Within mere hours of posting Bringing Unsexy Back, my mailbox was inundated with people offering words of comfort about how it was only a matter of time before I “get my groove back.” Fresh on the heels of my realization that I’m prone to unintentional rudeness, I made every reasonable effort to be polite to these well-meaning dudes, several of whom mistook my humor as lamentation.
The following night I was shooting a show. I got into a conversation with some of the other bands on the bill and handed out business cards for my photography (featuring megababe Scarlett Storm). One guy looks down at the picture and goes, “Is this you?”
I get that at some point all tattooed girls with dyed hair look the same but really? I’ve got 8″ and 80 pounds on Scarlett. I could wear her around town like Master Blaster (in fact I’m gonna suggest that to her).
So I was like LET ME TELL YOU A STORY ABOUT MY DAD.
You’re probably expecting a non sequitur, but my own father has been tripped up by the above scenario as well (at least the model in my previous business card had *ahem* similar proportions to me, and was before my more visible tattoos). I awarded myself congratulatory points and a PBR pounder for scything through a man’s flirtation attempts with an uncomfortable anecdote about the paterfamilias.
Another guy struck up a conversation about hockey, only to spot Brian nearby and blanch with alarm. “Are you with him?”
Can we not talk about hockey anymore if I am? Because the Devils had an ugly year and I have a lot of feelings.
At another concert while paying my bar tab, some dad-type sidles (yes, sidles) up beside me and announces, “You did good out there.” I was confused because I hadn’t done anything but stand around being one of ten women at a Mudhoney show in this, the year of our lord 2015. At my visible confusion he added, “I was watching you from the balcony. You did good.”
Swallowing my bile at the notion of being watched (note to men: try “I saw you,” because it sounds much less frightening than “I was watching you.” You’re not Sting.), I managed, “At what?”
Annoyed that I didn’t immediately moisten at his obvious and magnanimous compliment, he sneers (yes, sneers), “Whatever. This ain’t my first rodeo.” I am still confused by the entire exchange.
Then there was that time at the local Starbucks, where one of the nice young baristas with whom I share friendly conversation goes, “I haven’t seen you in awhile.”
With Bond-esque sesnsual savvy, I replied, “Oh I’ve been here, you just haven’t seen me!”
Make my coffee please, gentleman, that I might return to the bushes outside where I apparently spend all my time creeper lurking. Observe my sexual tour de force.
And a stranger call me sexy on tumblr–finally, an opportunity to comically shut down men from the comfort of my own home via the internet! My bitch face refuses to rest, folks, whether you can see it or not.