Your One Stop Procrastination Shop
Good news everyone!
Chapter seven of The Boss is up! It’s available here.
Additional news, everyone!
There is a blog called Stories About Prince, in which a first-person narrator delivers handwritten retellings of fictional encounters with the popstar Prince. It is the greatest RPF on the internet. I honestly don’t think anyone will ever top it, in terms of sheer amazingness. So, you know, read The Boss today, but also go check out Stories About Prince.
In every generation there is a chosen one. She alone will chip all her nail polish off instead of using polish remover like a goddamn adult. She will also recap every episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer with an eye to the following themes:
WARNING: Some people have mentioned they’re watching along with me, and that’s awesome, but I’ve seen the entire series already and I’ll probably mention things that happen in later seasons. So… you know, take that under consideration, if you’re a person who can’t enjoy something if you know future details about it.
So, before we begin the recap of “Teacher’s Pet,” we need to talk about something I found on YouTube:
“Don’t be sorry. Be smart.”
It is literally the most encouragement she’s gotten from an adult in the entire series so far, so obviously the teacher is brutally decapitated by a monster the moment Buffy leaves the science lab:
“Work with me here. Blaine had the nerve to question my manliness, I’m just gonna give him a visual.”
Then he does this:
Buffy: “That’s all cryptic guy said, fork guy.”
Giles: “I think there are too many guys in your life.”
Then he laughs off his own remark. Because #2.
After Giles complains about how SUNNY it is in SUNNYdale (come on, bro, it’s in the name, you had to be somewhat prepared for this), he leaves, and Xander comes up to tell Buffy and Willow that the science teacher is out for the day. Actually, they said he was missing, but Xander admits to being distracted by cheerleaders in short skirts when he heard the whole story. He is totally not concerned with the idea of a missing person in Sunnydale, which he now knows is populated with oogly booglies. Because he grew up in Sunnydale, and #8.
To his credit, Xander does apologize for being so callous when Willow points out that the science teacher is the only member of the Sunnydale high faculty who doesn’t think Buffy is a total fuck up. But all that gets somewhat tossed aside when Xander sees the new substitute:
She comes over and asks Xander to help her find the science room. But Blaine the uber-douche from The Bronze swoops in and escorts her, instead, while bragging about his amazing football victories and shit.
Hey, this series has a really dim view of sports, doesn’t it? We never see anyone on Buffy competing in a sport in a positive way, do we? We see the witch cheerleader, the Frankenstein football player, bodies fall out of lockers in the locker rooms… HEY! This show is anti-sport! We have a #11!
On her way into the science lab, Buffy finds the old science teacher’s broken glasses lying on the floor. Remember now, this is a missing person case. The last place this guy was seen was in this classroom. No one thought to come there to look for him? And when they did, they didn’t see these glasses on the floor? They are quite literally two steps inside the door. Are people just not seeing them? Or is this the kind of world we’re living in (sixteen years ago), that people won’t pick up a pair of glasses someone dropped on the floor? I guess the economy was so good during the Clinton years that eyeglasses were free or some shit.
We’re about to get to the part where I tell you why this is one of my least favorite episodes of Buffy. You know how when you’re watching something, and the show is making you think that a certain thing is going to happen, or a certain character is evil, and it’s so telegraphed that you know for sure that it’s a red herring? This is not like that. The big plot “twist” is so obvious that it’s infuriating. You know from the moment Miss French arrives that, oh, hey, the new substitute is the villain, and she’s probably the big bug monster thing that decapitated the science teacher.
Let’s examine the facts about Ms. French:
“Yes, yes, she’s lovely. In a common, extremely well-proportioned way.”
“Factoid one: only the praying mantis can rotate its head like that. Factoid two: a pretty whacked-out vampire is scared to death of her. Factoid three: her fashion sense screams predator.”
First of all, Buffy, I already did the “fact” thing up there. Stop stealing my lines sixteen years ago. Second, those aren’t even the most obvious reasons. The most obvious reason she’s a mantis is that she’s MAKING EGG SACS AND SOMEBODY’S HEAD IS GONE. They find out that Blaine’s mom has called the police over his disappearance. Buffy tells Willow to check the coroner’s autopsy report on the science teacher. I guess Sunnydale is so used to violent crime that their coroner’s office is like an assembly line or something. Not that the science teacher’s autopsy would be that difficult. “Cause of death: head is fucking gone.”
Giles goes to call his colleague, the bug man, but first he asks the girls if their computer search of the coroner’s files is legal. They assure him it is, but he tells them:
“Right. Wasn’t here, didn’t see it, couldn’t have stopped you.”
Now you’re getting it, dude.
Buffy hunts down Xander and warns him about Ms. French being a bug lady, but Xander isn’t hearing any of it. He accuses Buffy of being jealous because he’s not into her anymore. Normally, I would say this is proof of #5, but Buffy explains that Xander is under the influence of pheromones that the buglady is making to mess with him, so I’ll give him a pass.
Over at maison du mantis, Ms. French is preparing cocktails and is about to answer the door looking like this:
“Your hands are really… serrated.”
“Remember Dr. Gregory? You scarfed his head? Yeah, well, he taught me, you do your homework, you learn stuff. Like what happens to your nervous system when you hear this – “
And then she hits the button on the tape recorder and it’s Giles’s voice babbling about the importance of alphabetical filing. And Buffy is all:
A few days ago, I was talking to my sister-in-law, Katie, about how I felt a little weird putting a donate button on the blog (I know that one of my promises was that I wouldn’t mention it all the time, but trust me, this ties into the whole post overall), because it’s not how I’m used to making money from my writing. I’m used to writing something, giving it to someone else, they publish it, readers give them money, and then the publisher gives me a check for my cut. Giving people the option to give me money directly seemed dishonest, somehow. Like I was panhandling, or double dipping.
My sister-in-law’s response? She sent me this video, via facebook:
That’s What I’m Talking About is hosting a special edition of their The Boss read-a-long today to cover chapters 5 and 6. Stop in and say hi!
We talk about the Fox serial killer drama, The Following. And we stay SO on topic, I think we deserve an award.
Chapters five and six of The Boss kick off the new once-a-week release schedule. Except this week, you get two chapters.
No links this week, let’s just get into this depressing train wreck, shall we?
If you’d been missing descriptions of how insufferably close these two idiots sleep, well, you’re in luck:
When I wake before the alarm the following morning, Christian is wrapped around me like ivy, his head on my chest, his arm around my waist, and his leg between mine.
So, if you had “ivy” in the “repetitive descriptions” pool, congratulations, you have to take a shot.
Oh, Fifty. He is so needy on some level.
Excuse me, on some level? Have you even met this person, Ana? This is the guy who, a few short months ago, wanted to control what you ate and wore.
Christian gets up for his shower, and they flirt, and it’s just as obnoxious as every other time they flirt. Of course they call each other Mr. and Mrs. Grey, and it’s just as clever this time as the forty-three-thousand, two-hundred and fifteen times they’ve done it before. Then they have to have sex instead of him going to the shower, because this is an erotic novel:
I squeal, and he crawls up my body, trailing little kisses on my knee, my thigh… my… oh… Christian!
“Good morning, Mrs. Grey,” Mrs. Jones greets me. I flush, embarrassed, remembering her tryst with Taylor the night before.
Tryst? Is that the word we’re going with here? It seems kind of strong for a kiss in a room with an open door, but whatever. Let’s roll.
I sit on the barstool beside my husband, who just looks radiant: freshly showered, his hair damp, wearing a crisp white shirt and that silver-gray tie. My favorite tie. I have fond memories of that tie.
So do I, Ana.
I stop, because Christian is grinning at me. “What?” I snap.
“Nothing. Just you,” he says.
This dude can eat a whole bag of extra salty unwashed dicks.
Ana asks Christian if he’s going to fly Charlie Tango to New York. Yes, Ana. He’s going to fly a fucking helicopter cross country. I know next to nothing about air traffic vehicles, and even I thought, “What are you, some kind of dumb ass?” when I read that question. Christian explains that the helicopter doesn’t have that kind of range, and besides, it won’t be fixed for another two weeks.
Hang on. The helicopter accident happened… at least three months ago, right? It’s hard to keep the crazy stupid timeline straight. At one point, I thought they’d said the helicopter was a loss. Even if they didn’t, that’s a long ass time to be working on repairing something. Why not just buy a new one, at that point? Did he lose his virginity in this helicopter or something? Is that why it has to be this specific one?
My smile is partly from relief, but also the knowledge that the demise of Charlie Tango has occupied a great deal of Christian’s thoughts and time over the last few weeks.
Except we’re only going to bring it up just now, near page two hundred. That’s how much it’s worried him.
Ana reminds him that the last time he flew his helicopter, they all thought he was dead. To reassure her, Christian says:
“Five people have been fired because of that, Ana. It won’t happen again.”
I love that E.L. James seems to think that a good business strategy for success is to fire everyone, all the time. Christian is always talking about people he’s going to fire, or how their jobs are on the line if this or that doesn’t happen. And in this case, it’s especially laughable because 1) the accident with Charlie Tango was due to sabotage and 2) as the pilot, it was his fault, for not doing a pre-flight check. He doesn’t do pre-flight checks, we’ve already seen that in the first book. Someone does those pre-flight checks before he arrives, then he hops in and flies. For all we know, the proper checks were done, but someone got in between that check and his arrival time. But sure, fire everyone for your mistake, because that’s how business works.
Oh shit, that really is how business works.
Whatever, I still hate this fucking guy.
Ana brings up the subject of the gun in his desk. Brace yourself for the bull shittery that results:
“It’s Leila’s,” he says finally.
“It’s fully loaded.”
“How do you know?” His frown deepens.
“I checked it yesterday.”
He scowls at me. “I don’t want you messing with guns. I hope you put the safety back on.”
I blink at him, momentarily stupefied. “Christian, there’s no safety on that revolver. Don’t you know anything about guns?”
His eyes widen. “Um… no.”
He probably knows about as much as E.L., but here, this is at least plausible. While there are some revolvers available commercially that have safety mechanisms, it’s a largely redundant feature on a firearm that has to be cocked or, in the case of a double action revolver, requires a significant amount of force to squeeze the trigger.
But look at this jackass. He has a gun. In his desk. Fully loaded. He doesn’t know how to use it. He didn’t even know if there was a safety or not. But Ana should not have been messing with guns, because her tiny, vulnerable female brain is clearly unable to comprehend the danger of them.
He has Leila’s gun. I am stunned by this news and briefly wonder what’s happened to her. Is she still in – where is it? East somewhere. New Hampshire? I can’t remember.
Um, that would be a pretty fucking important detail to me, if someone had broken into my house and tried to kill me. I wouldn’t obsess every second over them, but having an idea if they were still, you know, incarcerated or whatever, would be nice.
Then Taylor comes in, and Ana gets squirrelly about the fact Taylor saw her in stockings and a men’s shirt the night before. Because Taylor doesn’t have a Tumblr account. No, seriously about 98.4% of all pictures on Tumblr are women wearing black stockings and men’s dress shirts. It’s not a big deal.
“I am just going to brush my teeth,” I mutter. Christian always brushes his teeth before breakfast. I don’t understand why.
I don’t understand why that was the hook to end on before a section break, but who the fuck cares because at this point, 50 Shades the series is as unsalvageable as Charlie Tango should have been.
“You should ask Taylor to teach you how to shoot,” I say as we travel down in the elevator.
“You should ask Taylor to teach you how to shoot you.” There, fixed it for you, E.L. No need to thank me.
“Ana, I despise guns. My mom has patched up too many victims of gun crime, and my dad is vehemently antigun. I grew up with their ethos. I support at least two gun control initiatives here in Washington.”
Without knowing anything about guns? SMART. You should definitely be involved in the lawmaking process regarding them. But more importantly, I’m glad your “vehemently antigun” parents instilled in you a sense of moral outrage over that and not, you know, ABUSING WOMEN.
“Oh. Does Taylor carry a gun?”
Christian’s mouth thins.
“Sometimes.”
“You don’t approve?” I ask, as Christian ushers me out of the elevator on the ground floor.
“No,” he says, tight-lipped. “Let’s just say that Taylor and I hold very different views with regard to gun control.” I’m with Taylor on this.
I love it. “Guns? Me? Oh, no, no, no. I’m very antigun. Unless it comes to my bodyguard. I act like it’s out of my hands that he carries, but let’s be honest, I fire people for shit they can’t control all the time. What I’m saying here is, ‘No one can be protected by guns… except me. Because I’m important.'”
In the last recap, I had someone leave a comment that they can’t follow my blog anymore because of my stance on guns. Which I find hilarious because a) I’ve made public my support for stricter gun laws (you know, that whole “well regulated” part of the 2nd Amendment), and b) I’m pretty moderate on the issue, which means that while I’m used to people getting pissed at me, I can never tell why they’re pissed at me on this one. For all I know, that person stopped reading the blog because I didn’t include an animated .gif of myself shooting two pistols into the sky, Yosemite Sam style. But no matter where you stand on the issue, I think we all have to agree that it’s fucking useless to hire a team of bodyguards to protect you from someone who is trying to kill you and then ask them to do it without using guns. On top of that, it’s hypocritical in the extreme to back anti-gun measures, but pay someone to protect you with guns.
I don’t know why I’m so shocked at Chedward’s open hypocrisy here. I think I occasionally black out and forget what book I’m recapping, because nothing important has been consistent in these books, anyway.
Ana asks him one more time to learn how to shoot, and he tells her:
“No. End of discussion, Anastasia.”
So… let me get this straight. Chedward isn’t going to learn anything about the fully loaded gun he has in his desk drawer?
“Yes, I checked. She’s enrolled in an art school in Hamden. She started this week.”
So, obviously, Ana’s first thought should be, “WTF WHY IS SHE AT AN ART SCHOOL SHE TRIED TO MURDER ME LIKE A FEW MONTHS AGO, DUDE.”
Nope. Not our Ana. Not our “bright” “intelligent” “brilliant” Ana:
“You’ve spoken to her,” I whisper, all the blood draining from my face.
No, Ana, the reason all the blood should be draining from your face is that the woman who was so mentally broken just a few months ago that she came to your apartment with a gun is now just flitting around free as a bird because your husband didn’t want to call the police on his ex-girlfriend.
Christian continues, “I’m keeping tabs on her, checking that she stays on her side of the continent. She’s better, Ana. Flynn has referred her to a shrink in New Haven, and all the reports are very positive. She’s always been interested in art, so…” He stops, his face still searching mine. And in that moment I suspect that he is paying for her art classes. Do I want to know? Should I ask him? I mean, it’s not as if he can’t afford it, but why does he feel the obligation?
Perhaps it’s because he knows, somewhere deep down, that his continual emotional abuse is what ultimately broke her? Because that’s why I think he should pay for anything she might need. But we all know it’s so she won’t tell anyone about the kinky BDSM sex games he’s so super ashamed of (but photographs for posterity).
But let’s examine this “better” claim. First of all, is it possible for someone to get over a total psychotic break in a few months? Second, who decided Leila was “better”? The colleague of Dr. Flynn? Dr. Flynn the guy who was treating Christian and who suggested that Ana had the power to cure him with her love? Oh, well, as long as it’s that guy, I guess everyone is fine and no one should expect to get shot by a crazy ex any time soon. And also, wouldn’t this entire situation be a lot easier if Leila were, I don’t know, in jail? Or at least in a facility that had some kind of security? Because isn’t that what usually happens when you break and enter with the intent to commit murder?
There I go again, expecting that this book isn’t set in some badly constructed fantasy world of author intrusion and blind ignorance.
Then there are six pages of emails in which Christian and Ana pointlessly flirt and rehash everything that has happened in the last few chapters. I will spare you the utterly boring, useless, and not at all plot-furthering correspondence that I’m 100% certain was put in just to pad out word count. Which is totally unnecessary, because the book is way too fucking long as it is.
Section break, and it’s Thursday:
I cannot help my despondent mood as Sawyer drives me to the office on Thursday. Christian’s threatened business trip to New York has happened, and though he’s been gone only a few hours, I miss him already.
Despondent: low spirits from loss of hope or courage. Ana has lost hope because Christian has been gone a few hours. That’s not how she’s supposed to feel. That’s how I am supposed to feel, because I’m reading about it.
So then there’s about a page’s worth of emails again, in which we learn that Ana is going out:
I intend to have a few cocktails with Kate – that should help me sleep.
Awesome, glad you found another way to use your friendship to your advantage, even if she’s not paying your rent anymore.
Put on your bullshit waders, guys, it’s about to get deep. Ana gets a call from Christian when his plane lands, and the first thing he wants to know is what she’s doing with Kate:
Oh no. “We’re just going out for a quiet drink.”
Christian says nothing.
“Sawyer and the new woman – Prescott – are coming to watch over us,” I offer, trying to placate him.
“I thought Kate was coming to the apartment.”
“She is after a quick drink.” Please let me go out!
He’s not even in the same state, and he has this control over her. Healthy marriage!
Christian remains resolutely silent, and I know he’s not happy. “I’ve seen her only a few times since you and I met. Please. She’s my best friend.”
Name something you shouldn’t be arguing about with your husband.
“Ana, I don’t want to keep you from your friends.
Bullfuckingshit yes you do, turdbag.
But I thought she was coming back to the apartment.”
“Okay,” I acquiesce. “We’ll stay in.”
“Only while this lunatic is out there. Please.”
Which lunatic, Chedward? You? Seriously, have you guys noticed how conveniently “lunatics” pop up in their lives, causing these dramatic and unavoidable threats that mean Ana absolutely must stay at home or under Christian’s surveillance all the time? First it was Leila, now it’s Jack Hyde and the mystery woman driving the Dodge. I’m going to guess that this will become a regular thing. “Honey, don’t forget, I have Kate’s bachelorette party to go to.” “Oh, um, you can’t, because, uh, um, huh… uh… Bic… Mcpen… lamp…erson, yeah, that’s right! Bic McPenlamperson! My old nemesis Bic McPenlamperson is out to destroy us. So you can’t go.”
“Good,” he breathes, his relief evident. I feel guilty for worrying him.
“Well, Mr. Grey, I’m glad one of us is punctilious.”
He laughs. “Mrs. Grey, your gift for hyperbole knows no bounds.[…]”
That wasn’t hyperbole, though. Punctilious means you do things to the letter, your behavior is exact and precise… which is what he was doing. She wasn’t exaggerating at all when she said he was being punctilious. Either E.L. doesn’t know what one of those words means, or she doesn’t know what both of those words mean. I’ll leave it up to your merciful consciences to decide which is more likely.
They do about half a page of “No, you hang up,” and then right when I’m about to go hang myself, they switch to the email.
After a section break, Kate shows up at Ana’s place of business. There is hugging and eye rolling, and Ana tells Kate:
“Christian wants us to go back to the apartment.”
If I were Kate, the next thing I would be saying is, “Christian can go fuck himself,” but Kate tries a gentler tactic and suggests they go out for just one little bitty drink.
We’re followed by Miss Belinda Prescott, who’s new to the security team – a tall African American with a no-nonsense attitude. I’ve yet to warm up to her maybe because she’s too cool and professional.
Keep in mind how Taylor, Sawyer, and the rest of them act all the time. Ana has warmed up to them just fine, but they are, after all, white men.
When Ana gives Sawyer the name of the bar they want to go to, this happens:
“Mr. Grey requested you go back to the apartment,” Prescott pipes up.
“Mr. Grey isn’t here,” I snap. “The Zig Zag, please.”
“Ma’am,” Sawyer replies witha sideways glance at Prescott, who wisely holds her tongue.
Yes, woman of color, wisely hold your tongue when a white lady is speaking. Everyone, just take a second to imagine how this scene would have gone down if it were Taylor, a white man, and not Prescott, a black woman. Think of how many times we’ve seen this go down already and it never happens like this. Ana has routinely ignored Christian’s wishes and told the security team to do so, as well, but she’s always done it with a little bit of worry that she’ll get them in trouble. And she’s never, to my memory, been so strident about it. But it’s okay in this case because Prescott a) is a woman and b) is a black woman. Which is probably also why she’s allowed to be on the security team; if she were a white woman, she would be a threat, as we’ve already seen time and again.
In the car, Kate and Ana discuss the extra security that’s been put on the whole Grey family, and Ana begins to realize that she doesn’t have all the information, because Christian hasn’t told her a lot of stuff. But they can’t discuss it in the car because, I shit you not, Ana is worried that it will get back to Christian that she knows things she’s not supposed to:
I glance up to see Sawyer eyeing me in the rearview mirror. The red light turns to green and he surges forward, focusing on the road ahead. I hold my finger up to my lips and Kate nods.
How are people reading this shit and finding it romantic? “Careful, best friend, better not say too much in front of my husband’s spies.” THAT IS NOT OKAY.
Ugh, I seriously have a rage headache.
After a section break, Ana and Kate are already into their second drink of the evening, and they’re talking about Gia Matteo, the architect. They call her a bitch, a social climber, rag on her for having a “fling” with Elliot (hey Kate? Takes more than one person to fling), and then they literally raise their glasses to the fact that Ana told Gia off.
Prescott accompanies me. She says nothing. She doesn’t have to. Disapproval radiates off her like a lethal isotope.
Oh good, Prescott isn’t just a black woman, she’s an angry black woman, and her anger is making our white heroine uncomfortable.
“I haven’t been out on my own since I got married,” I mutter wordlessly at the closed stall door.
How the fuck did you mutter a full sentence wordlessly? As in, without words? You said the words, we can see them, they’re between the fucking quotation marks. And seriously, how did that sentence get into a final, printed book?
I make a face, knowing that she’s standing on the other side of the door, waiting while I pee.
You know what, Ana? This woman is probably going to lose her job because your husband is a fucking idiot and since he can’t fire you, he’ll probably fire everyone on the security team because they didn’t taser you, bind your wrists with zip ties, slap a bag over your head and stuff you in the trunk of the car for your own safety. She has a right to be mad at you and him both, because you’re both stupid and now she’s going to have to start sending out her CV again. Also, this is probably not her dream job, guarding you while you pee. So shut the fuck up.
Seriously, I’m so peeved about this, because it’s so blatant. When Ana is followed by the white male bodyguards, she’s annoyed, but she’s not openly hostile to them. She’s almost apologetic toward them, because she gets that they’re just doing their job. But a black female? Oh, good thing you’re here, because Ana is about to unload all of her frustration at her abusive husband onto you.
After another break, it’s 10:15, one drink has turned into four, and Kate is telling Ana that marriage obviously agrees with her because she seems so much more confident. Ana thinks:
Could I be any happier? In spite of all his baggage, his nature, his Fiftyness, I have met and married the man of my dreams.
First of all, your dreams are stupid and they suck dung-dipped donkey balls. Second, look at what you’re saying here. You’re saying that he’s the man of your dreams in spite of literally everything that makes up the sum total of his personality. It’s like saying, “I love Cadbury eggs, but it’s the chocolate and fondant I’m not into.” It makes no fucking sense, just like it makes no fucking sense to not love Cadbury eggs because they’re delicious and no, I will not make an exception for your diabetes, you better love those fuckers from afar, all unrequited and shit. But seriously, how does her rationale make any sense? In spite of the man he is, he is the man of my dreams. This is setting the bar pretty fucking low in terms of romantic hero standards. “As long as I can ignore who he really is, he is my Prince Charming.” Good job, Ana.
They leave the bar, and Ana can’t resist another dig at Prescott, because after all, she’s a woman and she’s there:
“I’m sure Miss Good-Two-Shoes Prescott has told Christian I’m not at home. He’ll be mad,” I mutter to Kate. And maybe he’ll think of some delicious way to punish me… hopefully.
Sawyer tells me that you are drinking cocktails in a bar when you said you wouldn’t.
Do you have any idea how mad I am at the moment?
You’re probably as mad about it as I am happy that it was SAWYER and not PRESCOTT who tattled. FUCK YOU ANA.
My heart sinks. Oh shit! I really am in trouble. My subconscious glares at me, then shrugs, wearing her you-made-your-bed-you-lie-in-it face. What did I expect?
You expected to go out with your friend for drinks like an adult woman with personal autonomy?
Then they get to the apartment and shit is all smashed up and Jack Hyde is there, beaten unconscious by one of the body guards. But I don’t really give a shit and I’m guessing you don’t, either. End of chapter.
In every generation there is a chosen one. She alone will eat all the salt and vinegar potato chips without sharing. She will also recap every episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer with an eye to the following themes:
This is madness. What can you have been thinking? You are the slayer. Lives depend upon you. I make allowances for your youth, but I expect a certain amount of responsibility and instead of which you enslave yourself to this, this cult?
Joyce: “Oh good. I’m glad you’re taking that up again. It’ll keep you out of trouble.”
Buffy: “I’m not in trouble.”
Joyce: “No, not yet.”
Wow. #3 much? Joyce does go on to say that what she meant was that Buffy quit cheerleading right before she started getting in trouble, so it’s good she’s going back to it, but still. That’s fucked up, Joyce. Then Buffy mentions that Amy trains with her mom hardcore on the whole cheerleading thing, and it’s a direct hint to Joyce that Buffy wants her mother to be more involved in her life. But Joyce dismisses it, saying that it doesn’t sound like Amy’s mom has much to do, then she leaves the room. This scene was super painful to watch, because throughout the whole thing, Buffy is trying to make a connection with her mom, while her mom continually and actively rejects her. I know I’ve said it a lot, but #3 guys. Seriously, #3.
The next day at the rescheduled try-outs, Amy knocks Cordelia on her ass during a group performance. And Cordelia is adorably outraged. Seriously, I have no reason to post this photo except for OMG, cuteness!
Cordelia: “I have a dream. It’s me on the cheerleading squad, adored by every varsity male as far as the eye can see. We have to achieve our dreams, Amy, otherwise we… wither and die.”
Amy: “Look, I’m sorry ab – “
Cordelia: “Shh. If your supreme klutziness out there today takes me out of the running, you’re going to be so very beyond sorry. Have a nice day.”
“Your own thing, whatever it is, got you kicked out of school and we had to move here to find a decent school that would take you.”
And then Buffy’s face looks like this:
“She said I was wasting my youth. So she took it.”
Amy tells Buffy and Giles that her mother targeted her for abuse after her father left them, and that she wanted to leave with him, but her mother wouldn’t let her contact him.
Giles breaks into Amy’s mom’s witch room and gets her book, then they head for the school, where a basketball game is already in progress. Giles carries Buffy into the science lab and sweeps all the junk off a table to lay her on it, and then he puts his jacket under her head for a pillow because he’s considerate like that. He tells Amy-in-her-mom’s-body that they only have a few minutes. So… why bother with putting your jacket under Buffy’s head? PRIORITIES, RUPERT.
It doesn’t take long for Giles’s spell to start working. While Buffy lays dying, Amy’s-mom-in-Amy’s-body flashes between seeing the crowd at the basketball game and seeing the stuff for the spell. Amy-in-her-mom’s-body says that the spell is working. When Amy’s-mom-in-Amy’s-body runs off the court, Willow confronts her and tells her she can help with all of Amy’s witch stuff. She’s really trying to distract her while Xander sneaks up on her, and that doesn’t go too well.
Last night, my friend Holly was in town. We don’t often get to see each other, so we decided to go out and have a girl’s night together. The first stop we tried to make was at a seedy little dive bar in a neighboring town. Except, now it’s not a seedy little dive bar anymore, it’s a family restaurant. No place to party. So, Holly said, “Let’s go to the bar at the bowling alley.”
Let me tell you a little about my friend Holly. She is beautiful, in the Hollywood sense of the word. She is slim, blonde, she dresses clothes that showcase her figure and she has a sort of unconscious sexuality about her that makes her seem innocent and provocative at the same time. This isn’t a persona she’s created for herself, it’s just how she’s always been, for as long as I can remember. So, we walk into this bar, and immediately, the catcalls began. The men sitting at the bar turned around to openly stare at her, to say things like, “Oh, baby,” and “Look at this one! Hey! Hey! Check her out!”
Were they drunk? Yes. Does that make it okay? No.
We had one drink and decided to leave, because D-Rock was waiting for us up at the bar at the end of my road. We headed back there. This place is familiar territory, it’s comfortable, it feels safe. Also, you can drink and then just walk back to my house instead of driving. Pretty awesome. We went in, had a few drinks with D-Rock and her husband, then D-Rock said she would run him home and return to hang out.
Not two full minutes after they left, a man came over to our table. He was clearly intoxicated; not a huge problem, we were in a bar, after all. He wanted help with the digital jukebox, so I showed him how it worked. I started to suspect that he was maybe high on something other than beer or weed. He would lean in close, fix me with a really intense stare, and get agitated if I tried to return to my conversation with Holly.
When D-Rock came back (only a few minutes later, because our town is about two miles deep), she made a fairly innocuous comment about wanting him to leave us alone. I believe it was something along the lines of, “Hey, man, we’re just trying to catch up with our friend here, we’d like to be left alone.” When he kept hanging around, she tried a stronger tactic, complaining loudly about creeps being drawn to us. But he still didn’t leave. He pulled up a chair. Any time we tried to speak to each other, he would jump in and try to bring the conversation back to himself.
Then he hugged me. This was the tipping point for D-Rock, and for me. I never, at any point, insinuated that I would want to make any physical contact with this man. And he put his arms around me, despite my resistance. When I pushed away, he said, “Don’t act like I’m going to molest you or something!”
Uh, guy? I didn’t say anything about you molesting me. But clearly, it’s at the forefront of your mind.
D-Rock got into a verbal altercation with the creep, while I went up to the bar to pretend to pay. I told the bartender, who is a really nice guy, “I’m standing here, pretending to pay, because I think those two are going to get into a fight.”
Holly bought our drinks (because she’s amazing like that) and let the bartender know that the only reason we were leaving was to avoid that man, and his harassment was hurting their business. Then we noticed that the guy was no where around. Where was he?
He’d gone into the parking lot. Because we had said we were going to leave, he’d gone into the parking lot to wait for us.
Because she was super pissed off, D-Rock went ahead of us, probably intending to kill the guy with her car keys. Her two pit bulls were in her car. The man tried to approach her as she got in. She warned him to stop coming at her. He kept coming. She threatened to let her dogs out. He kept coming. She took off down the road to my house. At that point, she really didn’t have a choice to wait for us.
The bartender walked us out, and the guy was no where to be seen. We quickly got into Holly’s car and headed down the road. I do not condone drunk driving, but our original plan was to walk home. It was clear, based on this guy’s actions, that it would have been unsafe in the extreme to try and walk the tenth of a mile down the road, in the dark, with that guy still roaming around out there. We had to choose between breaking the law or… whatever this guy had planned when he’d gone out to wait for us in the parking lot.
It makes me angry that a man I didn’t know thought that me helping him with the jukebox was a contract of some sort. It makes me angry that he ruined our night, when all we wanted to do was have a good time. And it makes me angry that he perceived our desire to not include him, a stranger, in our evening, as rudeness that deserved open hostility.
You know how sometimes when you have a bad feeling about a person, and you don’t want to engage them because you don’t want to seem like you’re being rude? Fuck that. I’m sick of being treated as though being a woman and being in public means I’m an amusement for other people. We came into this bar to have a good time and drink and hang out. There were men doing the exact same thing, at the exact same bar, at the exact same time. But no one was acting like they were on display, or “open for business” so to speak.
Confession: I hate leaving my house. I hate it. I have hated it since an incident in New Orleans this past summer, when I was followed by a man who pretended to be a harmless drunk in the elevator, until he got me alone. I try to dress as androgynously as possible to avoid attention. But that seems to make it worse. It’s like my lack of confidence or my desire to hide myself makes a beacon for skeevy guys. Or maybe it’s because I am a bigger girl, and they’re trying to separate the weakest or the least resistant from the heard? I haven’t quite puzzled this part out.
All I know is, women are constantly having their personal space and sense of safety violated in public places, and it’s supposed to be flattering. Street harassment, guys who won’t take a hint and leave our table, all of this shit is supposed to be desired by us? Fuck that. I was considering not typing up this post, because I thought for sure someone would be like, “Well, it is a bar, that stuff happens there, no big deal,” but then I remembered that the people who read my blog on the reg have proven over and over that they’re insanely cool and smart, so you all probably understand what I’m driving at.
I’m just tired of feeling like if we go out in public, for any reason, we’re opening ourselves up to this behavior, and that if we want to avoid it, we should just stay inside. Because I’ve been staying inside. I’ve been staying inside for a while, unless I go out with my husband, because being with a man is literally the only thing that keeps this from happening. If you’re owned, if you’re clearly another man’s property, they keep their distance. But if you’re out on your own, or in a group? Open season, and you should be thankful for the attention.
As I was saying, I’ve tried the whole staying inside thing. And it sucks and it’s isolating and I hate being afraid to leave because I’m frightened that a man is going to make me feel ashamed of myself. That’s what I hate the most about it. The shame. The doubt I have deep down, that tells me, “Maybe all those other people are right. Maybe I shouldn’t be at a bar. Maybe I shouldn’t be in this elevator unsupervised. Maybe I am ‘asking for it.’ Maybe I’m a slut, or a tease. Maybe I should be ashamed of myself.” Even though I know, intelligently, that it’s wrong for women to have to deal with this, I still can’t apply that intelligent thought to myself. I would have no problem standing up for someone else, but when it’s me, there’s that doubt. Even as I type this, I’m terrified someone will think I’m bragging, and think I’m slutty, although I would never have those thoughts about another woman saying the same things. It’s not a lack of trust in you, the reader, but a lack of trust in myself, because I live in a culture that assigns shady motives to any woman who rejects male sexual attention.
At this point, I just don’t know what to do. I want to be able to have a drink with my friends without having this happen. That’s all I want.
EDIT TO CLARIFY TWO POINTS: A few of you have expressed concern over the fact that we drove after drinking, and that we should have called a cab. I do not condone or excuse drunk driving, but I want to explain why we did not call a cab: there aren’t any. We live in an extremely isolated rural community, out of the service area for the nearest cab companies. Our choices were to either chance the drive or walk home in the dark, and start that walk in full view of the creeper. If it had been any other situation, even if there had just been a skeevy guy hitting on us, driving would not have been an option. We chose to drive because it was, at the time, the safest option. The guy had gone into the parking lot as soon as we’d said we were going to leave. We didn’t view that as a coincidence, but that he was planning something. We weighed the odds of us getting into a drunk driving accident against the odds that this man would assault us. But a taxi was never an option, because they just don’t exist out here (I have, however, seen horses hitched up outside this bar, and I’m beginning to think that might be a good investment).
The second point I’d like to clear up is that the bartender is in no way culpable for what happened. He could not kick the guy out, because by the time we complained about him, the dude had already left the building. There was nothing to kick him out of at that point. The bartender walked us out and kept and eye out for the guy once he was aware of the situation, so I think he did just about as much as he could reasonably do for us. I don’t blame the bartender in any way.