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Hotter than a $2 cookstove? Not quite…

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MorningSunNo, Virginia, it is NOT 120 degrees in lovely uptown Arizona today. Ridikulous hysterical journalists!

At 2:00 in the afternoon, it’s only 118° out there. This is about as hot as it’s likely to get today. And it’s really not that extreme. Around the first part of July, temps upward of 115° are common. It’s a little early. But Mother Nature does not schedule her moods according to the Gregorian Calendar.

This morning it was only 85° out there when Ruby, Cassie, and I took to the streets (about 4:30 or quarter to 5. Back at the Funny Farm, the Human booted the Bird out of the pool and took over the territory for itself. The water was fairly cool. Showering and washing my hair in the hose was even a little chilly.

We who are a Human then cleaned and backwashed the pool, its filter having become a bit clogged after the tree-trimming venture. Before it got much hotter, the Human had the floors vacuumed and the bathrooms cleaned.

The Dogs are shedding more than one would expect at this season–it’s only been a week or so since the last House Cleansing. Usually the place can go a couple of weeks without a serious cleaning. But as tufts of dog hair drifted through the air, I realized I was going to be forced to break out the vacuum cleaner. Phhphhhbbffttt! The thing was chuckablock full of dog hair after a quickie cleanup.

Then it was on to the bathrooms.

I really, really love those Mrs. Meyer’s household cleaners. They don’t stink too bad — the ideal flavor is “bluebell,” a mild scent that smells neither industrial nor annoyingly aromatherapeutic — and they really clean well. The laundry detergent, the glass cleaner, and the all-purpose surface cleaner all work very effectively.

They also have a toilet cleaner that actually works better than Lysol (!!!), but it only comes in “lemon verbena” and “lavender,” neither of which are my favorite scents.

A couple of days ago, in the absence of any immediately pressing editorial assignments, I succumbed to a frenzy of house-cleaning and went so far as to — hang onto your hat — clean the walls and woodwork.

The difference is amazing. I actually was thinking it was time to have the house’s interior painted. But scrubbing down the walls, which was energetic but not all that difficult, made such a difference that I think the paint job can be put off for awhile longer. Thank goodne$$.

I’d like to condition (not to say “oil,” which one should not…) the leather furniture and also oil the kitchen cabinets. But laziness trumps industry at this time of year. It’s been quite a while since I’ve applied orange oil to the kitchen woodwork…it’s quite a job, and until recently I haven’t been up for “quite a job.”

Orange oil, FYgeneralI, is really nice on furniture and real-wood cabinetry. It’s even better than lemon oil, and it smells better, too. I wouldn’t use anything else on the wildly expensive Thomas Moser creations that litter my house…but it also does wonders for the pine cabinets that Satan and Proserpine installed in the kitchen. (But DO be careful if you have light-colored wood or, of course, on untreated wood).

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So lest you think  all this domestic energy signals a benign climate here in the Valley of the We Do Mean Sun…consider. Two hapless souls, both young people, dared to challenge the desert in all its summer severity, with dire consequences.

A pair of young men  took it upon themselves to hike the Peralta Trail, a parched and shadeless track through the Superstition Mountains. They left at 7:30 in the morning — about two hours too late — and failed to carry enough water with them. By 1:30 p.m. one of them, a 25-year-old, was gone.

And today another  young person — a 28-year-old woman — collapsed on a trail in one of the city’s mountain parks. It was only 9 in the morning, at which time the temps were around 95 or 100 degrees, and her party was only about a mile from the trailhead. Not likely she would have succumbed to heat exhaustion and dehydration after just a mile of hiking, especially since she was apparently quite fit. More likely she has some unrecognized physical condition.

I’ve hiked the desert in 100-degree-plus heat and, evidently, not died. But. I carried phenomenal amounts of water with me (you don’t even want to know how much a gallon or two of water weighs), and I stuck to the washes, where tangles of riparian brush and trees provide a lot of shade. If you simply must do any such foolish thing, you have to carry a great deal more water than you think you’ll need — and that probably will not be enough. And you have to hit the trail right at dawn, not a minute later.

Alas. Our imports from other parts of the country seem to have no clue.

Please. It’s hot here. Stay home. Don’t come to Arizona in the summertime.

Sun

Caveat Emptor: Amazon as Consumer’s Pal

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All your base are belong to us!
All your base are belong to us!

So on the corgi forum where I hang out, I’ve read about this harness that hooks to the leash in front, instead of up at the back. The strange positioning of the leash clip discourages your dog from surging forward and dragging you down the street.

Perfect, think I, for Ruby the World-Class Iditarod Champion.

Yesterday I happen upon a new-to-me locally owned pet store, which just opened next to my habituated Trader Joe’s. When I go in to shoof it out, I run across one of these exotic harnesses. Naturally, I buy it: size medium. The cost: $39.99.

I put this on Ruby early this morning, when it’s cool enough to walk — along about 4:30.

Amazingly, it works as advertised: Ruby walks right along with me. Right from the git-go! She does not try to haul me to Yuma.

But, even though I tighten it as much as possible, it just doesn’t fit Ruby. In fact, it’s so loose she manages to climb out of it.

Luckily, Cassie heels as a matter of course. So I take her collar off her and put it on Ruby, who would take off for Yuma on her own if she got free for an instant.

Back at the Funny Farm, I happen to look up these Easy Walk harnesses on Amazon, by way of seeing what commenters have to say. And there, what should I find but that the things are going for $23, and one vendor is offering it for $17.99! Free shipping, one and all.

Well sh!t. I am royally irked.

I take the thing back and tell the manager the it’s too large. She says do I want an exchange or a refund. I say a refund, I guess, since I can get it for $17 at Amazon. Not looking even faintly surprised, she says, “We match prices.”

I think, Isn’t THAT sleazy? You’ll rip off your customers as long as they don’t wise up, hm? But since I’d like to have one of these things and not wait several days to get it, I exchange it for a size small.

Can you imagine? They know they’re gouging and they have the effrontery to, in effect, admit it by dropping their price to the lowest bid…but only if you’ve gone and searched it out.

Brought the “small” size home. Doesn’t fit Ruby: way, WAY too small. So now I’ll have to traipse back up there again to return it.

Y’know, I prefer to shop local. Given a choice between a locally owned retailer and some faceless mega-chain, I’ll buy things like this from the local store. And yeah, I’m willing to pay a couple of dollars more for the privilege, understanding how business works.

But not twice as much!

The Cheapskate Jamboree: How much is a man’s life worth?

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PalmTree1Yesterday a neighbor called and asked if I could give her Gerardo’s phone number, he having recently deployed his underlings to trim the hated palm trees that flank (and contaminate) the swimming pool.

In the course of conversation, she asked how much I’d paid.

“Two hundred and forty bucks,” I said. “For four trees.”

“That’s too much!” she squawked. “I only paid $30 a tree the last time.”

Let’s think about that…

A Mexican fan palm is a nasty plant. Those fronds that wave so decoratively in the breeze are lined with vicious thorns. They’re very heavy, and they do not readily biodegrade, presenting a serious headache for waste disposal companies in cities where a lot of yards have palms.

Over the course of a year, a season’s green fronds die off as new fronds grow in, creating a “skirt” of dead palm fronds around the trunk. This stuff harbors cockroaches, snakes, black widows, and termites. Also, to the eye of the gringo, it’s unaesthetic. In the springtime, the commonplace Mexican fan palm, which grows to about 100 feet, sprouts long, prolific seed wands (“inflorescences”) that drop PalmTreeSeedstiny, hard flowers into the pool and then eventually drop hard seeds into the water. The flowers clog the filter, forcing you to backwash once or twice a week — a job that should need to be done no more than once every two or three months — and soon requiring you to hire a guy to come take the filter apart and clean it professionally. The seeds also get into the filter, and in addition they BREAK your $350 pool cleaner.

So, we of the White Middle Class hire a class of fearless Mexicans who show up armed with lumberjack equipment. In 100-degree heat, these men will climb a hundred feet into the air, saw off the dead fronds (and, unfortunately, many of the live ones), and cut off the damn seed things.

Then they climb down and fish all that crap out of your pool. This latter chore alone can best be described as one bitch of a job.

All of that might be shrugged off as the life of a Mexican immigrant, hm?

No.

Trimming a palm tree is about as dangerous a job as you can take on. Every year or two, a man gets killed when he undertakes to cut back a palm.

In addition to the obvious risk of falling a hundred feet or so, you have the problem that palm fronds are extremely heavy. If one falls on you and you can’t get free of it, the thing will suffocate you in short order.

This is a common fate of those who die in the palm-trimming trade.

If you’re all the way at the top of a 100-foot trunk and you’re tied to the thing with a lumberjack’s belt, you can’t get out from under a frond that drops down onto your head and face. And nobody can get up there to help you before you smother.

If you’re on the ground and one of the things falls on you, it can knock you out and suffocate you as you lay there, if it doesn’t kill you quickly by breaking your neck. The trimmer himself can’t get down the tree in time to save your life. Assuming he notices at all.

Often you’ll see these guys working with just one spotter on the ground.

Gerardo supervises the job himself, and he also shows up with at least two other guys to wrangle the fronds as the trimmer drops them. But even then: only the trimmer has climbing equipment. If anything happens to him while he’s at the top, none of the men on the ground can get up there fast enough to help him. Without gear, only the strongest and most agile of men could get up there at all.

Forty bucks is too much to pay a man who freaking risks his life so you can have a damn palm tree in your yard? Next to your freaking pool?????

Personally, I think Gerardo is giving away his guys’ services. The trimmer is not going to get anything like $40 per tree, because Gerardo has to pay the other two guys, and he undoubtedly skims off something for his own time — or at least, he surely should. I can’t believe he charges anything less than about $200 a tree.

And even at that: is a man’s life worth $200?

PalmTree2

Orlando: What to think?

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orlandoAnother atrocity occurs, and once again we have frenzies of screaming about everything from Islamism to gun laws. That the horrific event was not an act of foreign or even of true domestic terrorism doesn’t change the fact that crazies on the right think we must immediately ban all Muslims from immigrating and crazies on the left think we must immediately confiscate all Americans’ guns. That the perpetrator himself was crazy gets lost in the uproar.

The sanest conversation I’ve heard about the heartbreaking event in Orlando is taking place in a Facebook group called Writers of Nonfiction, where a member asked,

DO WRITERS HAVE A DUTY to give a voice to the feelings of important times? The news out of Orlando yesterday was horrifying in its scope for so many reasons. The internet responded by widely circulating Mr. Rogers’s “look for the helpers” quote. Prominent political figures scrambled to posture, and news outlets stepped over each other to try and scoop each new detail first. As a writer, do you feel you have a higher duty to bring your point of view to the much-needed catharsis of profoundly stirring events? In what ways are you moved — or not — to action or expression?

The responses, which went on throughout the day, were more than you could count: dozens and dozens. They were thoughtful, reasoned, and insightful, and as the hours passed they explored any number of issues related to the phenomenon of high-profile mass shootings.

Since it’s a private group, I hesitate to quote much of what is said there. But I have no fear of repeating what I said myself. 😉

One member remarked, in response to another comment, that he tried to “take the moderate approach, adding a middle ground that dilutes some of that whipping up behavior. As I mentioned, I feel I have an obligation to join the conversation, but I clearly have an equal obligation to do so with respect and consideration, never letting go with the off-the-cuff comments.” I came back with this:

Yes! It’s hard to stay moderate when something like this happens. And “Moderate,” alas, is not my middle name… That’s why, at least for me, it’s probably best to watch and wait before jumping into the fray.

That, to come back and address Barbara’s question, is not to say writers have no obligation to speak out. Those who think faster than I do and who are able to separate reasoning from emotion better than I do absolutely should put fingers to keyboard. Pour moi: I’m chronically mad as a hummingbird and really need to keep a grip on the opinions until the adrenaline passes.

I do not know when I’ve ever been so angry as when I learned the Orlando shooter was able to buy a street-sweeper even though the FBI was aware of his terrorist leanings. It has taken until this morning for me to remember the FBI abuses during the Civil Rights and the Vietnam War periods, and to remind myself that a citizen’s civil rights should not be curtailed because some government agency dislikes what he thinks. In this case, a “guilty until proven innocent” policy would have saved lives. But do we really want such a policy in place, all the time?

These are difficult, terrible issues. It takes time to think them through. I personally am not quick enough on my feet to start writing before some time has passed. But…writing is what we writers do, and what we should do when we have something significant to say on the big issues of life.

What a lot of stupid stuff appears in the media whenever a gut-wrenching event like this happens! Journalists must be trained to ask shallow questions and utter sappy things: that’s the only explanation. And we have the evidence.

I belong to a group whose members volunteer to let students at the Great Desert University’s School of Journalism to interview us, by way of preparing print and broadcast copy. And by golly, before the day is half-done, along comes this little quiz (complete, here, with my responses):

• What most concerns you about the shootings? Are politicians and community leaders addressing those concerns?

The politicization of the event: everyone is jumping right on the bandwagon to push his or her special agenda. Politicians and community leaders by and large ARE the concern.

• Does this shooting change the way you think about your safety? Is there anything that should be done about public safety in Arizona?

Question 1: No.
Question 2: Yes. Improve mental health care and make effective mental health care services available to unstable, mentally sick individuals. All of them. Without cavil, without stigma,  and without excessive cost to the person.

• Do you fear terrorism is becoming more prevalent in America?

No. Of course not. Please don’t promulgate such silliness. In the first place, the perpetrator was not a terrorist. In the second place, an efflorescence of madness is not an act of terrorism.

You’re many, many times more likely to be hurt or killed by a lightning strike, a car wreck, or a fall from a ladder than you are to be harmed by a terrorist.

• Do you consider this a hate crime? Why or why not?

To the extent that a mentally ill individual can commit a crime, obviously it’s a “hate” crime. This demented soul was consumed with hatred. Evidently he was not actually associated, in any real way, with any of the terrorist groups who are our self-appointed enemies. Thus his act was not terrorism in the sense of war-like acts motivated by political goals. Clearly his act was motivated by hatred.

• Has the Orlando massacre affected any community you belong to? If so, how?

Of course everyone is disturbed, heartbroken, and angry. Many of my friends are gay, lesbian, or trans, and about 99.8 percent of my friends are Americans. All of them are horrified and grieved.

• How should we talk to children about what happened in Orlando? What do we tell them?

I wouldn’t know. It’s been a long time since I had a child around, and when I did, children didn’t have access to social media and electronic tools that expose them not only to responsible reports but to lurid alternatives. I don’t envy parents today.

I have one more thing to say about that, and then I will sit down and shut up:

All through the day, NPR journalists repeated the phrase “the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history.” They said that over and over, about every five minutes. The meme was picked up, seemingly on every news outlet in the land.

Folks. Fifty victims “the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history” do not make.

Leaving aside Wounded Knee, where 150 men, women, and children were massacred by Euro-American soldiers, the ground is littered with corpses, white, black, and Indian.

• In 1877, for example, a band of US soldiers and civilian volunteers attacked a Nez Perce village as the residents slept, slaughtering 89 men, women, and children before the Indians fought them off.

• In 1872 — right down the road from where I write today, my friends — US troops and Indian scouts killed 76 Yavapai Indians who had taken refuge in a remote cavern in the Salt River Canyon, today known (aptly) as Skeleton Cave.

• A year before that, the ex-mayor of Tucson and a group of Mexican and Yankee followers with about 100 allied Pima Indians attacked a band of Pinal and Aravaipa Apache men, women, and children who had surrendered to the US Army and taken refuge next to Camp Grant. More than 100 were killed; a sole adult survivor and a number of children were sold into slavery.

• On the ranch I used to own with several business partners, up out of Yarnell on the road from Kirkland Junction to Crown King, you could see the adobe footings of an old Indian village, up atop a low knoll that overlooked the area above the Hassayampa River. One time I asked our foreman, a grizzled old-timer who had known the Hole-in-the-Wall gang as a young fellow, what he knew about that. He said the villagers had been exterminated by the locals. And, he remarked, “it was a good thing.”

• Native Americans have not been the sole targets of our historic atrocities. In 1857, a band of Mormons attacked a wagon train passing through southwestern Utah. They killed 120 men, women, and children.

•  Not quite in the same category, but close, were the race riots that took place in Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1921, during which some 300 people died.

The episodes barely scratch the surface.

Please. Let us contain our hysteria. The explosions of madness we see today among our neglected mentally ill and our hate-infected enemies are truly hideous. But in the interest of our own sanity, we need to cling to the truth and to keep the facts in perspective.

Hotter than the Hubs of Hades…

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Ducks Saturday enhancedThe weather is actually cooler than it has over the past week here in the Valley of the We-Do-Mean Sun. It was only 96 today, probably because we had some cloud cover. Now, at quarter to nine p.m., it’s a chilly 91.2, with a 20% chance of rain.

Yesterday I was over at SDXB’s place in Sun City: 110 degrees and overcast. Holeeee sh!t. The sky was this glarey white, all over…it hurt your eyes to drive, even with dark glasses on. And my shades are dark!

Last week it hit 115 at my house; SDXB got a reading of 120 in his backyard out in Sun City.

It’s way early for this kind of heat. This is Fourth of July heat. And humidity readings between 25% and 62%: that’s August weather.

Mercifully, we still have power here. Both the local power companies have had outages all over the county today. No air conditioning in these temps is truly not fun.

I don’t even want to think about what the power and water bills are going to be this month. My poor son, whose home is in the predatory Arizona Public Service’s district, is going to see an 8% increase on his already exorbitant bills. He already gets $350 bills for his little 1300-square-foot house, which he keeps uncomfortably warm during the summer months when he can’t use the swamp cooler. By comparison, my house — which doesn’t have swamp cooling — will max its power bills at around $230 for 1860 square feet, with a pool.

When I moved in here about 11 years ago, I figured the pool added about $40/month to the power bill. Rates of course have gone up since then, so it’s probably a little more. But his house has no pool, and APS charges him about $100 more for a much smaller house.

Can’t complain too much, because the spring was gorgeous and it lasted on and on.

Still. Sure could do without that $400 car repair bill on power bills for 115-degree days.

The pool is heavenly, though. How did I ever get through a summer when I lived in houses that didn’t have pools???

{Answer: it used to be one helluva lot cooler here, that’s how!}

This is the first time in two years that I’ve been able to use the pool. Neither surgeon —  boob or belly — would allow me to go anywhere near a swimming pool. By the time I could get back in the water last summer, it was water was getting too chilly for comfort.

Results: I got fat (have dropped five pounds over the past few weeks! 🙂 ), and the pool has been so extravagantly neglected that it’s taken a lot of work to get it cleaned up and stabilized. Had to backwash twice over the past few days. But now it looks pretty good. I think it’ll be OK until this winter, when it will need some maintenance upgrades…probably a repla$stering job.

The new mother duck is hanging around out there. She waddles out of her nest about once a day, usually early in the morning, stands around looking skittish, and then disappears again. Ruby and Cassie are riveted by her.

I’m pretty sure this is not the famous DuckDuck. She’s much more shy and nervous than last year’s Duck, who seemed to have little or no fear. DuckDuck was not impressed by curious dogs, nor would she move off if the human walked into the pool area. This little bird, who seems a little smaller than DuckDuck, is very wary and will take off if she thinks you’re excessively interested in her.

Speaking of the swimming pool, it’s time to take a quick dip and then go to bed. And so, away…

Signs of the Times

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This is weird! A bunch of SEO data somehow inserted itself into this post. My apologies… think it’s fixed. But since I proofed this piece several times, I’m sure I would’ve seen that bit of strangeness. In fact, I recall reading that passage several times. Is WordPress as weird as Wyrd? Should we rename it Wyrdpress?

The News of the Day is its usual eye-popping self. Lots of shouting and self-righteous screaming just now about the Stanford rape case. Anyone who dares to suggest that it might not be wise to drink until you pass out next to a garbage bin is instantly accused of sexism and abetting the rape culture, to the tune of RAPE IS NOT OK delivered in high decibels. As though questioning the victim’s judgment equated to “rape somehow is OK”!

As a practical matter, that ugly turn of events is the logical outcome of the drug- and alcohol-laced party culture that permeates college campuses in this country. Elite schools are no exception. It also is the outcome of the (highly profitable!) custom of lionizing college athletes, leading them to feel entitled to do as they please.

When my son was at his elite high school, he and his friends took to calling young men like Mr. Turner “jock-rapists.” By that they meant handsome, affluent, athletic, aggressive “stars” of the sort who spend their college years making lots of money for schools like Stanford (and all the rest of them) by playing on athletic teams. Surely, a degree of sour grapes was going on there…but as we can see by the circumstances around the Turner case, he and his pals were not so far off base.

I knew a young woman who attended a private liberal arts school in the same tier as, say, Claremont, Whittier, or Carleton. She and her friends were given to some very heavy drinking and also to a bit of drug use. This was current and customary on the campus, where dormitories were coed and many students lived, unsupervised, in apartments near the campus.

One evening she went out with a handsome jock-rapist type and got very, very drunk indeed. This, we might add, was nothing out of the ordinary — it was pretty typical behavior in her social set on the campus. She went to the young man’s dorm room — his bedroom — where she took off all her clothes and climbed into his bed.

What you would expect to happen…well, happened.

If you were a studly young man, what would you think a girl wants when she gets naked and climbs into your bed?

The next day, she went to the infirmary and asked for a morning-after pill. There, the college’s nurse informed her that she had been raped (because she was drunk at the time, you understand, and so in theory couldn’t give informed consent to the young man into whose bed she had installed herself). The nurse urged her to file charges against her fellow student.

Probably to the benefit of all concerned, the young woman declined to do so.

The point is, I fear, we are failing our girl children today in not teaching them that, unfair as it is, they run certain special risks because they are female, and in failing to teach them how to keep themselves safe. Colleges compound that failure by failing to restrict behavior in on-campus and near-campus living facilities and by failing to engage strategies that foster safe conditions for residential students.

In the same way, we’re failing our boy children. Mr. Turner’s life is ruined, permanently. He will never fulfill the promise he showed in a high-school career that got him into Stanford. Had my acquaintance reported a casual sex act that ensued after a night of heavy drinking as “rape,” another young man’s life would have been ruined.

We fail our young women when we give them the idea that they’re entitled to do as they please, even in very risky situations, without helping them to understand the potential consequences. We’re failing to let them see that having a right to be safe from harassment and unwanted sexual advances does not mean you are safe from those things.

Because we’re letting them think they can drink themselves into a stupor and dance suggestively on tables and stumble around the streets late at night with impunity, we set them up for harm.

Where were both young people’s parents when they were in high school? Why did Mr. Turner’s parents and Ms. X’s parents not teach them how to drink? And did Mr. Turner’s parents really not inform him of the damage he could do to himself in a single booze-enhanced moment, to say nothing of the damage he could do to someone else?

Yeah, I know: it’s illegal to give your kids a highball or a glass of wine with dinner. But I also know that in the homes of the rich and famous, it’s commonplace. One woman in our neighborhood of lawyers and doctors used to throw an annual party for her high-schoolers, where drinking was allowed openly, on the theory that if the parents could keep an eye on the brats, they could see to it that they didn’t weave off into the night in their cars.

That’s inappropriate, IMHO.

But it is not inappropriate, in the privacy of your home, to let your nearly adult kid have a glass or two by way of instructing him or her on how alcohol affects the body. Experience is the best teacher — certainly, when it’s about something that’s influenced by a lot of peer pressure, guided experience is one helluva lot better than a lecture or some video delivered in a classroom.

There are experiences that no human being should have, and one of them is being attacked while laying unconscious in an alcoholic stupor. My point is not that RAPE IS OK, for godsake, but that even though it’s not OK, it does occur. Unless we teach our young women that they are at risk, unfair as it is, and that the risk is hugely enhanced when you’re impaired by alcohol and drugs, these horrible things are going to keep happening.

If I may, by way of heading off the self-righteous shrieks likely to follow on this rumination, let me tell you that I also was attacked in circumstances very like Ms. X’s, when I was about her age. A neighbor in the apartment building where I lived — a guy that I’d met at the pool and knew casually — invited me over for a daiquiri.

This gent could make a killer daiquiri. And of course, that was what he was counting on. He’d laced the drink with copious amounts of rum, which was pretty much unnoticeable behind the sweetly delicious blend of mixers. I hadn’t finished half of a refill before I could barely stand up.

At that point, he started to take my clothes off.

I resisted. He tried to restrain me. I was in no condition to fight him off.

Fortunately, he was momentarily distracted by someone outside. I managed to slip away from him and get out the front door. Once I was running across the balcony in my high heels, headed toward my own apartment, he pursued me but didn’t catch me — it was a crowded apartment building with a lot of people coming and going, and if I’d yelled for help it would have attracted attention.

I made it to my place, got inside, locked the door behind me, and called my boyfriend. Then I spent a fair amount of the evening throwing up rum.

Yeah, the guy was a scoundrel and a predator. If he’d succeeded in screwing me, he probably would have deserved to go to jail.

But I don’t believe I was without fault in that scenario. I knew better than to go to a strange man’s apartment alone. And it was incredibly stupid to accept a sugary alcoholic drink from such a man. In his apartment. Alone. I was lucky alcohol wasn’t the only thing he put in the stuff.

The point is, no, overly trusting women don’t “deserve” to be attacked by predatory men. But all women need to be aware that such men exist and that some circumstances predispose us to attacks. To ignore the risks is foolish. To insist that nothing will happen because nothing should happen is foolish.

You can’t go around in a chador. But neither should you wear a sign that reads “CFM.”