk about someone who seriously pissed me off. Censorship inhibits free expression.
First I would like to know what Fox anchorman Ernie Anastos was talking about when he told a weatherman on his network to "Keep fucking that chicken." At least NBC's Sue Simmons used a variation of the word "fuck" in a more comprehensible manner when she simply asked someone on air, "What the fuck are you doing?" (More on that in a second.)
Apparently, the recent profane slip-up was not Ernie's first offense. But I doubt he'd truly give a shit because fining him would be a slap on the wrist just like it must have been a few years back when Janet Jackson had that wardrobe malfunction onstage with Justin Timberlake and the FCC came down on them. If Ernie keeps this up though, he should have a blog if he doesn't already so he can curse to his heart's content like I do on here and then go back to work at Fox with a mouth as clean as a whistle.
I want to talk about a media item that "seriously pissed me off," to quote myself in a previous paragraph, a criminal case that never should have been.
I'm talking about that young woman who made the local news in the metropolitan New York area and CNN for accusing five men of raping her in a dormitory bathroom at Hofstra. When I initially saw this in Newsday along with articles about Annie Le, the Yale University graduate student who was found murdered on the day she would have married Jonathan Widawsky, a Huntington, Long Island resident, memories of past rape incidents on the Hofstra campus echoed in my mind. The school is surrounded by pockets of high crime, so it didn't surprise me in the least.
When I was a law student at Hofstra, we received a notice that an unidentified man kidnapped a woman from the parking lot by the building where business classes are held and subsequently raped her. My mother immediately panicked because I used to visit my then boyfriend who rented a room in one of the houses not far from that lot.
Shortly after my graduation, I was dating a police officer who informed me that not too long ago there was another rape on the campus. A freshman was unpacking her things and moving into a dorm with her boyfriend's help when a man snatched her away and raped her. That suspect was later apprehended while he was held in the Nassau County Correctional Center on an unrelated charge.
I don't recall whether or not the first alleged rapist was caught, but I do remember the relief I felt when they found and convicted the man who raped the freshman. So naturally, I was relieved that the District Attorney's office had immediately apprehended four suspects in what we as the public believed was a rape committed against a young college student.
The men's photos along with their names and addresses were plastered all over the pages of every local newspaper any New Yorker could think of. One of them was a Hofstra student. To the lay person without legal training, it was justifiable punishment, the humiliation of having the world see your face after you committed a vile criminal act like sexual assault. According to the victim, five men had tied her up and raped her. While four of them were booked, the investigation continued as police were still looking for the fifth suspect who was still at large.
And then the fifth alleged rapist came forward but not to turn himself in.
He produced a cell phone video of the alleged rapists in action. It featured one of the culprits having sex with the so-called victim. Upon this discovery, the young woman recanted her accusations. What really had occurred was a six person orgy among college-aged adults, completely consensual between all parties. It was obvious that no crime had occurred, so the accused were released.
But, five innocent men had been unfairly scrutinized. And there may still be some people with doubts about their innocence. An accusation, no matter how ridiculous, still raises an eyebrow.
This mischievous little brat should be charged with a crime and ordered to pay monetary damages to the five men she victimized. Suspension from school is not enough, just a vacation from the stress she had brought on herself. What the fuck were you doing, young lady? You had everyone in hysterics.
I don't know if this is true, but someone told me this young lady lied about being raped because in reality she was cheating on her boyfriend five times over in one night and was afraid he would find out. According to this unconfirmed oral report, her boyfriend found her after the alleged rape looking as though she had hot sex. It was then, this person told me, that she decided to lie about being raped. And then came the report to the DA's office. (You see, this is one of the reasons I'm pissed off about not being appreciated by guys. I never have and never would in the future cheat on a boyfriend or husband, let alone commit a crime to cover up my fault.)
One day the papers quoted Nassau County District Attorney Kathleen Rice as saying that this was a troubled young woman. It almost sounded like she just pitied her for being young and stupid like so many college students are. A day or two later, an official at the DA's office said that charges against the false accuser were "likely."
Experts have said that Rice is in a difficult position. She would want to charge this young lady to show that people should not knowingly report a crime when none had occurred, that it's a crime in and of itself to do so. On the other hand, they said, she may fear that by charging the young woman it will prevent false accusers from coming clean and in the long run lead to wrongful convictions.
I don't think it's about weighing the pros and cons of charging in this case. It's more political.
This couldn't have come at a worse time for the District Attorney. We are less than two months away from an election for the position she now holds. Right now, it will be difficult for the public to believe that Rice's decision is anything but political. Within a day or so of Rice describing the accuser as troubled, Joy Watson, the former head of the Sex Crimes Bureau under former DA Denis Dillon and Rice's opponent in this year's race, criticized her for not actively seeking to press charges.
It was perfect campaign ammunition. Ideally, it should be solely at Rice's discretion. She has nothing to lose by charging the young woman. She certainly would not be wrong in doing so. Her position was in contrast to that of the now disbarred former Durham DA Mike Nifong who charged three innocent men in the Duke Lacrosse false rape accusation case a few years ago after he knew of exculpatory evidence.
I remember how the media focused like a laser on one of the accused players Colin Finnerty. He was a bright young man from my hometown Garden City, NY who graduated from Chaminade High School with honors and athletic accolades, the kind you would want your daughter to bring home from college as a fiance.
Immediately, there were reports that Finnerty was arrested in Maryland on an unrelated charge. The papers showed a photo of his parents' upscale home. They portrayed him and his friends as privileged spoiled brats and right away the public was led to believe some snotty rich frat boys with silver spoons in their mouths thought they were above the law.
And Mike Nifong was there, fighting for the little guy, it appeared, making it known that money wasn't going to keep him from prosecuting spoiled young punks who dared to victimize Crystal Mangum, an impoverished, underprivileged young woman who worked as a stripper to pay her way through college at a less prestigious institution nearby.
Nifong was up for re-election that year and trying to win votes from community members he felt would be sympathetic toward Mangum's plight as the victim of a barbaric act by privileged men from an elite university. He was willing to risk his license to practice law for a chance to hold on to political power. And in doing so, he lost everything - rightfully so.
I regret that Mangum was not prosecuted for her false accusations against the lacrosse players. It's a general consensus that these three men were innocent, but they will always remember what it feels like to be negatively scrutinized. I recently heard from a relative of a member of the lacrosse team who expressed to me that Mangum put her family through hell.
And to add insult to injury, the bitch wanted to publish a memoir in 2008! I say let her write it and use the proceeds to pay back the three men and their families for the pain she caused!
This is not an endorsement of Kathleen Rice, but I must say I commend her for her integrity, for not continuing to pursue charges against the five men in the Hofstra case for the sake of political gain in an election yearupon the discovery of exculpatory evidence, quite a difference from Nifong's crooked behavior.
First I would like to know what Fox anchorman Ernie Anastos was talking about when he told a weatherman on his network to "Keep fucking that chicken." At least NBC's Sue Simmons used a variation of the word "fuck" in a more comprehensible manner when she simply asked someone on air, "What the fuck are you doing?" (More on that in a second.)
Apparently, the recent profane slip-up was not Ernie's first offense. But I doubt he'd truly give a shit because fining him would be a slap on the wrist just like it must have been a few years back when Janet Jackson had that wardrobe malfunction onstage with Justin Timberlake and the FCC came down on them. If Ernie keeps this up though, he should have a blog if he doesn't already so he can curse to his heart's content like I do on here and then go back to work at Fox with a mouth as clean as a whistle.
I want to talk about a media item that "seriously pissed me off," to quote myself in a previous paragraph, a criminal case that never should have been.
I'm talking about that young woman who made the local news in the metropolitan New York area and CNN for accusing five men of raping her in a dormitory bathroom at Hofstra. When I initially saw this in Newsday along with articles about Annie Le, the Yale University graduate student who was found murdered on the day she would have married Jonathan Widawsky, a Huntington, Long Island resident, memories of past rape incidents on the Hofstra campus echoed in my mind. The school is surrounded by pockets of high crime, so it didn't surprise me in the least.
When I was a law student at Hofstra, we received a notice that an unidentified man kidnapped a woman from the parking lot by the building where business classes are held and subsequently raped her. My mother immediately panicked because I used to visit my then boyfriend who rented a room in one of the houses not far from that lot.
Shortly after my graduation, I was dating a police officer who informed me that not too long ago there was another rape on the campus. A freshman was unpacking her things and moving into a dorm with her boyfriend's help when a man snatched her away and raped her. That suspect was later apprehended while he was held in the Nassau County Correctional Center on an unrelated charge.
I don't recall whether or not the first alleged rapist was caught, but I do remember the relief I felt when they found and convicted the man who raped the freshman. So naturally, I was relieved that the District Attorney's office had immediately apprehended four suspects in what we as the public believed was a rape committed against a young college student.
The men's photos along with their names and addresses were plastered all over the pages of every local newspaper any New Yorker could think of. One of them was a Hofstra student. To the lay person without legal training, it was justifiable punishment, the humiliation of having the world see your face after you committed a vile criminal act like sexual assault. According to the victim, five men had tied her up and raped her. While four of them were booked, the investigation continued as police were still looking for the fifth suspect who was still at large.
And then the fifth alleged rapist came forward but not to turn himself in.
He produced a cell phone video of the alleged rapists in action. It featured one of the culprits having sex with the so-called victim. Upon this discovery, the young woman recanted her accusations. What really had occurred was a six person orgy among college-aged adults, completely consensual between all parties. It was obvious that no crime had occurred, so the accused were released.
But, five innocent men had been unfairly scrutinized. And there may still be some people with doubts about their innocence. An accusation, no matter how ridiculous, still raises an eyebrow.
This mischievous little brat should be charged with a crime and ordered to pay monetary damages to the five men she victimized. Suspension from school is not enough, just a vacation from the stress she had brought on herself. What the fuck were you doing, young lady? You had everyone in hysterics.
I don't know if this is true, but someone told me this young lady lied about being raped because in reality she was cheating on her boyfriend five times over in one night and was afraid he would find out. According to this unconfirmed oral report, her boyfriend found her after the alleged rape looking as though she had hot sex. It was then, this person told me, that she decided to lie about being raped. And then came the report to the DA's office. (You see, this is one of the reasons I'm pissed off about not being appreciated by guys. I never have and never would in the future cheat on a boyfriend or husband, let alone commit a crime to cover up my fault.)
One day the papers quoted Nassau County District Attorney Kathleen Rice as saying that this was a troubled young woman. It almost sounded like she just pitied her for being young and stupid like so many college students are. A day or two later, an official at the DA's office said that charges against the false accuser were "likely."
Experts have said that Rice is in a difficult position. She would want to charge this young lady to show that people should not knowingly report a crime when none had occurred, that it's a crime in and of itself to do so. On the other hand, they said, she may fear that by charging the young woman it will prevent false accusers from coming clean and in the long run lead to wrongful convictions.
I don't think it's about weighing the pros and cons of charging in this case. It's more political.
This couldn't have come at a worse time for the District Attorney. We are less than two months away from an election for the position she now holds. Right now, it will be difficult for the public to believe that Rice's decision is anything but political. Within a day or so of Rice describing the accuser as troubled, Joy Watson, the former head of the Sex Crimes Bureau under former DA Denis Dillon and Rice's opponent in this year's race, criticized her for not actively seeking to press charges.
It was perfect campaign ammunition. Ideally, it should be solely at Rice's discretion. She has nothing to lose by charging the young woman. She certainly would not be wrong in doing so. Her position was in contrast to that of the now disbarred former Durham DA Mike Nifong who charged three innocent men in the Duke Lacrosse false rape accusation case a few years ago after he knew of exculpatory evidence.
I remember how the media focused like a laser on one of the accused players Colin Finnerty. He was a bright young man from my hometown Garden City, NY who graduated from Chaminade High School with honors and athletic accolades, the kind you would want your daughter to bring home from college as a fiance.
Immediately, there were reports that Finnerty was arrested in Maryland on an unrelated charge. The papers showed a photo of his parents' upscale home. They portrayed him and his friends as privileged spoiled brats and right away the public was led to believe some snotty rich frat boys with silver spoons in their mouths thought they were above the law.
And Mike Nifong was there, fighting for the little guy, it appeared, making it known that money wasn't going to keep him from prosecuting spoiled young punks who dared to victimize Crystal Mangum, an impoverished, underprivileged young woman who worked as a stripper to pay her way through college at a less prestigious institution nearby.
Nifong was up for re-election that year and trying to win votes from community members he felt would be sympathetic toward Mangum's plight as the victim of a barbaric act by privileged men from an elite university. He was willing to risk his license to practice law for a chance to hold on to political power. And in doing so, he lost everything - rightfully so.
I regret that Mangum was not prosecuted for her false accusations against the lacrosse players. It's a general consensus that these three men were innocent, but they will always remember what it feels like to be negatively scrutinized. I recently heard from a relative of a member of the lacrosse team who expressed to me that Mangum put her family through hell.
And to add insult to injury, the bitch wanted to publish a memoir in 2008! I say let her write it and use the proceeds to pay back the three men and their families for the pain she caused!
This is not an endorsement of Kathleen Rice, but I must say I commend her for her integrity, for not continuing to pursue charges against the five men in the Hofstra case for the sake of political gain in an election yearupon the discovery of exculpatory evidence, quite a difference from Nifong's crooked behavior.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Old Fools Try to Seduce Much Younger Women
Egos never fade with age, not when people are born into the gender that boasts the most testosterone. Not having a biological clock and enjoying a higher pay scale are factors that afford men a whole new batch of spring chickens when the old cows have aged, their faces blemished with crow's feet, their boobs sagging and their libidos significantly diminished.
I've had so many dates, boyfriends and experiences with men of all ages and heard so many stories from other women that I really don't give a shit who thinks I'm a man hater for criticizing men's bad behavior. I'm not a man hater (there is sure to be a great man out there who is available and who hasn't found me yet), but if you observed these old geezers you would understand my disdain for their actions.
I've had so many dates, boyfriends and experiences with men of all ages and heard so many stories from other women that I really don't give a shit who thinks I'm a man hater for criticizing men's bad behavior. I'm not a man hater (there is sure to be a great man out there who is available and who hasn't found me yet), but if you observed these old geezers you would understand my disdain for their actions.
I sometimes wonder if my life would have fared better romantically had I not been so repulsed by the much older men who had pursued me in my twenties and even recently in my thirties. I guess it was the close relationship I had with my father that made me not want to view older men in a sexual manner.
Then again, I rejected men of all ages throughout my twenties. I once wore a fake engagement ring to work to fend off an entire floor of young stockbrokers who would make flirtatious catcalls at me every day at lunch hour. As my luck would have it (as always in courtship situations), one of the stockbrokers was related to a jeweler and could tell my rock was fake. So he could see I had just faked an engagement, much like other women may fake an orgasm.
Either that or my fiance was a cheap mofo who gave me a crappy ring and whom I would leave in a heartbeat for a man who drove a $100,000 car at 28 and could give me platinum - if he would ever even let it get that far. He was only trying to get laid, I'm sure. And as far as the old men were concerned (and probably the young ones, too), it made no difference if I were married, engaged or otherwise unavailable. Men are always going to try to get what they want at any age from any woman of any age - single or not.
Then again, I rejected men of all ages throughout my twenties. I once wore a fake engagement ring to work to fend off an entire floor of young stockbrokers who would make flirtatious catcalls at me every day at lunch hour. As my luck would have it (as always in courtship situations), one of the stockbrokers was related to a jeweler and could tell my rock was fake. So he could see I had just faked an engagement, much like other women may fake an orgasm.
Either that or my fiance was a cheap mofo who gave me a crappy ring and whom I would leave in a heartbeat for a man who drove a $100,000 car at 28 and could give me platinum - if he would ever even let it get that far. He was only trying to get laid, I'm sure. And as far as the old men were concerned (and probably the young ones, too), it made no difference if I were married, engaged or otherwise unavailable. Men are always going to try to get what they want at any age from any woman of any age - single or not.
I was in the tail end of my twenties when I was admitted to the practice of law in the State of New York - the year was 2005 to be exact. Inevitably, I would make my first court appearance on a motion. To render me assistance so I could one day go on my own, as well as offer moral support, I would have an experienced attorney accompanying me.
Unfortunately for me, I would have to fend for myself as my mentor would have a family medical emergency that naturally took priority over a court appearance, especially when another attorney was there. So I had to navigate choppy waters - a judge who was in a bad mood because of the submission of sloppy papers and some unscrupulous attorneys. A lot for a fledgling attorney's first time.
My first encounter in the judge's court room made me think I had not only my work but my whole career cut out for me. The judge was yelling at every other attorney whose case the clerk called. He told one respectful bespectacled female attorney with curly ash brown hair to "save (her) breath" when she mumbled softly. She seemed so meek she may as well have been a librarian instead of a litigator, but she managed to ire His Honor. A fifty-something male attorney with graying light brown curly hair, a mustache and glasses stormed out of the room after being reemed upon submission of his one and only motion for the day in that judge's chambers. When it was my turn, the judge was surprisingly pleasant. I had no opposition and was out in a few minutes.
Upon making my way out of the court room and into the vestibule that led out to the hallway, the fiftysomething male attorney surprisingly joined me. It so happened he had been waiting outside for me. He walked alongside me as though it had been predetermined that we were leaving together. He quickly chirped something I couldn't believe I was hearing.
"What?" I asked him.
"Do you want to go to lunch?" he asked again with a predatory leer.
Upon making my way out of the court room and into the vestibule that led out to the hallway, the fiftysomething male attorney surprisingly joined me. It so happened he had been waiting outside for me. He walked alongside me as though it had been predetermined that we were leaving together. He quickly chirped something I couldn't believe I was hearing.
"What?" I asked him.
"Do you want to go to lunch?" he asked again with a predatory leer.
I gaped at him, completely caught off guard.
"Are you married, engaged," he began, "Does it really matter?"
"I'm in a relationship," I told him curtly.
"I think you're hot. I love your outfit," he rambled on, ignoring my obvious rejection.
I now got a taste of what it's like to be hit on by an attorney from Bill Clinton's generation. It was the end of innocence. I was in my twenties then but felt as though I were ten again only this time one of my girl friends' Dads was trying to pick me up. Another attorney at my office reasoned that a man his age was hitting on a twentysomething in an attempt to reassure himself that he was still sexy after all these years. His attempt backfired because I just felt he was an old fool to blog about.
In my thirties, I've managed to attract wackier and more mature prospects to reject. Whenever I go into the city for a court appearance, a co-op closing or a networking event or just a night out, I always manage to have some guy approach me at the event, on the Long Island Railroad or on a subway train. If we have a great conversation, I agree to give them my number, but I wish some of them would never have approached me to begin with, like the oversexed older attorney I met in Queens Supreme during my first court appearance ever. I mean, I didn't even talk to the guy and right away his first words to me were to ask me out. You saw that!
On that note, I would like to revisit the notion that men are visual.
When I go to the Bronx, I usually take the LIRR to Brooklyn and catch the 4 so I don't have to get off and wait in a stuffy station for the shuttle crosstown at 42nd. It's a long ride up there and back. On some days like the one in question I have to take the 4 for a co-op closing on Manhattan's Upper East Side. And on this particular day I managed to find a seat on the ride downtown toward Brooklyn with scores of women on their lunch hours and across from a ragged looking man with long wavy brown hair and a washed out T-shirt who was staring lustfully at me the whole time.
The man looked peculiar with piercing brown eyes and a sinister grin. He could have been a rocker from a now defunct 80's metal band, bankrupt from having spent all his millions on nose candy and reduced to riding the subway with a bunch of average everyday women like us - a far cry from the limos that once catered to him and his beautiful groupies. I was in elementary school when he would have been in his glory days as a thirtysomething rock star.
He continued to leer at me as the attractive young woman sitting next to me tried to hold back her urge to grimace. The middle-aged woman with a slightly graying bobbed hairdo across from me looked over at him and then shot me a glance as if to warn me. As we skipped past the stops between 42nd and 14th Streets, I heard the man mumble something to me in a British accent.
"What?" I asked, dumbfounded.
"I said," he continued in a frustrated tone, "There are a lot of romantic places to go here. Let me take you."
"I have a boyfriend," I snapped back hastily.
"Your loss," he muttered bitterly to me and stormed out of the sliding doors onto the 14th Street station platform. It was a loss I would take like the good dating sport I was - always picking up the pieces after a rejection or a revolting sexual advance from a sleaze like him. Upon the jilted man's exit and the train's subsequent departure to continue on to Brooklyn, the women on the train collectively began to laugh.
"Oh my God! I couldn't believe it," I sighed and shuddered on the bench. I garnered sympathy from all of the women in our car, most particularly these two who had been watching my little ordeal and were cringing the entire time.
"What was his problem?" asked the young woman.
"Only in New York," said the middle-aged woman with a laugh.
"What a weirdo!" I exclaimed, "He was staring at me and drooling the whole time."
"I noticed that," said the middle-aged woman as she shook her head.
I didn't have a conversation with the coked up, washed out rocker. We most certainly did not introduce ourselves to each other. And damned if he were EVER to get my phone number! All he did was look at me and decide he was going to ask me to accompany him to some "romantic" places in downtown Manhattan. Weirdo! I'd expect that if someone were to ask me out, we would first have a substantial conversation lasting more than five minutes or so.
This adds credence to Greg Behrendt's claim that if a man really wants to be with a woman, be it in a relationship, as a fuck buddy or for a one-night stand, he will (or at the very least try to) make it happen. He is never too "busy" for a woman he truly likes to whatever degree it may be. So much for all those poor women who have what they feel is a wonderful date with a man only to have him never call again and resurface later on in a serious relationship with another woman.
This tool wanted to haul my ass over to the "romantic restaurants" at the next subway stop, and he didn't even know my name. He was obviously "that into" me. That's what it's supposed to look like. He wasn't too busy for me even though he had somewhere to go. I just wasn't interested because he was a freak and not the good kind of freak. If I were to risk being fired for staying out too long for a midday date, I wouldn't take that chance for this reject. Both genders can play the rejection game at any age.
But the next guy almost made me commit a felony - partly out of frustration from being romanced and blown off by three young men in a row and on the one hand because I wasn't keen on the idea of having geriatric sex. In Newsday, I found an ad in the singles section for a party that boasted the potential to attract "thousands of professionals." The ad read such that I forgot I was going to a singles party and instead planted the notion in my head that I would be networking with professionals and just might meet someone great if I were lucky.
For the event at Tavern on the Green in Manhattan, I donned a fitted, half-sleeved gray dress that looked better than it had when I got it a year earlier because I'd lost a significant amount of weight. As I slinked by from one end of the restaurant to the the next I passed two elderly men. One held the other as if to cradle him. He apparently had too much to drink or whatever he was doing, and his friend had been the more alert of the two.
The 28 to 49 pitch for the party had been false advertising much to my disappointment. There were no business cards exchanged and no hors d'oevres, just a meat market of graying people bumping and grinding fully clothed and a lot of liquor.
"Hey, sexy," shouted the less coherent of the two elderly men as he looked my way. I walked on.
The other side of the restaurant failed in my book of prospects for a polarly opposite reason - a bunch of much younger couples, perhaps college kids on their break from school who wanted to feel more mature hanging out at a ritzy place like Tavern on the Green. I met a few cool kids, but I really had to get going. As I wandered through the winding hallway, I bumped into the two elderly men again.
"Lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely," ranted the drunk 90 year old as he tried to pull my arm. He had apparently been high on Cialis or Viagra, whichever was his hard on drug of choice.
I shoved him away and walked on faster and faster. What guy uses "lovely" anymore to describe a woman he finds attractive? That's so 1940s. And if he doesn't call you "hot,' the more respectful alternative is to say you are "beautiful." (More on that later.)
It was then that I remembered it is a felony in New York and probably many other states to beat up someone over the age of 65. I guess one of the perks of being a dirty old man with age as a weapon is that if you desire a young chick your granddaughter's age you can just grab her and if she puts up a fight you can charge her under that statute. It's a situation where the courts apply strict liability. She doesn't even have to know you are over the minimum age to be found guilty. Her entire life is ruined.
That's what she gets for not giving you what you want. It was great for my sake that I had room to run away otherwise I might have done something to him I would regret later. There goes to show my claim in an early entry that men control the heterosexual dating franchise. It's at every age.
No amount of money could make me marry a man that decrepit and infirm who is being disrespectful. I credit the late Anna Nicole Smith who married J. Howard Marshall when she was 26 and he was 89 for having a strong stomach, despite her obvious desire for his multi-million dollar fortune. Apparently, she met her elderly husband when she was working as a stripper and he grabbed her silicone-filled breast during her performance. How romantic! It's been my experience that when a guy wants to treat me like that he disappears and I never hear from him again. And some bitch keeps him around long enough so he will die and leave everything to her!
As I was leaving Tavern on the Green fed up with yet another lousy singles encounter, I came across a group of sixtysomething divorced or widowed men who looked like they could be members of the mob. They acted as though they'd be sympathetic to my plight. I could have been the daughter of one of them.
"What happened," a gray-haired man asked in a Brooklyn accent," you didn't have a good time?"
"No, I did not." I simply answered.
"You're never going to come again?" the other asked.
"Absolutely not," I said, "I don't want to be around these people."
"What happened?" the first guy asked, "Dirty old men?"
"Hell, yeah," I said, "This 90 year old tried to hit on me and I had to push him back. I wouldn't give him the time of day."
"How old are you?" the guy asked, "You look about 27."
"I'm 32," I said.
"You look great. I'm 62. Would you go out with a guy like me?" he asked. Here we go again.
"You're my mother's age," I snapped back and walked out never looking back. I wouldn't go out with him, but I'll admit he'd be better than the 90 year old for sure.
What if you did marry a wealthy old fool? He could easily turn out like the crochety old buffoon my friend encountered at Fairway, the gourmet grocery store in Plainview. We were out one day on our lunch hour. We're both attorneys representing banks in foreclosure actions, so given the economic climate of the times we are under a lot of stress. So, we're looking for sustenance at the deli and my friend figures she will catch up on some grocery shopping in the meantime. She's retrieving rolls for later on from the roll bin near the bakery when she accidentally bumps into an old man who is fighting for a bagel.
"Do you think you own this place? Get out of my way!" he shouts in a rage, his eyebrows furrowed under his reading glasses, "Do you think you're the queen?" My friend is the sweetest, most modest young woman you can imagine. She's so down-to-earth, hardly the kind who would think she was the "queen." Very different from some of the callous bitches I've encountered who men (like this old goat) treat like queens after blowing off some nice girls.
"Calm down," I yell as loud as I can in his direction. He probably didn't hear me, the senile old fool.
Eager to escape his geriatric rage, my friend grabs the first cart near her and as her luck would have it she enrages him even more.
"You're taking my cart," he fumes, "What are you, the queen?"
I grab her cart and push it toward her to aid her escape from this lunatic. You see? Ladies, avoid these old farts at all costs just like their younger counterparts from my previous blog entry.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Men to Pass Up at All Costs
I cannot fathom where certain men get off thinking they can blow us off, that we are not good enough for them. They should first reflect on their own shortcomings and maybe then they'd actually appreciate a good woman over a whore who serves no greater purpose than a good lay.
I especially despise the man with nothing to bring to the table who acts as though he could reject a woman who isn't even attracted to him in the first place. I mean, I wasn't even paying you any attention and before I know it you think you've turned me down, retard! Back in high school, I hung out at a billiards place with my girl friends and these really sleazy looking low-lifes -would-be high school dropouts - were giving us all dirty looks. One guy approached me and asked if I liked his friend. I told him I didn't.
"You're not even my type," the friend sneered and continued to stare disdainfully at me. "That girl over there is my type," he said, pointing to a girl with big, curly black hair who was shooting pool at the next table.
I laughed. She had nothing on me in any department. "Why are you looking at me that way?" I asked him, "You aren't MY type."
"Okay," he shrugged with a smile, as if he believed I was lying. "What is your type?"
"Well-dressed, educated, athletic," I said with conviction. His smile of disdain wouldn't fade. We were young. I had no way of knowing for sure where life would take this young man - or me. But he carried himself like the kind of guy who would end up a sleazy contractor who convinced people to pay him to do a shitty job making unnecessary repairs to their chimney ("Cops: Babylon brothers charged with shoddy chimney work," Alfonso A. Castillo, Newsday, September 6, 2009).
Even if it's quite obvious that a guy's station in life leaves much to be desired, it doesn't prevent him from displaying his arrogance as an adult. On a humid Saturday evening, I had taken the train in from Long Island to Penn Station. Having regretted wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt on a hot early September day, I didn't feel like waiting on a stuffy underground platform and maneuvering around the subway system in downtown Manhattan. I instead preferred an air-conditioned cab.
So, I think I'll get ahead of the game by getting into one of those cars in a long line of empty cabs waiting for eager passengers coming from the station. And, I randomly stop at the first one in front of me and say "Webster Hall." I was heading over to "The Awesome 80's Prom" and wishing I'd taken out my leggings for the night. The slender cabby with an unidentifiable foreign accent told me to go on the line with the others. Resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to take me, I went ahead. I then caught sight of a hot, busty blonde who could easily have been on her way to a shift at Flashdancers or a nude centerfold shoot. She got a cab ahead of everyone else, and she wasn't even in line.
I joined the line of passengers and stumbled upon the same cabbie from before a few seconds later. He shot me an arrogant smirk and signaled to the back seat where I saw the gorgeous blonde. "She's with me. So long, sucker," he wanted to tell me.
Now what is wrong with this picture? I'll tell you. Men are too visual. And this guy has watched so many American movies depicting the proverbial dumb blonde he thinks that ready and willing blondes are a dime a dozen in this country. When you become too visual, you lose sight of common sense. He stood more to benefit from taking me with my chestnut tresses. I'm an attorney. I'm more likely to tip generously for excellent service.
Blondie, as hot as she may be, is more interested in taking the sucker's money. And, I highly doubt that his cabbie's annual salary, including any gratuitous tips, could satisfy her appetite for a shopping spree at Barney's. All she wanted from him was a ride to her wealthy sugar daddy's Upper East Side condo so she could hop on his wealthy ass. On duty on the job was the closest the cab-driving clown would get to a woman that fine.
He wasn't any more likely to get laid with her than he was with me. I found him repulsive but was too modest to admit it, so I can only imagine what a woman with every reason to be conceited might think of him, if she even spared him a thought at all.
Nevertheless, this poor fool was going to take a chance, wishfully thinking that this fine lady would hook up with him if only he made his move. If he didn't have such poor insight, he'd hold a more lucrative post, one that would help him attract beautiful women. I almost wished I could have caught that ride with her just so I could watch this cocky S.O.B. humiliate himself before Blondie rejected his advances. Instead of a hefty tip financed by billables, she would reward him with a much deserved slap in the face.
Some men find me as appealing as the Manhattan cabbie found the would-be Playboy bunny, albeit not necessarily the kind of men I want to notice me. And they always have a tiny bit of power on their turf, so I don't want to fuck with them too much. At the Roosevelt Field mall one day, I was toting several bags and trying to grab a quick bite at the Greek stand in the food court when a counter boy was responding to my every food and drink order in a raspy voice as he leered into my eyes. I wrinkled up my nose and shot him an angry look, but that wasn't cooling him down. I didn't want to tell him off right away because I was afraid he would spit on my food. Finally, once my food was safely in my hands I told him, "Leave me the fuck alone." He continued to smile as I was walking away and scowling back at him. Some guys just won't take even the most in-your-face hint.
And what woman in her right mind could help but resist incarcerated men (unless they are wrongfully convicted or accused)? Some years ago I interned with the Nassau County District Attorney's Office. One day they took us on a field trip to the county jail to observe the inmates' daily routines and hear the less dangerous convicts share their experiences. As we toured one of the wings, I came across a large section of young men in killer shape (no pun intended)- flat, muscular abs and well-toned biceps.
Their physical appeal could not overcome for me the fact that they'd been in there for the most heinous crimes imaginable according to the corrections officers who accompanied us. Some of them shouted out sexually explicit comments at myself and other women in the group. I would have flipped them off if I didn't have to risk having shit flung at me, a misfortune the corrections officers said they faced on a daily basis.
Now as an attorney heading to court, I especially relish walking by the corrections buses on the way. When those assholes yell obscenities at me, I can curse to my heart's content because the barricades separating them from me have tinier openings, so the shit won't make it through. It's so exhilirating!
I especially despise the man with nothing to bring to the table who acts as though he could reject a woman who isn't even attracted to him in the first place. I mean, I wasn't even paying you any attention and before I know it you think you've turned me down, retard! Back in high school, I hung out at a billiards place with my girl friends and these really sleazy looking low-lifes -would-be high school dropouts - were giving us all dirty looks. One guy approached me and asked if I liked his friend. I told him I didn't.
"You're not even my type," the friend sneered and continued to stare disdainfully at me. "That girl over there is my type," he said, pointing to a girl with big, curly black hair who was shooting pool at the next table.
I laughed. She had nothing on me in any department. "Why are you looking at me that way?" I asked him, "You aren't MY type."
"Okay," he shrugged with a smile, as if he believed I was lying. "What is your type?"
"Well-dressed, educated, athletic," I said with conviction. His smile of disdain wouldn't fade. We were young. I had no way of knowing for sure where life would take this young man - or me. But he carried himself like the kind of guy who would end up a sleazy contractor who convinced people to pay him to do a shitty job making unnecessary repairs to their chimney ("Cops: Babylon brothers charged with shoddy chimney work," Alfonso A. Castillo, Newsday, September 6, 2009).
Even if it's quite obvious that a guy's station in life leaves much to be desired, it doesn't prevent him from displaying his arrogance as an adult. On a humid Saturday evening, I had taken the train in from Long Island to Penn Station. Having regretted wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt on a hot early September day, I didn't feel like waiting on a stuffy underground platform and maneuvering around the subway system in downtown Manhattan. I instead preferred an air-conditioned cab.
So, I think I'll get ahead of the game by getting into one of those cars in a long line of empty cabs waiting for eager passengers coming from the station. And, I randomly stop at the first one in front of me and say "Webster Hall." I was heading over to "The Awesome 80's Prom" and wishing I'd taken out my leggings for the night. The slender cabby with an unidentifiable foreign accent told me to go on the line with the others. Resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to take me, I went ahead. I then caught sight of a hot, busty blonde who could easily have been on her way to a shift at Flashdancers or a nude centerfold shoot. She got a cab ahead of everyone else, and she wasn't even in line.
I joined the line of passengers and stumbled upon the same cabbie from before a few seconds later. He shot me an arrogant smirk and signaled to the back seat where I saw the gorgeous blonde. "She's with me. So long, sucker," he wanted to tell me.
Now what is wrong with this picture? I'll tell you. Men are too visual. And this guy has watched so many American movies depicting the proverbial dumb blonde he thinks that ready and willing blondes are a dime a dozen in this country. When you become too visual, you lose sight of common sense. He stood more to benefit from taking me with my chestnut tresses. I'm an attorney. I'm more likely to tip generously for excellent service.
Blondie, as hot as she may be, is more interested in taking the sucker's money. And, I highly doubt that his cabbie's annual salary, including any gratuitous tips, could satisfy her appetite for a shopping spree at Barney's. All she wanted from him was a ride to her wealthy sugar daddy's Upper East Side condo so she could hop on his wealthy ass. On duty on the job was the closest the cab-driving clown would get to a woman that fine.
He wasn't any more likely to get laid with her than he was with me. I found him repulsive but was too modest to admit it, so I can only imagine what a woman with every reason to be conceited might think of him, if she even spared him a thought at all.
Nevertheless, this poor fool was going to take a chance, wishfully thinking that this fine lady would hook up with him if only he made his move. If he didn't have such poor insight, he'd hold a more lucrative post, one that would help him attract beautiful women. I almost wished I could have caught that ride with her just so I could watch this cocky S.O.B. humiliate himself before Blondie rejected his advances. Instead of a hefty tip financed by billables, she would reward him with a much deserved slap in the face.
Some men find me as appealing as the Manhattan cabbie found the would-be Playboy bunny, albeit not necessarily the kind of men I want to notice me. And they always have a tiny bit of power on their turf, so I don't want to fuck with them too much. At the Roosevelt Field mall one day, I was toting several bags and trying to grab a quick bite at the Greek stand in the food court when a counter boy was responding to my every food and drink order in a raspy voice as he leered into my eyes. I wrinkled up my nose and shot him an angry look, but that wasn't cooling him down. I didn't want to tell him off right away because I was afraid he would spit on my food. Finally, once my food was safely in my hands I told him, "Leave me the fuck alone." He continued to smile as I was walking away and scowling back at him. Some guys just won't take even the most in-your-face hint.
And what woman in her right mind could help but resist incarcerated men (unless they are wrongfully convicted or accused)? Some years ago I interned with the Nassau County District Attorney's Office. One day they took us on a field trip to the county jail to observe the inmates' daily routines and hear the less dangerous convicts share their experiences. As we toured one of the wings, I came across a large section of young men in killer shape (no pun intended)- flat, muscular abs and well-toned biceps.
Their physical appeal could not overcome for me the fact that they'd been in there for the most heinous crimes imaginable according to the corrections officers who accompanied us. Some of them shouted out sexually explicit comments at myself and other women in the group. I would have flipped them off if I didn't have to risk having shit flung at me, a misfortune the corrections officers said they faced on a daily basis.
Now as an attorney heading to court, I especially relish walking by the corrections buses on the way. When those assholes yell obscenities at me, I can curse to my heart's content because the barricades separating them from me have tinier openings, so the shit won't make it through. It's so exhilirating!
Saturday, August 22, 2009
He's Just Not That Into You - The Man Decides Again and Again on NO COMMITMENT
I remember when that book, "He's Just Not That Into You" by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo of Sex and The City came out. I had just finished law school and was going to take the bar. I had also gotten out of a brief relationship. You guessed it. He dumped me. Three coworkers discussed the release of the book from our cubicles, two married women and me - the single one who still harbored hopes of finding a fiance before turning thirty that would be to no avail. One of the married women said she would buy the book just so she could understand why an ex-boyfriend broke up with her years ago while the other reminisced about her teen years when she would stalk a guy who hadn't called by driving her car around his block once she got her license and expressed relief at her husband having found her.
The book has chapters addressing cheating husbands and bad situations that women face in their committed relationships but is geared mainly toward single women like myself who are just dating, many of us against our will as we'd always dreamed of marrying the perfect man and having the proverbial two or three kids. As I scanned the topics, past the subtopics and little vignettes, I read as the author collectively scolded dating women. They wrote to him for advice and gave him their own naive assessments of their given situations only to have their misguided notions shot down.
My first glance at the book was painful to say the least, simply demoralizing. I experienced a moment of truth that made me want to hang my head down in shame. I felt as though Greg was yelling at me personally and snapped the book shut. I wanted to recoil on my bed if not out and out vomit because Behrendt's chapter by chapter dissection of men's dating behavior puts you face to face with the harsh, brutal reality - the real reason why the man who expressed how attracted he is to you is blowing you off, the awful truth that just can't be. That hot guy who said he likes you but isn't ready to commit is perfectly capable of having a relationship; he just doesn't want it with you.
But, he has absolutely no shame in behaving as though he does want just that with you - showering you with gifts, sweet talking you until you let down your guard. These intoxicating romantic gestures immediately precede him violently ripping from under you that carpet of Fairy Tale Prince Charming fantasy that children's books have ingrained in every little girl's brain. He's unexpectedly breaking up with you when you think he's about to propose or telling you he's busy when he really wants to get rid of you. Ouch!
And, what's worse - being as attractive as Cindy Crawford, who is mentioned in the book as having some dudes who don't know what the big deal is, doesn't immune you to a "He's Just Not That Into You" attack from some sadistic prick who will approach you, get you all excited, ask for your number, promise to call and then fail to. Nobody is immune! Not even the real hotties!
A few days after my discussion with the two married women about "He's Just Not That Into You," a fourth woman came down to visit our department. She had just been dumped by her long-term boyfriend who was now engaged to a younger woman he met six months earlier. As she toted her copy of the book and ran through the chapters in a way that told me she was becoming a Behrendt disciple, I gave her credit. She was brave to navigate that book from cover to cover considering what an emotionally excruciating, pride-crushing read it was albeit a fast, easy one. I told her I couldn't read it. It made me feel like an ass because truthfully I felt as though Greg Behrendt had written a partial dating biography of me.
"I know," she simply said, "You're supposed to feel stupid when you read it." Yeah. Stupid and unattractive. I had been a stumbling fool of a dater. Just a few short years earlier, I had a conversation with this same woman about a man I was crazy about who had stopped calling. We were meant for each other. I just knew it! Or so I had thought. I was completely smitten and counting our kids. She said she was sure he wanted to be with me but that he was probably just busy and "needed time." (Hold that thought. I promise you can exhale. I won't keep you forever like the men have kept me.)
The problem with the heterosexual dating franchise is that men control it. They're the ones who direct the course of the relationship no matter how advanced women are in the workforce or how independent we become. Women are limited to ending a relationship if they so choose or declining men's invitations for dates. But, the men initially take their pick and ask someone out. Men decide whether or not women get the commitment that they desire more than the men. Men don't have to worry about a biological clock. They can stall commitment well into ripe old age, make millions and find a twenty-year old bride. And when you give certain people just a little bit of that power like Mother Nature has given the men, things run amok.
If a woman takes the reins, she's desperate and needy. She's trying too hard, as my brother calls it. In fact, Southern United States culture forbids women to call men ever. But what if he never does call? Still. All the more you are forbidden to call. He has to call and whether or not he does is a crapshoot.
So, this is where the man can decide never to call at all or again. It's like a declined job offer. A rejection letter from an institution of higher learning. The only difference is that you're supposed to pick up on it by instinct. The guy won't send you a form letter for closure or more traditionally tell you outright that he doesn't want to see you anymore. You have to wait a few days to realize you aren't hearing from his fickle, false-promising ass. "Read the signs," they tell you. Sharpen your romantic defense reflexes, ladies. You're going to need them.
I thought I would be safe if I just let this book collect dust on my shelf until Oprah featured the author on her show. Her guests included typical single men discussing their dating habits. The most recent winning contestant on "The Apprentice" informed ladies in living room audiences around the world that if he were truly that into a girl he would "take her call before The Donald's." Aww, how sweet! Damn it! I should be that bitch. It was a general consensus among the men who appeared in the episode that Greg was 100% right in his assessments.
One man showed the audience numbers he saved on his cell phone. He had them carefully organized into classes based on how he ranked each woman who innocently gave his sweet-talking ass her number and waited in vain for his call. He categorized the group of women he was most attracted to as "The Dream Team." I guess you might be tempted to suggest that this is a guy who is just a commitment-phobe. Don't take it personal, ladies. Well, that guy will eventually commit, ladies. He just won't do it with you. Even if you do make the cut for his "Dream Team," you just might not be his dream girl - emphasis on singular. Close but no cigar!
When the movie came out, it was perfect timing for me. It had been about two years since the end of my last relationship (I dumped him), and I had built up an impressive resume of countless unsuccessful dates and promised phone calls from guys who never made them, as well as a list of men who were "that into (me)" who I myself had rejected in various ways. I saw the movie several times in the theater and bought the DVD. I just couldn't stop laughing, the comic relief being my ability to relate to almost every scenario, except for the one with Scarlett Johansson's character having an affair with a married man, a practice that Greg cites as the one dating mistake women should promise themselves never to make. I've been good about that one, thanks in part to a Catholic education. The threat of eternal damnation would render me averse to adultery.
The humor I found in the movie made me more inclined to pick up the book again with a new perspective. Greg doesn't just scold you. He gives you words of encouragement. He wakes you up so you won't waste your time pining for a guy who isn't treating you the way a guy should. His advice empowers you so you won't continue to chase a guy who is blowing you off and feed his undeserving inflated ego. It's painful at first when you read it and feel as though your dating life is embarrassingly playing before your eyes, but it settles like the unpleasant dose of medicine your mother gave you as a child. It's bitter and sour, but it will make you get better.
The only question left unanswered by the book is why some men behave so egregiously and waste everyone's time. They should clean up their act. And that's what this blog is all about - the rude dating decisions men make to the detriment of women. Yes, women do it, too. I have been guilty of some of this behavior toward men. I am not proud to admit it. This blog will address those situations, too. Some will be my own experiences and some will be others' experiences told in the first person as if they were my own. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: If you believe I am using your experience without permission, please inform me and I will edit or remove the post. If you have something against me and want to post claims either on here or in a different forum, do be warned that I am an attorney and can and will take legal action against you.
The book has chapters addressing cheating husbands and bad situations that women face in their committed relationships but is geared mainly toward single women like myself who are just dating, many of us against our will as we'd always dreamed of marrying the perfect man and having the proverbial two or three kids. As I scanned the topics, past the subtopics and little vignettes, I read as the author collectively scolded dating women. They wrote to him for advice and gave him their own naive assessments of their given situations only to have their misguided notions shot down.
My first glance at the book was painful to say the least, simply demoralizing. I experienced a moment of truth that made me want to hang my head down in shame. I felt as though Greg was yelling at me personally and snapped the book shut. I wanted to recoil on my bed if not out and out vomit because Behrendt's chapter by chapter dissection of men's dating behavior puts you face to face with the harsh, brutal reality - the real reason why the man who expressed how attracted he is to you is blowing you off, the awful truth that just can't be. That hot guy who said he likes you but isn't ready to commit is perfectly capable of having a relationship; he just doesn't want it with you.
But, he has absolutely no shame in behaving as though he does want just that with you - showering you with gifts, sweet talking you until you let down your guard. These intoxicating romantic gestures immediately precede him violently ripping from under you that carpet of Fairy Tale Prince Charming fantasy that children's books have ingrained in every little girl's brain. He's unexpectedly breaking up with you when you think he's about to propose or telling you he's busy when he really wants to get rid of you. Ouch!
And, what's worse - being as attractive as Cindy Crawford, who is mentioned in the book as having some dudes who don't know what the big deal is, doesn't immune you to a "He's Just Not That Into You" attack from some sadistic prick who will approach you, get you all excited, ask for your number, promise to call and then fail to. Nobody is immune! Not even the real hotties!
A few days after my discussion with the two married women about "He's Just Not That Into You," a fourth woman came down to visit our department. She had just been dumped by her long-term boyfriend who was now engaged to a younger woman he met six months earlier. As she toted her copy of the book and ran through the chapters in a way that told me she was becoming a Behrendt disciple, I gave her credit. She was brave to navigate that book from cover to cover considering what an emotionally excruciating, pride-crushing read it was albeit a fast, easy one. I told her I couldn't read it. It made me feel like an ass because truthfully I felt as though Greg Behrendt had written a partial dating biography of me.
"I know," she simply said, "You're supposed to feel stupid when you read it." Yeah. Stupid and unattractive. I had been a stumbling fool of a dater. Just a few short years earlier, I had a conversation with this same woman about a man I was crazy about who had stopped calling. We were meant for each other. I just knew it! Or so I had thought. I was completely smitten and counting our kids. She said she was sure he wanted to be with me but that he was probably just busy and "needed time." (Hold that thought. I promise you can exhale. I won't keep you forever like the men have kept me.)
The problem with the heterosexual dating franchise is that men control it. They're the ones who direct the course of the relationship no matter how advanced women are in the workforce or how independent we become. Women are limited to ending a relationship if they so choose or declining men's invitations for dates. But, the men initially take their pick and ask someone out. Men decide whether or not women get the commitment that they desire more than the men. Men don't have to worry about a biological clock. They can stall commitment well into ripe old age, make millions and find a twenty-year old bride. And when you give certain people just a little bit of that power like Mother Nature has given the men, things run amok.
If a woman takes the reins, she's desperate and needy. She's trying too hard, as my brother calls it. In fact, Southern United States culture forbids women to call men ever. But what if he never does call? Still. All the more you are forbidden to call. He has to call and whether or not he does is a crapshoot.
So, this is where the man can decide never to call at all or again. It's like a declined job offer. A rejection letter from an institution of higher learning. The only difference is that you're supposed to pick up on it by instinct. The guy won't send you a form letter for closure or more traditionally tell you outright that he doesn't want to see you anymore. You have to wait a few days to realize you aren't hearing from his fickle, false-promising ass. "Read the signs," they tell you. Sharpen your romantic defense reflexes, ladies. You're going to need them.
I thought I would be safe if I just let this book collect dust on my shelf until Oprah featured the author on her show. Her guests included typical single men discussing their dating habits. The most recent winning contestant on "The Apprentice" informed ladies in living room audiences around the world that if he were truly that into a girl he would "take her call before The Donald's." Aww, how sweet! Damn it! I should be that bitch. It was a general consensus among the men who appeared in the episode that Greg was 100% right in his assessments.
One man showed the audience numbers he saved on his cell phone. He had them carefully organized into classes based on how he ranked each woman who innocently gave his sweet-talking ass her number and waited in vain for his call. He categorized the group of women he was most attracted to as "The Dream Team." I guess you might be tempted to suggest that this is a guy who is just a commitment-phobe. Don't take it personal, ladies. Well, that guy will eventually commit, ladies. He just won't do it with you. Even if you do make the cut for his "Dream Team," you just might not be his dream girl - emphasis on singular. Close but no cigar!
When the movie came out, it was perfect timing for me. It had been about two years since the end of my last relationship (I dumped him), and I had built up an impressive resume of countless unsuccessful dates and promised phone calls from guys who never made them, as well as a list of men who were "that into (me)" who I myself had rejected in various ways. I saw the movie several times in the theater and bought the DVD. I just couldn't stop laughing, the comic relief being my ability to relate to almost every scenario, except for the one with Scarlett Johansson's character having an affair with a married man, a practice that Greg cites as the one dating mistake women should promise themselves never to make. I've been good about that one, thanks in part to a Catholic education. The threat of eternal damnation would render me averse to adultery.
The humor I found in the movie made me more inclined to pick up the book again with a new perspective. Greg doesn't just scold you. He gives you words of encouragement. He wakes you up so you won't waste your time pining for a guy who isn't treating you the way a guy should. His advice empowers you so you won't continue to chase a guy who is blowing you off and feed his undeserving inflated ego. It's painful at first when you read it and feel as though your dating life is embarrassingly playing before your eyes, but it settles like the unpleasant dose of medicine your mother gave you as a child. It's bitter and sour, but it will make you get better.
The only question left unanswered by the book is why some men behave so egregiously and waste everyone's time. They should clean up their act. And that's what this blog is all about - the rude dating decisions men make to the detriment of women. Yes, women do it, too. I have been guilty of some of this behavior toward men. I am not proud to admit it. This blog will address those situations, too. Some will be my own experiences and some will be others' experiences told in the first person as if they were my own. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: If you believe I am using your experience without permission, please inform me and I will edit or remove the post. If you have something against me and want to post claims either on here or in a different forum, do be warned that I am an attorney and can and will take legal action against you.
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