Day 21: Reflecting on a CAB

In light of my recent Facebook references to "CAB," it seems timely to tell a little story that supports the reasons women give out fake phone numbers.

A few weeks ago, I decided to drive to the beach on a Sunday afternoon.  I wanted to go by myself and just relax.  And to be honest, I didn't really give a shit who thought what about it.  It's what I wanted to do.

Never one to mind doing things alone (Miss Independent! She's got her own thing!), I grabbed a pile of magazines, my iPod, a blanket, and my stainless steel, BPA-free, environmentally friendly -- duh -- water bottle and headed to spend a few hours completely checked out.  Since, as we all remember, I've never been to the ocean, a little trip to Lake Erie is going to have to do.

So I'm laying there, on my stomach, sunglasses on, headphones in, donning a not-even-close-to-slutty bathing suit, minding my own business and reading a lovely issue of Vogue.  This random guy walks up to my towel, squats down, and says, "Hi, I'm Bob, mind if I talk to you for a minute?"  Uh, okay Bob, I guess.  "What did you say your name was?"  Bob, I haven't told you my name, you can't use that line on your SECOND line.  Okay, then third line: "So, do you have a boyfriend or anything?"  BOB.  You may never have been appropriately taught that that is a completely unacceptable thing to say to someone within 30 seconds.  Caught off guard, I told him, "Uhhh, no..."  LEARN HOW TO LIE, ALEXANDRA.

Bob proceeds to invite himself to remain in his squat, like 6 inches from my face, all the while I haven't removed my sunglasses, gotten off my belly, or taken out the remaining earphone to actually fully hear him.  Bob should hang out with Parma and enroll in our Social Skills classes held weekly at our Center.  Bob goes on and on for like 10 minutes, asking me where I work, where I live, what I like to do for fun, what restaurants are my favorites, etc., and I continue to give him polite yet mildly irritated one-word answers.  Bob, I came here to relax and have time to myself.  I'd like to reiterate that a woman enjoying time alone is NOT the SD that she wants to be approached.

But wait, you ask yourself.  Aren't you doing this blog to find out if men DO approach women and initiate things?  Why yes, I respond, I am.  But, I would argue that the key difference lies in the fact that there are certain social signals which should play out in order for both parties to subtly but certainly indicate their mutual interest.  Settings, surroundings, all those intangibles that amount to a clear, invited opportunity to engage with someone.  Everything about this just read: please go away.


Bob, still squatting, asked for my number, and, doing it for the blog, I figured, I suppose I'll give it to him?  In a poor tactical move, I'd left my phone laying out next to my magazine, in plain sight, so he says, "Here, give me your number, then I'll call your phone right now and you can save mine."  (In hindsight, this clearly should have been Giant Red Flag About Bob #27: he's got this number-swapping bit down to an inescapable science, because he's obviously been fooled by girls who possess social skills before!)  At any rate, I figure he'll never actually use my number and call, especially since he could (right??) see that I wasn't into this at all (i.e., one earphone STILL in).  Nope!  In 2 days, he calls and leaves a message.  Then he texts.  Regretting my decision to give a complete beach stranger/creeper my phone number, I decide that I'd rather not end up in 3000 pieces in a back alley dumpster, so I ignore it and chalk it up to bad decision-making.  A week later, I get this HORRIFYING voicemail from Bob.  "Hi Alexandra.  Just wanted to tell you that you are a cunt-ass bitch ("CAB"), and you're ugly, and you're fat, and no guys talked to you at the beach anyway (Bob, that was my hope).  And I just want to tell you that karma's a bitch, and what goes around comes around, and I'm always at that beach.  So I hope I never see you there.  And you better hope I never see you there."


Several legitimately terrifying voicemails later, and after repeated pleas from my coworkers that I please report this potentially murderous ass-clown to the police, he went away, thank God, but not without two remnants: (1) lesson learned to NEVER give your real number to someone who asks for it.  Apparently it is also encouraged to lie about being single.  Although I generally never (a) lie; or (b) fake it . . . "it" = anything; and (2) CAB is probably the best, most bad-ass acronym with which to refer to someone, mainly for its outrageously high obnoxious value.  I'm not fond at all of the first word in the acronym, and actually, the entire saying makes no literal sense, but it'll be like reclaiming derogatory slurs and empowering your respective discriminated population with them.  Consider CAB reclaimed.  And used on Bob.