the bottom line is that women by and large get objectified

True dat.

it still ain't right. They're the broken ones. We have to live with it. And that shit stinks.

True dat way more.

Yep. One day, some poor schmuck is going to tell me to smile at exactly the wrong moment, and my reaction is not going to be pretty, my friends.

I've stopped carrying a weapon-knife--as opposed to a tool-knife--but I have the pistol, and concealed weapons permits are considered almost as essential as a drivers license in Utah. But I don't want to be one of those people (and my Sig would be very heavy in my purse). An extendable baton, now, that could be useful. Don't come at the woman who learned how to throw a blow with a club-shaped weapon in the SCA, bro, she'll break your skull open.

I've got a neighbor down the street who thinks it's cute to sing "Sara Smile" at me every. time. I walk by. I haven't snapped yet.

egad Sophia, what horrid people! I don't get it.

I will be happy to throw Isaac's party for him. Assuming it's more of a beer party.

Sorry to take so long to get back to you, but this kids commandeered my computer all day and this is the first time I've gotten online. Hilarious Jesse. I gotta rule out beer for the 7 yo, but maybe for the parents, maybe. Except I think I've decided to have the party at a park, for my ease.

Kat, if your Cake Bible needs a good home, let me know. Although in my heart of heart, you are a better mom to a cake book than I am.

Being a fat guy is one of the few ways to get a taste of what women go through. Just a taste, not one thousandth of the full impact. But 18 to 20 something young men, shout from a passing car "Is this he first time you've been pregnant?". Or, a group of young men on the sidewalk, with one of them commenting mockingly, "Just because he's to big for his clothes does not make him a baaad person". It is a real temptation to stumble into someone who makes a comment, knock him to the ground and apologize "So sorry, you know how clumsy fat people are". But not a good idea, so I don't.

it still ain't right. They're the broken ones. We have to live with it. And that shit stinks.

One of the odd perks about the way I dress is that I don't get a lot of catcalls. Confused looks, yes. Smiles, yes. But for the most part, the types of guys who catcall women are very perplexed by me.

I'd take martial arts training and a concealed carry permit to handle this shit myself.

I don't use hatpins to secure my hats just because they're pretty antiques.

Jilli, don't forget whiplash on the part of visiting dignitaries driving by in limousines.

it still ain't right. They're the broken ones. We have to live with it. And that shit stinks.

No shit.

And there's no right response, anyway. If I were to smile and nod at a Scary McRaperson, then later when they did rape me, in court I'd have to defend my actions, when they said I was asking for it.

It doesn't happen much out here, thankfully. Possibly because most of the women are armed. I mean, most of everybody is packing. More likely it's because there are far fewer pedestrians.

Which Sig Sauer do you have, Connie?

Sophia, I'm sorry. Maybe that corner has an Asshole Curse on it.

I don't think I was fat to be blinvisible to sexual harassment; I think I was just unhappy in general.

I'm not a very modest person, and in the heat of the summer, I wear lots of little tanks and breezy or think skirt, but I don't get cat-called a lot. I get eyeballed, but not cat-called a lot. But then, KC is mostly a driving town, and I live in a quiet neighborhood.

Every woman's dealt with it, though, and I think I have a pretty good take on when someone's trying awkwardly to deliver an "I think yer purty, hur" and something more skin-crawly.

I don't know if it's the way I hold myself or look at people or what, but I just don't get a lot of harassment. But I DO carry two weapons in my purse at all times (thanks, ita ! for passing on that trick with the beer bottle opener and its Pointy End of Death), neither of which is a gun, and one is in my pocket and another in my hand before I walk out the door of a place in a sketch neighborhood.

I don't think D would mind if we had a gun, with the proper accoutrements, but not while M is in the house. And frankly, ours is a low-crime hood, and the house is full of fucking weapons anyway.

There was a rash of burglaries last fall, and Dan was a little worried, because I work from home, and I was just all "Um. No. I am SO not worried." The doors are always locked, we have a barky (not so much bitey, but VERY barky) dog, and I have faced down a tweaking mugger/rapist in my own own before.

Any dumbass trying to rip off our nice little suburban house while I'm in it will either (A) leave very, very fast or (B) leave me a terrible mess to clean up after the cops take him/her away.

I WOULD like to go to a shooting range and learn how to fire a handgun, though. And clean and load it, all the practical stuff. But hell, the whole house is full of weapons. I'll just throw chairs and pottery and books at someone until I can get to the pickax in the front closet or all the knives in the kitchen.

Thinking about what I might have otherwise done back in 1996 has at the least left me with the ability to assess whatever is around me at all times and to plan for various routes of escape.

Oh, what cheerful, up at 6 in the am on Sunday morning thoughts. At least there's a purring kitty on my lap.