No Scrubs!

Okay.

My secret's up. Most of you know it anyway. I'm a girl. That's right, the attitude and opinions expressed within this blog are (mostly) those of a 30 year old girl. Why am I coming out about this now?

Because.

Boys? We need to talk.

Just because you think I'm hot doesn't mean I care. What I mean is, when I'm walking and I'm dressed in heels and a skirt-suit, don't honk at me. Don't whistle at me. Don't hang out of the passenger's side window and holler at me.

I swear, I lost count of how many guys honked, cat-called, slowed down, and hollered to me while I walked a mile or so in heels and a skirt-suit. I was on my way to an interview for a position I wasn't sure I even wanted (not that I have any better idea as to what that position is now that I'm home from said interview).

So, for those of you who have no idea what I look like. I'm a red head. I'm 5'5" short and about 145lbs. Most of my friends are really nice and say "You don't look that heavy!" Stop the flattery. Yes I do. I'm just happy to be back in size 10's, thank you very much.

I have boobs. Apparently, this is what the guys think sets me apart from other women. I would think that my hair would do it, but no. It's my boobs. Or my butt. I didn't think this particular suit was all that flattering, but I guess from a passing car or a cherry picker, I look pretty hot.

Which is good. Because I was ROASTING! This is Southern California. It is a desert. I think I was starting to limp by the point everyone started making the cat calls and honking because my beautiful silver heels were digging into my feet. I have blisters. I have a gash on the back of my ankle--all this so I could dress professionally for an interview at a company that doesn't seem to know the meaning of "dress professionally."

They also, apparently, don't know how to answer my question of "what exactly will I be doing and what, exactly, is the position?" There are only so many ways to ask this question. I've tried several. I've gotten the same, vague answer.

...and yet!

They want me back tomorrow for a follow up interview.

Back on topic.

Scrubs.

Okay, okay, not that kind. But, still. I'm not sure which has been worse for me. Wearing a skirt suit with nylons and heels--and, let me be very clear here. The particular suit in question today had a light blue skirt that was one inch above my knees. The top was a short sleeved button-down shirt-jacket that was white and light blue plaid. My nylons are always "nude" since I don't tan (see the reference: RED HEAD), and my shoes were silver, pointy-toed heels. My hair was down and that was that. It was a very professional look. If I could have worn "something casual, but nice," I probably would have worn one of my denim mini skirts, nylons, boots and a clingy top. And I probably wouldn't have gotten cat calls in that.

Maybe it was just the section of town...

I dunno. I just know that I stepped off the bus and felt like I was somewhere beyond Thunderdome. I was in a residential area and felt like there were things hiding in the shrubbery, waiting to jump out and attack me. Of course, I have heels. And kick really hard. And, I'm a singer--classically trained. Which, if you can't figure that out, I have a large lung capacity and a very high voice. You attack me, I'll break your eardrums. And your gonads.

So, me. Walking. In a bad neighborhood. Getting catcalls every three minutes. I should be flattered. Maybe the first three times. After that, I was at the point that I wanted to implement the "3-honks a month" rule--you get to use your horn three times in the month. If you waste it, your fault. I also made up my mind that the next person to whistle or holler at me was getting flipped off.