Picking up women, picking up a book and picking your battles

My brother read this page for the first time the other week, and his only comment was “you are hungover at work a lot”. I indignantly denied it, but honesty compels me to admit that today, well, I do have a wee headache. Wednesday night Scrabble seems to lead me into excess. Nothing says fun like playing complicated word games under the influence of alcohol.

The friend who was hosting Scrabble lives behind a pub. I was running early, so I sat down at one of their outside tables and began reading a book. A minute later, an American in the back seat of a passing sedan called to me “Are you looking for me? Are you looking for someone?” I looked up, said “Nope” and went back to reading. “Oh”, he said, sounding a little disappointed. “Have a nice night”.

For future reference, men of the world, if I were looking for someone, I probably wouldn’t have my nose buried in a book. And whilst we’re on the subject, if I’m out with a friend with whom I am engrossed in conversation, we’re probably not looking to meet men. If you try anyway, and one of us responds to your opening gambit with a non-committal “mmm” and then immediately goes back to our conversation, we’re definitely not looking to meet men. If you persist, and we finally tell you that we’re having a private conversation, that does not make us bitches.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with trying to approach a woman in a bar. The American guy wasn’t out of line (plus he had a cute accent). But take a moment to read the body language, for your own sake as well as ours. If you persist in trying to chat us up after we’ve made it clear we’re not interested, it makes you look like you don’t believe woman can have fun on their own, that we all need a man, that you have the right to ruin our evening to prove something to yourself. It makes you look like an obnoxious asshole.

Oh, and on the subject of obnoxious assholes, it’s been weeks since I made fun of Bush, so I hope you’ll forgive me for doing so again. I know, I know, it’s lazy journalism on my part since it’s not exactly difficult to do, but now he’s pushing my personal buttons and claiming to be a man of letters with a slavering media even posting a complete book list. Now, even on its face this is a puerile attempt at restoring public confidence in a man who can’t get enough of fart jokes. The Carpetbagger Report looks at the word count and decides that there is no way Bush could have read that many books. Frankly, I’d be concerned if he had: should a President in this much trouble be spending several hours a day reading novels?

(Via Shakespeare’s Sister)

I don’t know how to finish this post, and re-reading it I realise I sound angry rather than funny. I’m sorry about that. As I write this, a good friend of mine is battling against an injustice that threatens his future happiness, and I’m worried about him and angry at my own impotency.

I have several friends going through serious life events at the moment, and it brings home to me how sheltered my own life is by comparison, how trivial my concerns. I’m in awe of all of you; your strength and grace in the face of tumult, your ability to confront painful life decisions and work through them, the fact that you all keep giving and living and loving. I’m honoured to know you, and I hope the universe gives you a break soon.