This is my week for getting hollered at by guys in cars, it seems.

Saturday morning John and I were at our apartment-to-be (more on which later, if I remember) signing all the lease paperwork, when I stepped outside for a minute to double-check my license plate number. As I was walking down the sidewalk, a man in a passing car yelled “Work it, girl, work it!” in my direction.

I’ll have you know, in case you are my mother, that I was not, in fact, working it, nor was I dressed even remotely like a prostitute. Guys are weird like that. And by weird I mean assholes. And yes, of course I mean all guys, at all times, in all situations. Assholes. Everyone knows there’s no nuance on the internet.

Anyway, I went back inside and told the girl doing our paperwork that the neighbors seemed friendly.

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