Wednesday, March 12, 2008

I'm learning to make fancy pastries--French mostly, mais oui, but also German and Viennese and Belgian. Thus far I've conquered the bouchette delice, the bresilienne, and the napoleon (among others). I haven't the heart (or the stomach--or friends enough with stomachs enough) to conquer some of the larger and more complicated confections like the profiteroles or the strawberry Vosgien. I've gotten some recipes from the Joy of Cooking (of course) but also from www.thefrenchpastrychef.com. Check it out!

The weather yesterday and today was gorgeous--I went running outside IN SHORTS and was still totally comfy. Unfortunately, and unbeknownst to me, yesterday was apparently Be A Creepy Old Guy Harassing Young Women Day. Yesterday this guy was running really close to me on the trail, and there weren't a lot of other people around, and he was starting to make me nervous. I speeded up, he speeded up. I dropped back, he dropped back. Finally, after a while, he reached out like he was going to grab my arm--almost nonchalantly, if you can imagine that. I was so not in a mood to be screwed with; I was just trying to enjoy my day, dammit. So I veered off in another direction, towards a part of the path where there were more people, and I said, "Motherfucker, if you touch me I will kick you in the balls so hard I'll make your brothers sterile."
It was perhaps unwarranted. It was perhaps excessive. I'm still not sorry I said it. It felt right for the moment, y'know? And at the end of my run, there was this other creepy old guy by the bus stop very obviously ogling all the women walking/running by. I should have used the line about the balls on him, too, but instead I powered through the last few hundred yards of my run and called it a day. I don't want to give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing he got to me, but on the other hand by saying nothing I'm implicitly reinforcing the idea that what he's doing is acceptable. Maybe in Testosteroneville making gutteral noises as you watch someone run by is considered complimentary; here in the Real World it's at best rude and at worst threatening. Here's a quarter, dude, go buy yourself a ticket for the Clue Train. The next one leaves the station in five minutes, and if your raggedy harassin' ass isn't on it, I may do something to your reproductive organs that we'll both regret. But you'll regret it a lot more than I will.

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