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Musing #40: Self-Inflicted Mishap and Misplaced Care (or, Resting Bitch Face)

“Yeah, we’ve met before.”

Oh, how I dread those words.

Every morning for the last four-and-a-half years, I have awakened to (involuntarily) asking myself the same, awful question:

“Whom did you piss off yesterday?”

It’s (utterly self-inflicted) torture.

Forget what catalyzed that shit in the summer of 2010. The point is that I’m an other-than-morning person on the best of days, partly because I don’t drink coffee. But beginning every recent day consumed by fear of my own already-executed, however-inadvertent behavior? It’s a wonder that I get up at all.

And the ghastliest part of this daily waking inventory of interpersonal mishap? It doesn’t reflect paranoia. The worry is warranted. It’s a fact that I’m perpetually pissing people off…without meaning to. And it’s a further fact that it all hurts me far more than it does any of those off whom I piss.

(Take comfort, all ye inadvertently-pissed-off people!)

Because my biggest problem (in this realm) is caring too much about the wrong people, and failing to recognize the right ones.

But, at least, I know it.

There’s a chick in Brooklyn who has, for nearly a decade, referred to yours-truly as Resting Bitch Face. Needless to say, I am no fan of this girl. She’s decidedly not among those about whom I wrongly care. Neither is she among the so-called right ones. She can kiss my Resting Bitch Ass. But the derivation of the “RBF” sobriquet is sadly demonstrative of the personal foible in question, so here it is…

As I’ve written in this space so many times before: I deplore my own face, and my contact lenses are for performance. Almost exclusively. I find contacts to be very uncomfortable. And, frankly, I can’t open my (in too many senses) myopic, chronically-late eyes enough in the morning to put them in anyway. I wear glasses, which is to say that I do so now. For many, many years, I summarily and absurdly refused to wear even glasses, despite being blind as a proverbial bat.

Why? Because all is comfort and vanity.

(Duh. Not saying that’s good. Just saying it’s true.)

Now, what does a self-conscious, own-face-hating, vainly-bat-blind chick look like at social gatherings? Right. Resting Bitch Face.

(I’m told that my vaguely villainous eyebrows don’t help.)


So, will that visually-impaired, face-tortured chick in the corner remember your face after meeting you at a party (even several times)? Unfortunately, she will not.

(No. I don’t like me either.)


And would chronically-unremembered you thus conclude that RBF over yonder in the corner fancies herself better than deigning to recall your (multiple) introduction(s)? Trust me, you would.

And you’d be wrong.

But it would be and always is, ultimately, mine own damn fault.

I’ve lately had this very old personal issue on the brain because the holidays, of course, constitute six weeks of non-stop social gathering. Given that I now proudly rock my desperately-needed glasses, I’ve no excuse for habitually not remembering the people that I meet. And yet, much to my never-ending mortification, this holiday social season has found me incessantly plagued by those very same, oh-so dreaded words:

“Yeah, we’ve met before.”

(We’re talking, multiple times per party.)


Thus, take to heart my very sincere 2014 holiday message, all ye who have ever been on the receiving end of that particular bullshit:

I am so sorry! And so embarrassed (every time). Please know that I don’t remember you because, upon meeting you (yes, every time), I inevitably and self-deprecatingly assume that you won’t remember me.

That’s all it is. I swear. But, again, that’s no excuse.

Believe me that I feel terrible if my personal shit has ever hurt your feelings. Despite the inadvertently-self-inflicted and oft-misconstrued “bitch” persona, I’m really a very sweet, sensitive, conscientious person (who clearly needs to get her shit together).

I’ll decimate the proverbial fly, but I’ll never intentionally hurt another person.

Not even that bitch in Brooklyn. 😉

(I am not a monster!)


My progressive Baby Boomer parents (and younger sister Robyn) raised me right.


(Will not apologize for the eyebrows. Nor for the opinions.)

And as for the equally-sincere 2014 holiday message to my Stacy Steers Scylla & Charybdis readers:

I’m astounded, humbled and honored by the thousands of you (worldwide). Y’all are plenty reason to get up in the morning. It’s long past time I stopped caring so much about those who reinforce my nagging disbelief in myself, and started paying far more attention to those who believe in me despite myself (not to mention, all those I meet at parties).

Alas, I am (like both this blog and my now-five-and-a-half-year-old feature screenplay) but an imperfect work in progress.

Again, at least I know it.

I’m committed to working hard on all the afore-mentioned personal bullshit in 2015. I swear.

Until then, dearest readers, “Damn my Resting Bitch Face, full speed ahead!”

Love and kisses this holiday season from Scylla-and-Charybdis-Steering Stacy!


  1. Irene Albert /

    Don’t you think you are being a bit hard on yourself. I do.

  2. Not sure that I would say I “raised” you being the younger sister but thank you for the thought. You are my sister and no matter what you may say or do I will always love you…and your nieces will always toast you.

    • You raised me too. People need siblings, because some lessons just can’t be learned in school or from parents. L’Chaim to my nieces!

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