Dirty Hosts

I may have to hurry, as my connection karma may have rested itself, unknowingly, in the bed of an ambulance, or the passenger seat of a firetruck.  It seems wherever and whenever I roam, if there are sirens of some sort involved, the Internets have been known to go out…

Interesting who our civil servants choose to protect, and who to put out into the cold…

Anyways, rambling…

So I know I should be continuing the horror story about how I lost my career due to social networking, academic politics and until recently unbeknownst to me, my family’s ties to the mafia – but let’s digress a moment; ahm, even further than we already have, shall we?

I’d like to rant about the week I’ve just had, in the icebox known as “Chicago.”

I’ve been biting my tongue until now.  Biting so hard that it’s begun to bleed, and swell and throb as a constant reminder of my position in life. 

Goddamn my subconscious has a sick sense of hyperbole.

Remember me saying “It’s not who you know, but who knows you” ??  Maybe not. And maybe this situation doesn’t qualify, as this person SUPPOSEDLY didn’t know me, until I spilled some secrets about me that I’d been writing about. He was an editor, afterall; and here I went and thought I had made a serendipitous connection.

Let’s first set the stage, shall we?

I knew that if I wasn’t able to find a job soon, I would be forced to couchsurf with some kind soul that opens their doors and their lives to strangers.  And let’s face it, I am a risk taker. If staying with strangers, sharing our lives and dreams, our personal habits and our meals means that I take too much risk upon myself, then so be it.

I refuse to be bullied into feardom.

Our local militias seemed to have done a good job at that.  Setting our hearts against anything different, coddling our lives and calling it “safety” – inciting our fears so that we stay put, and stay quiet. Oh, and then blaming it all on government – instead of the real perpetrators – maybe even some of the pervy militia themselves…

It’s quite ingenious, actually. But I digress.

Speaking of politics. The guy, “Mike”, that I had connected with on Couchsurfing.com listed himself as a Republican Libertarian, but made no qualms about telling me he paid no rent, and had been on disability for over a year.  Libertarian…riiiight.  His gadgets and first world comforts seemed to be wholly subsidized by the same government he “theoretically” spurns. 

I would be embarrassed.  I kept hearing Worf chant “He has no honor” in my head. As a result, I made promises to myself about cutting down on the Star Trek binge viewing.

Mike seemed nice enough at first.  He had a lisp so thick that I kept asking him to repeat himself.  I guessed he weighed in at a generous 300 lbs., to wit I imagined jolly st. nick – helping others out of jams, fostering animals, and showing the single female couchsurfers the town of Chicago in a non-threatening manner. 

Also, I thought he was gay.

Anyway, after explaining my situation, and professing my gratitude – helping him walk his dog, cleaning his dishes AND the bathroom (oh my god the bathroom, just wait) – it seems he felt that I was the kind of girl that would appreciate being hit on. Again. And Again. Despite my good-natured deflections. Despite my straight-faced “Yeah, that will never happen, Mike. Get over it.”

So what did I tell him?

I told him that I was unemployed.  I told him that I was writing a book based on my childhood and my family (i.e., abuse, violence, cops n robbers, etc).  I told him that I was bi-sexual, but leaned straight.  I told him that I didn’t talk to much of my family as a result of all of the above.

Yes. I admit.  We drank wine that first night.  Wine is good for getting me to blab.  Wine is not good for getting me in bed. Ever.  Unless it’s spiked with Roofies – which is another set of stories.

The point is, he “thought” he had identified a vulnerable woman, and he decided to Go In, hard.

All 300 lbs. of him.

Okay, so…  Maybe I’m not bikini beach ready – but I’m still soccer mom cute, wearing a size 10/12.  I’m 46, but I look 36. I have style.  I have boobs AND brains.  I have a Master’s degree and can debate on the level with the rest of the Nerdists –

THIS DOESN’T MEAN I WANT YOU TO SEX ME.

He threw every dumb ass line from the bro book at me:

“Wow, hot meals, and free alcohol and any movie you could ever want to watch – you are some lucky girl.”

“Hey, have you seen that I have a bidet?  I wonder why no-one is using it. You can use it if you want.”

“Oh hey, did you see my yearbook?  I went to High School with John Cusack. I guess he was kind of a dick.”

“Wow, it’s really cold out, and here you are sitting in a warm house, next to a space heater.  You are a lucky girl, aren’t you?”

Oh my god. I would be laughing if I weren’t so angry.

Let’s talk about that bidet.

I kept wondering if there was a mini Go-Pro cam attached to it.

Can you imagine for just one moment, using a bidet in a toilet that never gets cleaned after someone defecates?

Okay, I doubt I need to go on.

That is all…

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