“The line is your belt.”

I had lunch with my dad yesterday and tried to explain where the line is between him calling our server “honey” because he’s old and that’s what old people do, and some random middle-age fuckface calling ME “honey” on the subway because he’s a cretin.

But this morning it occurred to me — the line is your belt, Dad. You call a woman “honey” with your brain or your heart (ie, the bits ABOVE your belt)? COOL — fatherly.

You call her “honey” with your dick? NOT cool — Molester Uncle.

It’s not the word. It’s the smarm.

I’ll pass on the cattle appraisal, thanks.

I saw this immediately as an opportunity for creepy strangers to read the shirt, assess my body, and offer me commentary on it. Hard pass.

(Though, my therapist and several friends agree I’ve built up my emotional walls SO high that men can’t even see me to BE creepy, so strange men usually don’t talk to me, which…SCORE!)

Jag and the BeanSTALK

I was up late last night and received the following messages from a guy on OkCupid:

1:06 a.m.: “Hi how are you? What are you reading?​”

[BTW, everything I’m reading is listed in my profile. It’s one of the site’s fill-in-the-blank questions.]

1:06 a.m., followup: “I am reading Dante’s inferno and breaking Rockefeller.”

1:15 a.m.: “How was your 4th?

1:27 a.m.: “Writing anything good these days?​”

If he has a paid OKC account, I think he could see I’d been reading the messages. And OKC shows you when users are on the site, so he could see I was there. But damn, dude. How are you sitting there like, “I can’t get her to talk about books, so maybe she wants to talk about her holiday — that’s pretty scintillating. No? Hm. Maybe she’ll talk about her writing.”

I shouldn’t have blocked him. Maybe the FIFTH message 10 minutes later would’ve been The One.

Presenting Her Highness, Princess Crankypants

Oh. Well, apparently I have deep-seated issues with being called “Princess” by a romantic prospect. Gotta love a fun and unexpected (funexpected?) fit of rage.

Maybe I’m just bitter that I don’t have a tiara and a big, frilly dress. Or maybe my dad calls me Princess, so it’s creepy. (See also: I’m no longer an 8-year-old girl, and I’m pretty fuck far from a princess.)