Category: Inside Lane

Every time I walk into a convenience store for morning coffee, usually while I am filling up my gas tank, I have to make a decision.  Am I going to smile at the people in the store, whereupon at least one man will take this as an invitation and hit on me, or am I going to walk in with Resting Bitchface, leave my sunglasses on, and have at least one man tell me to smile so that I will be worthy of his hitting on me.  There is a third choice, and that’s to smile only at the women, children, and guy behind the register, but that seems rude.  That is rude.  So is Resting Bitchface, and I’m a smiler by nature, so…

I go to the McDonald’s drive-thru for coffee, even though it would be more convenient to just walk into the Qwickee Mart, or whatever.  At the McDonald’s drive-thru no one is going to appraise my backside, murmur about what they’d like to do to it, or try to brush up against me when I bend over to get one of those amazing cheese and berry pastries from the bottom shelf.  Do you realize that men bend over, but women crouch?  Isn’t it funny that my mother specifically taught me how to lower myself to the ground so that strange men would not stop and stare at my rear end?  I should be able to bend over to get that pastry because one of these days my knee is going to give out when I crouch down, and then someone is going to have to haul me off the floor.  I guess that’s another choice I make:  Excrutiating knee pain, or let Joe Jerkoff get a good look at what my gluts look like when stretched out.

The sad thing is that I never really thought about it much until recently.  It was just what I did.  I don’t want to be hit on because I don’t want to have to deflect unwanted advances because there is always the threat of so much vitriol even when I am as polite, pleasant, and sweet as possible.  I do all I can to avoid looking–I was going to say available, but I wear a wedding ring, so my availability is right there in your face.  Don’t get me started on the times it’s happened with my child right beside me.  No, I do all I can to avoid being visible.  I treat convenience store strangers like they are all ravenous bugblatter beasts of Traal.  

No one cares.

Because the stranger didn’t really hurt me, or anything.  He could have, sure, but he didn’t.  He was just rude, or lewd.  That’s just bad manners.  It doesn’t hurt anything.

It doesn’t hurt anything.

It just makes me clench up my colon like I’m trying to turn coal into diamonds every time I stop to fill up for gas, and the man on the other side of the tank starts trying to catch my eye.  That’s all.  That doesn’t really hurt.

Tonight, a little girl I’ve known since she was just a wee speck shared how, now that she is a grown woman, men are making her hate her job because they are being rude and lewd, and I started thinking about convenience stores.  I started thinking about how angry I would be to see someone putting two fingers up to his lips and thrusting his tongue through them at her.  

I started thinking about how I hunch my shoulders over to hide my breasts, how I leave my sunglasses on to avoid eye contact, how I rush quickly and dodge, bob and weave down aisles to avoid strange men, and how every convenience store visit means stress for me because I don’t want to be rude, because I love being friendly, because I’m worried that I’ll hurt someone’s feelings, because I don’t want to be cold to a nice person on the off chance that he’s a troll, because I’m supposed to be flattered, because I’m supposed to take a joke, because I’m supposed to be above that, because I’m supposed to take the high road and just ignore the jerk, because I’m supposed to be responsible for making sure the man advancing on me walks away feeling good about himself.  And I became very angry.

And sad.  Because I don’t know how to fix it.  All I can do is try to raise something better than the most recent waste of flesh who flicked his tongue at me while I tried to pick a creamer for my coffee.

And keep going to the drive thru.

Through the magic of the internet, cell phones, and a bluetooth keyboard, I come to you from the playground, where my son’s class is having their year end party.  Getting to watch him respond to peer pressure is a rare treat, as it is working in my favor right now.  In another eight years?  I hope it’s still in my favor.

It is hot as an oven out here, and humid too.

When we got in the car today, I handed over my cell phone,queued up to a news story about a man who has attempted two kidnappings in a nearby city.   He is telling children that their mother is hurt, and he needs to take them to her.  Doesn’t seem to be gender picky–he just wants a kid.

I wanted Thor to read the story, rather than just relating it to him a) because I think when we read something, we retain it longer, b) the story gave a description of the man, c) it would hold more weight than just having Mom say so, and d) I want him to get used to reading the news.  He took it with a solemn understanding, and we discussed it, and went over other things a stranger might say to entice a child into a car, or down an alley, or into a house. 

It really horrifies me to think about a child falling prey to that trick.  Worried his mom is hurt, only to find that it’s not his mom he needed to worry about. And then, his mom…  I would lose my mind.  It wouldn’t be worth keeping.

I say that.  I would keep my mind and I would use it to become a vigilante.

Lots of little people running around me out here. I’m trying not to think about statistical probabilities, and which pair of neon sneakers, and which hair bow represents what. 

I think I read too much news.

I passed my Series 6 exam, and am now studying for my 63.  I take the test on Thursday, and have until then to worry about whether, or not I am actually retaining the knowledge I have repeatedly drilled into my brain, or if my brain is actually leaking out my ear–because that’s what it feels like.

Under the Uniform Securities Act, there is this character called The Administrator.  The Administrator is the boss of you, if you are a registered agent, investment advisory rep, or firm.  As such, The Administrator is always capitalized in the texts I’m reading.  I keep seeing him as Morpheus.

“The Administrator neither approves, nor disapproves the registration of any security. He either grants, or denies the registration.”

Up until last week, I thought that approving something, and granting something status were the same thing. Hahaha!  Silly, simple me.  I also thought that I understood the difference between something being unethical, and something being fraudulent.

Each state has its own The Administrator, and sometimes more than one The Administrator has jurisdiction over an issue.  In that way, The Administrator is more of an Agent Smith.  But since where you answer the phone determines which one of him owns you, he is again like Morpheus.

You know who I am like?  What was the name of the terrible traitor guy, who just wanted to eat steak?  Him.  That’s me.

But I’ll keep reading, and I’ll keep plugging away, and I’ll hope it’s enough.

Looks like I am going to be doing some illustrating soon.  Isn’t that the great thing about life?  You can find ways to do all kinds of things you love to do, and if you can’t find a way via tried and true methods, you can make your own.

To that end, I am practicing my birds.  I have chosen to work with plump, cheerful, brightly colored Fairy Wrens.  How can you not love a bird that is shaped like a scoop of ice cream?

I love round birds.

I do wish I had really learned to draw and paint properly.  I do all right for someone whose entire art education was the elementary school art class.  In 3rd grade, or so, a girl who was very good at drawing horses drew one for me. I traced that horse over and over again.  I traced that horse until I could draw that horse.  Then, I put a horn on his head, and expanded my repetoire to unicorns.

I’ve applied the tracing to just about everything in my life. That and the lesson I learned from monkey bars.  If you keep trying to get across them, eventually you will a) build the strength to make it all the way, b) build up the callouses required to really have fun playing on them, and c) be able to help someone else learn. 

Unless you’re trying to do/get something immoral, or illegal, never give up. Keep tracing that horse.  Keep swinging across those bars, even if you do fall on your face a lot.

If you need me, I’ll be looking at pictures of birds.  And the landscapes they live in.  Sadly, you can’t just draw the bird.