March 21, 2012


Since I now work from home, I think I’m losing track of the workings of the real world. I really do. True, my grip on how the world works has never been exactly vise-like to begin with, let’s face it, but now it feels like sands through an hourglass. Like I’m becoming mentally incontinent. That’s right. Incontinent. Not incompetent, although I’m always willing to consider there’s an element of that, but mentally incontinent. As if any kind of understanding of basic real world interactions just seeps right out of me even when I don’t expect or want it to.

So either I just don’t understand things on a basic intelligence level OR I think about things that other people don’t think about but wouldn’t understand either if they did OR I’m slowly becoming mentally incontinent.

Because here’s a weird thing I don’t get and don’t know how to handle. I think it’s a uniquely “female” thing, too, mainly because I don’t know any men who act this way or, rather, I don’t want to know any men who act this way. But this little scenario has happened to me a few times in the last year and I want it to stop because, frankly, I don’t want to deal with it. So it boils down to this: I just need people to be different so I can crawl back into my Howard Hughes hidey hole. Simple schmimple.

The scenario (culled from a couple of similar scenarios):

Let’s say you have a cyber acquaintance and you occasionally email on a personal but not-too-deep level. (I am not referring to anyone who reads this blog.) A few months go by with no communication between the two of you. Out of the blue, acquaintance emails asking why there’s been no communication and you’re put on the spot. Now again, the noncommunication has been mutual. She’s not communicated with you; you’ve not communicated with her. During these few months, you haven’t had a single thought about “why” there’s been no communication, but now that it’s put in front of you, courtesy of the acquaintance, you stop and think about it and come to the conclusion that it’s probably just been real life getting in the way. It’s not something you’re necessarily looking to dissect or diagnose or ….. blame. You literally have not thought a single moment about any “why” at all — until now, when you’re forced to do so. And that’s the irritation of it: Why are we women so quick to assume there’s an issue in this kind of scenario? Why does it need to be discussed AS IF there is an issue? And why is the noncommunication my fault when it’s been mutual noncommunication? Is it simply my fault because she brought it up?

And what do you do if the real answer to an annoying “Why haven’t we communicated?” is “Hell, I don’t know”?

Because, damn, I don’t know and “I don’t know” is not a good answer to give to a woman.

I know. I’m a woman.

So you write back, gently refusing to shoulder all the blame for the noncommunication, and say, “Well, now that I think about it, I imagine we’ve both just been busy.”

Both. Perhaps we’ve both been busy?

Don’t lay this all at my feet, peaches. Don’t play that game with me. See, because now you’ve gone and made me mad. I was going happily along, growing my corkscrew fingernails, doing my work, and BAM! my tissue-boxed feet are suddenly put to the fire — and that can’t have a good outcome, now can it? There was zero issue before and now, frankly, the issue is you’re irritating me. You’re making something out of nothing — which we dames are very good at and so, yeah, I’m tasting my own medicine and, boy, is it ever bitter — but besides that, you’re laying the blame for this non-issue entirely at my feet and all I want to do is kick it back in your cyber-acquaintance, wouldn’t-recognize-it-on-the-street face.

See, because now you’ve gone and made me mad with your non-issue but I can’t tell you I’m mad because there wasn’t an issue but NOW there is, and I can’t tell you that and still seem sane.

I cannot stand mind games. I hate them. Please don’t make me play them because I’m bad at them and, besides, I just don’t like being that …. person who plays mind games.

And, again, is this necessarily an issue? Sometimes it is, but sometimes it isn’t. When you’re mostly just acquaintances at best, when you haven’t shared all that deeply with each other, why would you create this kind of issue where one may not even exist? Why go digging for an issue with, again, an acquaintance? Why do you assume that an acquaintance should have that level of ….. I don’t even know what word to use ….. accountability to you?

I don’t get it. I really don’t.

Another scenario:

Since I work from home, my colleagues are cyber colleagues. I’ve gotten to know a few of them and we IM back and forth during the day, sometimes with chit-chat, but mostly with work-related questions. Recently, at day’s end, I IM’d one of them to tell her to have a good evening or something and she wrote back, “I haven’t heard from you all day” complete with a frowny face emoticon.

Oh, for God’s sake.

I don’t know what was more annoying to me: the thought or the frowny face accompanying the thought. I was simply minding my own business, literally, but, still, my grade for the day? :-(

You know, I could have said the same thing but the difference here is that I didn’t and I wouldn’t. I was busy working. I assumed she was busy working. It wasn’t personal. It didn’t mean a thing, my silence, and I assumed hers didn’t either.

Look, I’m as capable as the next woman of feeling insecure in my female relationships. I’m guilty too, so I don’t want seem like I’m somehow above the insecurity fray. I’m not. But this kind of thing — where there’s mutual silence, where there’s nothing that you’re expressly waiting/hoping for a response about — well, I try to avoid frothing about that. I’m very good at frothing, as evidenced by 99% of this blog, but it’s exhausting and it wears down the batteries, so I’m really trying to limit that in my life now. I have died on way too many hills in my life and it’s getting expensive to keep disposing of the body.

Since I got to be the one to try to smooth over another something from nothing, I said basically the same thing to this woman that I’d said to the other, something like, “I guess we’ve just been busy today!”

I did not apologize to either of these women because I didn’t feel that I owed an apology in either situation although I did feel like one was being fished for. I’m a funny girl, I guess. I don’t like feeling manipulated into believing a mutual noncommunication is solely my fault or that there’s even any blame to be assigned at all, so nope, no apology for you, Crackie.

Some things are just more complicated with cyber relationships. You can’t see a face and glean meaning from expressions. You can’t hear a voice and glean meaning from tone or inflection. It’s harder and trickier. But since that is the case, and especially when we’re dealing with acquaintances, just leave well enough alone. Assume the best. Don’t go digging for nothings. Don’t assume a closeness or accountability that’s not there. Don’t lay blame that isn’t deserved for scenarios that don’t even exist.

And, most importantly, unless you’re my mother, don’t send me frowny faces about my behavior, ‘mkay?

February 23, 2012


Can I just throw a question out there?

Uh, is weight loss really something you should have to mention to other people? I mean, after a certain amount of weight loss, shouldn’t it be, you know, noticeable?

The background:

About 3 years ago, I started working out hard on my cool new mini trampoline. Not the kind you buy at Sports Authority with the cheap short coils, but a top-of-the-line smaller one with long coils for a good deep bounce. MB bought it for me for my birthday because he’d seen me visiting their website and pining away for it for quite a while. I’ve always loved working out this way because it seems more like fun and less like work.

Anyhow, I lost weight, right? Like, oh, about 20 pounds. I’m at my “appropriate” weight now — or whatever. I’m in good shape these days because I’ve worked hard at it and I’ve stuck to the regimen. This has been 3 years now. (Somewhat shockingly, the boobins did not decrease. I’m really starting to think they’re fake. Like at some point, I was drugged and woke up in a tub in Vegas — not with a kidney missing — but with big fake boobs and that I just have amnesia about the whole ordeal.)

MB’s family comments on it every time they see me. (The weight loss, not the boobs.) They make a fuss about me and it every time, which is nice. (Again, the weight loss, not the boobs.) They say something nice like, “Oh, you look great! Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” So it validates to me that it IS noticeable and that all that work/bouncing “ain’t been in vain for nothin'” — to quote Lena Lamont (Singin’ in the Rain).

But here’s what’s odd to me:

No one in my family has ever said a word about it. Not a word. Nothing. In 3 years.

A few weeks ago, we were at my brother’s house and at one point in a conversation with my SIL, I briefly mentioned “losing weight.” (She is a workout FIEND, that one.) She looked surprised and said, “Oh! How much have you lost?”

“Uh …… about 20 pounds?”

“Oh! When did that happen?”

Long pause.

“Uhm …….. about 3 years ago,” I said drily.


“Oh”? “OH”?? Really? That’s it? “Oh”????

Now, again, it’s been like this for 3 years, but somehow this little exchange sent me into a long-expected but long-delayed tailspin. I ranted about it the whole way home to MB, who quietly contemplated suicide.

I raved about it again at bedtime, in bed, and the next morning while MB methodically loaded his gun.

But, seriously, shouldn’t weight loss of 20 pounds be noticeable and …. well, comment worthy?

Or is it unfair to expect comment on something like that? I mean, maybe it is. I don’t know. My family dynamics are a bit odd, I think, so I don’t know what “normal” is. It seems more “normal” to me that MB’s family has commented but maybe commenting makes them unusual. On the other hand, my girlfriends have commented, but not my mom or my sister or my SIL.

So, really, what’s normal here, pippa?

Now I didn’t lose the weight so people would comment. I lost it for various personal reasons that most people have for losing weight. Nevertheless, it seems normal to at least think that people might comment, not that you do it for that, but that that is an outgrowth of your efforts — people who know you/love you commenting on your efforts.

Am I wrong?

Again, what’s normal here?

I actually don’t know, so please explain normal to me.

December 12, 2011

-image-ethical dilemma

So I was watching Nightline the other night and one of the stories was, surprisingly, about Christmas shopping. The reporter was talking to some 20-something chick who’s apparently an online shopping guru or something. They were in an electronics store and she was demonstrating this “awesome app” on her iPhone. I don’t remember what it was called, but let’s just call it the bar code app. Basically, the bar code app allows you to scan the bar code of any item you might wish to buy and see if you can buy it online more cheaply. So then, when it comes up more cheaply at Amazon, you depart the brick and mortar store in haste — the brick and mortar store that gives you free access to these bar codes but just lost your business — and go purchase said item online for less.

I’m sorry, maybe it’s me, but I have a bit of an ethical dilemma with that. I know that’s quaint and dusty of me — an ethical dilemma, how last century of you, Trace — but I think it’s kind of sneaky and exploitative to use the brick and mortar store not as a place where you purchase goods but as a kind of research tool to find where you can purchase for less the very same items that they are selling. If you do find it for less, why not approach the manager of the store and ask if they’ll match the price? Don’t we need brick and mortar stores? Do we want our entire lives to be conducted online?

The bookstore we used to visit every Saturday morning recently went out of business along with all its other locations in San Diego. And I’m sad about that, really sad. I’m sad that 3-dimensional life seems to be slipping away from us by inches. I’m sad that the printed page seems to be disappearing. I don’t mean to sound like that cranky old lady down the street waving her cane at life and proclaiming doom at every turn, but damn. We’re 3-dimensional creatures who still need to conduct 3-dimensional lives — which is really a different post, I suppose.

But back to my dilemma here. Am I the only one who thinks using an app like that is sneaky and, well, a bit ethically squinky? If you’re willing to ask the store to meet the lower price you found, I have no problem with it, if the store ultimately meets the price for you. Be blunt and tell them to meet the price or you will purchase it elsewhere. In this economy, I imagine they’d meet it. But if you scan the bar code in that store, find a lower price online, and then buy it there, my opinion is you’re exploiting that store and robbing them of your business, business they desperately need.

Is it just me? If so, I’m starting the cane-waving and fist-shaking decades ahead of schedule here.

Look. If the brick and mortar store ultimately goes away, where will you go to use your “awesome bar code app”?

October 30, 2010

-image-“swim skirts”

Oh, for the love of Care Bears. This is insane. But it’s Halloween weekend, so it all seems appropriately skeery somehow.

Now in the name of modesty, some companies are offering “swim skirts” to hide a woman’s shame.

Here’s one, pippa:


Uhm, how does anyone swim in that? How can you have any freedom of movement for, again, SWIMMING?? They do look very efficient, though, for that competent 9-to-5 look we all want at the beach. Oh, and please rest assured that this narrow skirt comes with attached pants for coverage. You know, in case those Great White sharks are lookin’ up your cool swim skirt like the relentless pervs of the deep they are.

But the holidays are coming and maybe you know someone who needs a new swim skirt to …. uhm, wear to work. Or maybe you just need a little chuckle. So don’t let me stand in your way. Here’s the website for all your swim skirt needs.

Seriously, if I’m going to cover myself up at the beach, I’d rather look like these girls:


Don’t they look cute? And fun?

Do the Modesty Mongers remember FUN??

Bonus for these girls: The bloomers keep the pervy sharks away.

October 25, 2010

-image-why i can’t do twitter

“Get short, timely messages from Tracey”?




What? Like, “Oh, thank God. Tracey tweeted that she ate a PB&J. Phew. Just in the nick of time”?

I can’t hang with that. It’s weird. It’s weird. The use of that word. There’s nothing I’ve ever said in my life that could ever be labeled as timely. Actually, DON’T call anything I say “timely.” I think it just might be code for “boring” but my jury is still out on that. Still, until they come in with a verdict, just get away from me with the “timely” already.

You know what “timely” is? Timely is the reverse 911 calls people in So Cal get when they need to flee their homes immediately or be crisped into ashes by the annual marauding flames. THAT’S some timely useful crap, pippa. Nothing I see on Twitter strikes me as “timely.” Random, yes. Timely, no. And I have NO problem whatsoever with random. My entire blog is random. But don’t call random timely. Don’t do it. Although Twitter has already done it without consulting me and tons of people seem unmoved by how totally damn-ass annoying it is, so who am I in a world full of timely tweets? Well, I’m just some Betty who knows what timely means, that’s who. Damn.

I am disproportionately annoyed by this. It’s the little things that make life unbearable.

So I now basically have a semantics problem with Twitter, annoying fraternal twin to my lingering aesthetics problem with Facebook.

I don’t know. I don’t like feeling like I’m supposed to do something because everyone else is doing it. My entire life, I’ve always been an insanely obstinate holdout that way. (I mean, Poor Perky Bob couldn’t get a lunch date from me.) Maybe it all reminds me of the FOC somehow. Maybe it all makes me feel like I’m just supposed to get with the program, join the ever-expanding Borg. Or maybe I’m just an ass.

That’s always a serious possibility.

But besides all that, I can’t understand the slightest thing that’s going on with any of the Twitter pages I’ve looked at. It’s like watching a movie where the audio skips. There are all kinds of micro conversations that no one but the people involved can even follow. And that’s the thing. I don’t think you can “enjoy” Twitter unless you’re part of Twitter and Crackie hates that kind of stuff. I can enjoy a baseball game without being on the team, but nope. Not with Twitter.

You have to be on Team Timely and I don’t wanna.

Okay. Something’s wrong. My crankypants are getting REAL tight.

I’ll be back later sporting a nice mellow muu-muu, I swear.

September 21, 2010

-image-i’m all for whimsy …. i am …. but

I’m also a crankypants, as we all know.

And I don’t like this.

They seem like a fun-loving buncha kooks, they do, and I love the fun-loving kooks, but — and this is where I’m a hideous ol’ gammie, I guess — I think some things should retain a teensy bit of their dignity. When you’re walking down that aisle, it’s a BIG DEAL. You’re about to do something huge, life-changing, and I think a slightly more traditional processional is more in keeping with the hugeness of the moment.

The worst processional I ever personally witnessed was a girl from our church who decided — oh so ill-advisedly — to SING while she was walking down the aisle. She was a terrible singer. Like a bad American Idol audition. Now we could barely hear her, which was probably for the best because, again, she was a terrrrible singer, and let’s just say it’s a really good thing Simon Cowell wasn’t there. About halfway down the aisle, though, the wedding nerves must have seized her vocal cords and her brain waves because she got all turned around in the song, a namby-pamby worship song, and her eyes went from penny sized to plate sized in terror. She stopped dead in her tracks and bounced around — for the Lord, I guess — or to shake her brain awake, while MB and I and basically everyone around us sat in the pews shaking with the laughter borne of horror that you feel kinda bad about later but just can’t stop doing now. She and her groom are no longer married and I’ve always thought it’s because I saw that same mask of horror on his face that I saw on everybody else’s as she walked her catastrophic walk towards him, singing all about Jesus. You could literally see the guy thinking, “Uhm, yeah. But what about ME?” His future flashed before his eyes and it was no freakin’ bueno, pippa. She wanted to surprise him. I guess she did. I knowed something weren’t right in those crazy kids’ heads when the dude proposed to her at Bible study.


I, myself, neither sang a song about Jesus nor danced to a 5-minute Chris Brown song when I walked down the aisle. No, when I walked down the aisle and glanced up at MB standing there, all devastatingly handsome, I wanted to savor that moment, breathe it in, walk slowly enough to make it last but not so slowly that people would start to think they should dial 911. Singing about Jesus or dancing to Chris Brown would have interrupted that moment, my thought process, my focus. I wanted to walk with purpose towards this future we’d chosen, and I know MB felt the same about seeing me, although maybe not the handsome part. I remember I could tell he was nervous by the way he was breathing, so as I walked down the aisle, I winked at him and he instantly, visibly relaxed. Yeah, we’re getting married, we can take it very seriously, but we’re still US and we can share a little wink. A tiny moment of levity between us that most people didn’t even see.

I’d have no problem if this couple did something like this as the REcessional, as they’re leaving, woo hoo we’re married, and I love all the videos on YouTube of the choreographed bridal party dances at the reception. But these few moments, I don’t know, they’re sacred to me. I don’t think they’re the time and place for silliness, but maybe that’s just me. To me, you’re physically entering the room, yes, but you’re also entering into the biggest deal of your lives. This bridal party is obviously having fun, but it all seems too blithe for me. TOO carefree. Well, maybe not carefree, careless.

Okay. So I’m officially a gammie then, swigging my jug of prune juice. Oh, and to add to my gamminess: I think the bride looks stupid doing this. Sorry. I think they all look ridiculous, but I’m saving all my ire for her since I’m assuming she might have been someone who could have put a stop to this. And — AND — (insert indignant gammie voice here): “I would not be caught dead walking down the aisle to a song that says ‘double your pleasure, double your fun.’ You’re getting married, not filming a gum commercial!”

Besides, the whole thing is over 5 minutes long. Get on with the gettin’ hitched part! Is that why you’re there or not?

Look. Ol’ Gammie here just likes the awe of the processional. The hush. The fleeting majesty. I like the moment when the doors swing open — whoosh — and you see that bride take her first step down that aisle. I like seeing it now; I liked doing it then. I liked taking those few moments down that aisle to see — really see — my future in front of me. I liked letting everything and everyone else melt away into the background. I like watching the groom as he watches his bride and sees no one but her. It’s magic, feeling that love as a palpable cord pulling these two people together, feeling that you’re all in the presence of something much much bigger than all of you. Because you are.

Take that away and it loses some magic for me. The hush is missing. The awe is gone.

And there’s just not enough awe anymore.

August 30, 2010

-image-the puppet master

“Soooo, Tracey, tell me. What do you think of puppets?”

“Uhm, raunchy puppets?”



“Just regular Christian puppets.”

“Oh. You mean BORN AGAIN puppets.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Yes, of course, that’s what I thought you meant. I mean, I was …. just kidding …. before.”


“So, what do I think of regular Christian born again puppets?

“Yes. That’s the question.”

“Uhm ….”


I already blew it, didn’t I?”


“I should probably just go then?”

“I think that’s best.”


“Thank you.”

“For the record, puppets suck.”

“Please go.”

(Based on a true story. Actual dialog permanently repressed. Trust me, it was bad.)

June 6, 2010

-image-the stop-traffic phenomenon

You know how sometimes you’re standing there on the side of the road, waiting to cross the street, and a random car will stop and let you cross?

Yeah. You’ve had people do that for you, right? And you’ve done that for people too, right?

Uhm, please forgive me but …. I hate that. I do, and I think my reason for hating it is shameful and trivial and yet I still HATE it.

Sometimes, the car that stops is stopping a whole line of traffic behind him just to let you cross. Sometimes, there’s just that one car, not another car in sight behind him, and it’s just a matter of two seconds before he moves past and you’re able to cross the street.

So why stop? Why?

You know, I’m bothered by how much I elevate the trivial to the monumental and I’m also bothered by how that still doesn’t stop me from sharing. So, eh, let’s just proceed. I mean, I’ve already thrown myself under the bus, so let’s just roll it over me completely.

I imagine for the stoppers, the impulse is just a knee-jerk benevolence. They see someone waiting, they want to help, to make things easier for you, to feel good about themselves for the gesture. One or all of those, I guess. So what’s my problem?

A few Saturdays ago, MB headed out of town early on business, so I woke up and walked alone to a favorite coffeehouse a few blocks away. I have to cross a fairly busy two-way street to get there. The street has a median, so you cross to the median, look both ways, cross to the sidewalk. I mean, duh, Streetcrossing 101, right? On the way back with my coffee in hand, I stood on the median waiting for traffic to clear so I could cross. Since I know I have this weird and basically stupid issue, I did what I frequently do: turned my head AWAY from oncoming traffic to effect, oh, a nonchalant air. To ensure I didn’t look needy. To send the message, “Oh, I’m totally not paying attention, so you don’t NEED to stop for me.”

Several seconds later came the honk. I glanced towards traffic and, yep, seated high up in his semi-truck was a fellow waving me across the street. Maybe he had a good view of my cleavage from there. I mean, I was wearing a scooped top, but not THAT scooped. I don’t know. The basics of life elude me, as evidenced daily by this blog. I only know he created HUGE clog of busy traffic behind him just to allow me to cross. I felt my face turn red, crossed quickly, waved at him, and felt like a jerk the rest of the way home because I was irritated by a good deed.


I think it’s this: I don’t like to feel beholden to the stranger in the car or the truck or the semi-truck. It embarrasses me, that sudden attention. Makes me self-conscious. Makes me feel guilty about the traffic bunched up behind the stopper. I’m just minding my business, perfectly happy to wait until the coast is clear, and someone’s goodwill suddenly becomes a problem for meeeee. It’s irrational, I know, but it bugs me. I feel as if a thank-you wave is insufficient. I feel as if I have to hurryuphurryup because I don’t want to make them sit there and say, “Oh, look at her, strrrrolling across. Well, no good deed goes unpunished, blahdie blah.” Sometimes, I DO just want to strrroll across the street and that’s why I’m perfectly happy to wait for traffic. And, honestly, sometimes if it’s a man …. well, I question why he’s doing it. I do. Please forgive me, menfolk. Most of the time, I employ my “look the other way” tactic and at least 50% of the time, it still doesn’t work. Someone stops, honks to call your attention to their good-deed doing, and then I feel forced to comply so they can complete their good deed. Maybe I don’t want to be an accomplice to their good deed. Maybe I just want to strrrroll in peace, at my leisure. I suppose I could wave them past, but I’ve never tried that. I don’t think I could. I think that would make me a (bigger) jerk. But sometimes …. sometimes …. and here is the dreck of my personality on glorious display ….. I feel as if the person in the car is saying, “I’m doing a good deed! Cross the street, dammit! CROSS!” So I across the street so they can feel good about themselves and possibly stare at the chest whilst I spill my coffee all over it. And maybe that’s the goal. We can’t rule that out. I don’t know.

I am now bugged that people do nice things.

So, basically, the crankiness has become metastatic.

May 31, 2010

-image-memorial day 2010

Thank you thank you thank you ……..

May 26, 2010

-image-jokes, haha

I think I’ve talked before about the relative who sends me dumb blonde jokes. (I’m blonde, for those of you who don’t know or haven’t clicked on the About page.)

Unfortunately, the joke sending has now morphed into sending random jokes that are offensive to all women. Equal opportunity offense. I don’t know what to say to this person. I really don’t. Because if I speak up and others find out about it — and others WILL find out about it — I’ll look like a real sourface prissypants. Which I am, I just don’t want to look like one. I’ve created an email filter, but occasionally a joke gets past it. Then the email is magically clicked on. You know, somehow. Okay. Well, mainly because it’s there and I see it and I experience a phenomenon I just made up that I will call “pre-anger” or “anger foreplay.” I get all hot and bothered about the whole dealio, just thinking about what that email might say, so of course, I HAVE to go all the way and READ the damn thing just to have the sweet release of anger that I’m so jonesing for and just to prove that my pre-anger anger was justified. (This all makes perfect sense inside my head.) If the jokes were funny, I’d forgive the offensiveness. I would. I mean, if you’re going to be offensive, you’d best be wet-my-pants funny, Slappy.

The problem here is the jokes are 1) NOT funny, and 2) SO offensive.

Here’s the email joke this relative sent this week:

A woman goes to the doctor, beaten black and blue.

Doctor: “What happened?”

Woman: “Doctor, I don’t know what to do. Every time my husband comes home drunk, he beats me to a pulp.”

Doctor: “I have a real good medicine for that. When your husband comes home drunk, just take a glass of sweet tea and start swishing it in your mouth. Just swish and swish but don’t swallow until he goes to bed and is asleep.”

Two weeks later the woman comes back to the doctor looking fresh and reborn.

Woman: “Doctor, that was a brilliant idea! Every time my husband came home drunk, I swished with sweet tea. I swished and swished, and he didn’t touch me!”

Doctor: “You see how much keeping your mouth shut helps?”

Wow. WOW. WOW. So we women deserve to get the crap beaten outta us because we can’t keep out mouths shut???


If that weren’t bad enough, I noticed on the list of recipients the name of a young girl, a mutual acquaintance, who happens to be about 18 years old. (And, yes, the sender is a male.) Is this the message he wants to send to an 18-year-old girl he cares about? That women just need to keep their yaps shut? That not keeping your yap shut is the thing that makes a man hit you?? That it’s YOUR fault if you’re hit?

I imagine most women reading this either have experienced being hit or know women who have been hit. I have. I do. And it’s not the woman’s fault. It’s NOT.

In what universe is this joke funny?? Or, really, tell me if I’m overreacting. And then tell me what you’d do about this person who’s sending these jokes.

I have no idea what to do. Or, rather, I know what I WANT to do, but I think the price of doing it may be too high.

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