12.15.98

    I'm in pain. My sinuses are killing me from this damn Santa Ana weather and my glutes are screaming out in pain for the damage I did in kickboxing yesterday.

    Are you familiar with the Santa Ana winds? They are a hot, dry wind that blow through Southern California in the spring and fall. The air smells of dust. Right now it's 81 degrees outside, fer pete's sake. There's a good description of the Santa Ana winds at the NASA site. I'm not a huge weather buff but their "Observation of the Week" archives looks interesting. It's good to know why my head feels like it has been hollowed out with a grapefruit spoon.

    Apparently, the Santa Ana winds bring with them an upsurge in domestic violence and emergency room activity. I'm not surprised as I'm pretty irritable today.

    Take this morning, for instance.

    There's this one place I go almost every morning to walk the same dog. It's in this big building full of penthouse suite apartments and there's three valets and all sort of other hired sorts. The ones at the very front are dumber than sticks. I have to deal with them everyday.

    When I park my car they insist that I give them the keys in case they have to move it. They have never had to move my car and I'm only away from my car for thirty minutes. I wouldn't be so put-out if they weren't so rude and disgusting. There's this big, Samoan-looking guy who just grunts at me. And there's the shrimpy black guy with freckles who is always commenting about my ass or my legs. It pisses me off.

    I don't make myself up at all for this dog walking gig. I run my fingers through my hair and put on some fairly ratty clothes. I wear zero make-up. The bottom line is that I ain't on my way to a beauty contest yet I'm still getting sexually harassed. This is the only reason why I ever hate being a woman. I hate it because women are so touchable by anyone and everyone. I hate that by virtue of my sex that I have to put up with that ridiculous behavior.

    So, I went to the guy who sits in the lobby managing the elevators and calling upstairs and generally organizing the whole shebang — he's very white. I asked about this policy of theirs. He says that it's a liability issue, that if something were to happen to my car that they could have prevented by moving it that they would be liable. Ummm... like what do they foresee happening to my car?! I wanted to explain about their rude doormen but the Samoan was in earshot and that's the last thing I need.

    I think that the next time that shrimpy guy says something that I'll tell him to "knock it off or I'll knock your f-ing head off." I should put those kickboxing moves to good use unless, of course, I'm actually too sore from kickboxing to move.

    Growl. Snarl. Spit. Ouch!