Part 13 (2/2)

Aah, nothing like being a chick. The respect we get is overwhelming. Every day is a brand-new ride on the Misogyny Train.

Construction workers think comments like, ”Ooh, Mommy. Nice t.i.tties,” might actually make us want to go out with them.

Mechanics, male doctors, and salesmen talk to us as if we have Down's syndrome.

Politicians-most of whom will never know what it's like to bleed through their maxi pad while sitting on a white futon-or to beg for an epidural-believe they know best about what we should be allowed to do with our reproductive organs.

And then, of course, there is the unending a.s.sortment of a.s.s pinchers, skirt chasers, obscene phone callers, heavy breathers, wolf whistlers, t.i.t grabbers, droolers, gropers, stalkers, flashers, h.o.m.ophobes, voyeurs, players, and aspiring date rapists.

How can hip chicks defend ourselves against this daily onslaught of insult, discrimination, and hara.s.sment?

Whining ain't an option. Nor is cowering. Though we've gotta choose our battles, taking a stand is far better than taking it lying down.

Of course, thanks to all the unsung heroines before us, if someone treats us badly just because we have b.o.o.bs, we can now seek retribution through one of America's favorite pastimes: suing. But court cases are all-consuming. Plus, they're not always a realistic option. I mean, what are we going to do about the dumb-a.s.s who hangs around the parking lot of the Food Lion, shouting, ”Hey, Girls! Wanna check out my hard drive?” Subpoena him? I mean, really.

For that matter, can we really sue the American Standard, Rush Limbaugh, the Heritage Foundation, Focus on the Family, and the Christian Coalition for s.e.xual hara.s.sment solely on the basis of the policies they endorse? (Well, now, actually, there's an idea.) Besides, there's something bloodless about signing an affidavit. If a guy hogs the armrest on an airplane and ”accidentally” lets his fingers brush over our thigh, it's just more satisfying to hit him in the ribs with an umbrella than with a court order. (Just like battered women feel safer clobbering their abuser with a baseball bat instead of a restraining order.) So, frankly, when it comes to dealing with lunatics, perverts, and right-wing Republicans, I'd like to see us divas get a little more creative, irreverent, and radical. Guys dis women because they think they can get away with it. They don't really expect us to fight back. So why not give them a taste of their own rotten medicine? Why not turn the tables on Men Who Behave Badly by taking the things we know freak them out and using them to, well, freak them out? Why not hara.s.s our hara.s.sers, dis our dissers, and wield a little pootie power over the politicians?

Certainly, we've got the element of surprise working in our favor.

Sure, it's unorthodox. And, yes, it may be a bit risky. Certainly, if an attack on us is physical, it's a whole other ball game. But if a guy is simply a nuisance, not a psychopath-a pest but not a stalker-offensive but not threatening-then maybe we can use some of our humor, guts, and imagination to pioneer a whole new SmartMouth G.o.ddess approach to social and political self-defense. We could give the morons a run for their mommies.

1. Hara.s.sing our hara.s.sers. There can be enormous power and satisfaction to be gained by making hara.s.sers start to wonder just who the h.e.l.l they're dealing with.

Several years ago, I met a great guy on an airplane. We hit it off right away and talked for the entire eight-hour flight. We shared a cab from the airport and exchanged phone numbers. Two days later, he called me for a date.

At 5:30 in the morning.

”Are you up yet, Susie?” he shouted into my answering machine. ”Are you awake? Why aren't you talking to me, Susie?”

Needless to say, this totally creeped me out. Of course, I refused to call him back. Don't encourage him, I told myself.

But two days later, he called again-this time at 5:15. And at 5:40. And again at 6:07. ”Susie, why aren't you listening to me? Susie, I need you to be there, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!” he shouted.

After I unplugged my phone in a panic and arranged to get an unlisted number, I lived in a state of anxiety for a week: After all, the guy knew where I lived.

But eventually my fear grew into fury. Why should I be the one losing sleep? I thought. Why should I be staying at a friend's house and peering over my shoulder whenever I picked up my mail?

And so I called him back and confronted him.

At 4:30 in the morning.

”Are you up yet?” I screamed. ”How dare you call me at five A.M? Don't you have any G.o.dd.a.m.n manners? No one is to treat me that way, do you understand? What the h.e.l.l is your problem?”

Oh, I went on the warpath. For twenty minutes I ranted and raved. I was the Medea of MCI; I made Joan Crawford look like Mommie Teresa. I was vicious; I was hysterical. I was a lunatic.

And lemme tell you, Girls, I was the bomb. Because I scared the living s.h.i.+t out of him.

”Please calm down,” he begged. ”Please don't freak out.”

Poor guy. Whatever psychodrama he'd been dreaming up, it certainly hadn't occurred to him that I might want to audition for the psycho role.

Of course, I never heard from him again-despite the fact that Bell Atlantic sure took its sweet time changing my number.

For all their bravado, almost nothing terrifies guys more than being yelled at by a hysterical woman. They'll do almost anything to avoid having us go ballistic. As soon as they even see us starting to steam, they back off like maniacs: ”Okay, just calm down. Calm down, Lady. Don't get all bent out of shape here.”

In their minds, really, we're all just a few steps away from turning into that bunny-cooker in Fatal Attraction.

So there's something to be said for exploiting this, for fighting crazies with craziness, lunatics with lunacy.

Sure, we gotta be real careful. Some situations are riskier than this one. And if there's already legal action involved, we probably don't want to go on the record screaming like a banshee on some moron's voice mail or getting in his face in front of an eyewitness.

But we got options, Goils, and they're not just victim or plaintiff. We can be as whack as the best of them. As Hunter S. Thompson said, ”When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

2. Don't say ”no.” Say ”commitment.” G.o.ddess only knows why, but after seven thousand years of ”known” civilization, guys still seem to have trouble understanding the word ”no.” The word doesn't seem to have been downloaded into their thesauruses correctly. Say the word ”no” to a guy, and half the time he thinks we're saying ”maybe.” Or, ”try harder.” Or, ”not at this very moment, but check again in five minutes.”

Luckily, there is one word that's like Guy Kryptonite. One word that makes even the pus.h.i.+est, most persistent player cool down faster than a can of microwaved Beef-a-Roni.

That word is ”commitment.”

If some bozo keeps. .h.i.tting on us-even after we've told him we're not interested-maybe we should say, ”Okay. You wanna hook up with me? How about going shopping for china patterns next weekend and meeting my parents?” We should tell him that nothing turns us on more than a monogamous relations.h.i.+p in which we talk about our feelings with a guy-and he talks to us about his. We should mention the words ”expectation” and ”emotional needs” a lot. Or tell him how we like to page our man six or seven times each day just to ask, ”Honey, what are you thinking?”

For extra protection, maybe we should carry a copy of Modern Bride magazine with us at all times. Consider it the anti-condom. If things with a date start getting out of hand, we can grab the magazine and wave it in front of him shouting, ”Marriage! Commitment! Intimacy!”

The guy should be up and running so quickly, the door won't have time to hit him on the a.s.s.

3. Sarcasm is a girl's best friend. Need to cool off a co-worker who's hot under the collar? An ounce of withering sarcasm could save us a bundle in legal bills and headaches: ”Oh, my G.o.d, Jake, I had no idea you were trying out for the s.e.xual-hara.s.sment Olympics! How ambitious of you! Tell me: Are you trying for a real live lawsuit, or do you just want to create a really uncomfortable work situation that will make both of us miserable and might get you fired?”

4. Every ”Cupcake” deserves a ”Snook.u.ms.” If someone calls us ”Honey,” ”Babe,” or ”Sweetheart,” why not respond in kind? Say, ”Yes, p.o.o.psie,” ”Sure thing, my little Chou Fleur” (French for ”cauliflower,” if they care), ”Anything you say, my little fuzzy-wuzzy wumpkin.”

If they get annoyed, we can explain that since they called us ”Honey,” we just a.s.sumed that using unprofessional, cutesy, belittling nicknames was their policy-and, hey, we are nothing if not team players, okay?

5. Calling the catcallers on it. When you're a girl growing up in this day and age, you learn pretty quickly that the only people besides your relatives who feel compelled to make unsolicited comments about your body are construction workers. And guys hanging out on the stoop. And truck drivers stuck at red lights. And men on subway platforms. And guys in pinstripe suits eating lunch around the fountains in midtown. And cops dunking donuts. And homeless men. And teenage boys waiting on line at the movie theater. And, oh, yeah, just about everybody else with a p.e.n.i.s.

You learn pretty quickly that to be a female between twelve and fifty means the male world generally regards you as a deaf beauty contestant-in a pageant in which every single one of them, of course, is wholly qualified to be a judge.

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