These Are Mean Streets

I saw this outside my apartment this morning.

Horrifying.

My God, You Staple Papers Like No One I've Ever Seen

I have a habit of giving exuberant, cheerleader-style compliments to people, but only inside my head. Monday I passed a woman-of-a-certain-age in the hallway where I'm working and thought, "Oh, look at that red coat! You are looking sassy!"

I do this on a regular basis, so chances are if you know me I have probably mentally complimented you in some luxurious, ebullient way. 

Girl, Don't Tell Me Where You've Been

Whenever I would fall ill as a child, as a ritual my mother would read to me Eve Merriam's 1966 children's book, Miss Tibbett's Typewriter. Miss Tibbett was an old woman with a greying bun of hair who lived with her cat and a typewriter in an apartment in the city, a building thick with ivy growth.  The premise of the story has to do with English and letters and words and the quick brown fox jumping over the lazy dog easily; Miss Tibbett an every-cheery role model for a different creative life just like the others in real life or novels or film who too lived alone or fought with social expectations or were fearless and brave — the Jo Marches and Claire Phillips and a dozen of my English literature teachers; they did what they loved and felt passion for ideas and went home at the end of the day and probably drank tea or brandy and maybe had complicated love affairs with men they never told anyone about. I loved Miss Tibbett, the pencil illustrations of her tiny frame hunched over paper, her tabby on the desk, the idea that having a typewriter and friendly business owners to interact with could so impassion an existence.

The romanticism of this woman in the city who is friends with everyone in her neighborhood and wanders around typing signs for businesses was completely sold on me. But the versions of the townspeople I interact with on a regular basis are fearful for me, they tell me to find a rich husband (landlord Saul), or could have sworn I had one (maintenance guy Jose), or ask me if I watch my movies alone or "with somebody" (video store clerk Malcom). I appreciate their protectiveness but want to rebel against their expectation, I want to somehow prove I am safe walking alone, that crime is random and yet unlikely, that I can keep my wits. Yet most nights I am reminded this is not the case, that you cannot be a friendly single woman in a sprawling city without endangering yourself. Give a smile to the wrong person while you're in a good mood, and pow, proposition, lewd words, a walk-with-me. One time, a guy on the street told me, "I'd love to ______ my _____ in those _______." When I whipped around and declared in frightened astonishment, "That's disgusting, asshole!" He yelled back, "YOU ARE A FUCKING BITCH!"

YOU ARE A FUCKING BITCH! This exchange would have never happened to Miss Tibbett.

The Lord Is Just Two Exits Away

According to highway billboards in Georgia, I should be doing the following things:

1. "Read God's Word and Do What It Says" — Almighty God
2. See the best strippers around!
3. Get engaged

I am not sure if this is the order one should follow or if it's acceptable to change things up, but it is evident nonetheless that God authors billboards and commands thee to betroth all strippers, in addition to selling a timeshare and moving into a retirement community to take up golf, or at least moving into a development that has the word "golf" in the title where one might practice standing still as the silhouette of a person playing fake golf.

Alongside these commandments from the Peach State is the nationwide "SPA." It's important to note that truckers and (sometimes) soldiers get discounts at the SPA. In conclusion, SPA does not = spa.