Back Off, Lady

I experienced my first brush with guerrilla charity recruitment yesterday. By the time the bloodthirsty representative of a local organization sniffed me out, I had already been significantly burnt by the sun, had my arm smashed between two splintery wooden poles, and collided (violently) with the edge of a metal trailer.

I was already at a charity event, the Hilton Head Equestrian Exposition, representing SCAD's equestrian team. I was innocently kneeling on the edge of a polo field, waiting for one of the exhibition riders to knock down a pole so I could sprint across the field and re-set it, when a gaudily clad figure stepped in front of me.

Gaudy Lady: Are you guys from SCAD?
Me: (looking down a the logo on my polo shirt) Yes ma'am
GL: And why exactly aren't you a volunteer with my charity?
Me: (scanning the horizon for an escape path) I'm sorry?
GL: Shouldn't you be volunteering for my organization? It has to do with horses.
Me: Oh, um, well, we would love to volunteer for everyone, it's just that we are student athletes, so we have to divide our time between...
GL (interrupting): Well what do you do on Saturdays?
Me: I mean, we have competitions and many of us have jobs.
GL: Come over to our table. I'll give you information so you can come to orientation tomorrow.
Me: Oh. O.K...

And I follow, meekly, to her table, accepting stacks of brochures and newsletters, apologizing for not volunteering before.

I know, I know--it's for charity. But you know what? I still resent the fact that she guilted me, accused me, implied that I was lazy, or uncharitable.

So, Gaudily Dressed Lady with your bauble earrings and long-sleeved, printed, button-up shirt lumpishly stuffed under your poorly designed t-shirt, here's a little letter for you:

Yes, I'm from SCAD and no, maybe I'm not doing anything next Saturday. But to be honest, ma'am, your bristling attitude does not make me want to help you out. I'm a good person, you know. Goodish, at least. I saved a newborn kitten out of a parking lot last Halloween. I sometimes write haikus for friends for no particular reason other than to make them smile. There are times, even, when I stop to let pedestrians cross at every square between my house and Arnold Hall. I do all of these charitable things on top of my team practices, workouts, and competitions and in addition to my school work, my (unpaid) internship, and my (paid) job. So maybe I want to spend a Saturday watching America's Next Top Model re-runs. Maybe I want to drool on my pillow past 7 o'clock. And maybe, just maybe, I might want to spend the day shuffling between the microwave and my overstuffed chair with extra buttery bags of popcorn. So no, I will not volunteer for your hostile organization and no, I will not feel guilty about it.

Boo-yow.

My Dog is Not Overweight

I am the proud, devoted, smitten owner of a Welsh Corgi named Sulley. Corgis, despite their hilariously short legs, are meant to be solid, hefty dogs capable of herding flocks of geese and trotting around the Welsh countryside. My dog is of the solid type, and also happens to be quite fluffy as evidenced by his name (taken from the furry blue guy in Monsters, Inc.). All of these qualities make for one adorably disproportionate dog who is NOT, by the way, overweight.

So you can image how I feel when, while pleasantly strolling around Savannah avec Sulley, I am forced to engage on a conversation like this:

Lady on bench in a square: Oooooo look at that dog!
Me: (polite laughter)
L: Ain't he fat? Oooo ain't he fat!!
Me: (strained laughter) He's not fat, he's just fluffy.
L: He so funny lookin'! Look at them little legs and him bein' so fat!
Me: (threatening smile) Yes, he's a good boy.
L: I wanna come home with you, if you feedin' him like that!
Me: (death laughter) Oh, yes.

That's right, I didn't defend the love of my life. I didn't pat him on the head, look at her accusingly and say, "You're hurting his feelings, ma'am." I didn't get teary-eyed and storm away. I didn't do any of the things a mother would do if similar comments had been made about her baby and, let's face it, he is my baby. In retrospect, this is how I wish it had gone.
L: Ooooo look at that dog!!
Me: What, bitch? You got somethin' to say? What? What?
L: Ain't he fat? Oooo ain't he fat?
Me: (looking L up and down) Oh, right, like you can pass judgment.
L: He so funny lookin'! Look at them little legs and him bein' so fat!
Me: I got little legs for you. (KAPOW and I kick her in the face)
L: I wanna come home with you, if you feedin' him like that!
Me, to Sulley: Go ahead. Eat her ankle.

Lady on the bench in a square: if you're reading this right now, prepare yourself. You won't get my southern sweetness again.

That's a lie. Yes you will.

Damn.