I have a problem with cheap men. I have not had the misfortune to date a lot of them; however the cumulative dating experiences my friends and I have shared regarding tightwads only serve to solidify my antipathy for this phenomenon. Especially men who advertise their more than six figure incomes on match making web sites who call to “move up” your 6 o’clock dinner date to 4:30pm in anticipation of the two for one tapas special. Or men who pick you up in an eight series, gleaming silver BMW only to present the waiter with a twenty percent off coupon at the conclusion of the meal, without an ounce of shame as no attempts at discretion were made when bartering price with the waiter. Meanwhile your only recourse is to slowly sink deeper into your seat and pray that the earth will envelop you. Only the bus boy would notice your absence and he does not speak English, thus no reporting to the authorities.
If a man asks you out to dinner, regardless of the outcome of the date, he should possess some semblance of courtesy and pick up the bill, to prevent that ensuing “shifty eye syndrome” that occurs when the waitress places said bill in “Switzerland” aka the neutral zone or center of the table. The battle of wills ensues, shifting of eyes and beading of sweat above the pencil lip as he looks from the bill to you, bill to you hoping you will buckle and present the AMEX. Men presume the neutral zone presents the right to indecision, that if the waitress had placed the bill a fraction of an inch to the right of the dividing line in his direction, that would have eliminated any bent for cheapness and he would have miraculously paid the balance without batting an eye. Excuse my proverbial snorting. Once a cheapskate always a cheapskate, no matter how smooth the banter or glossy the exterior.
I once dated an air force pilot who owned two houses, a ford expedition, a refitted Porsche, with an impressive stock portfolio. He touted his strong belief in equal rights between the sexes but used it as a cloak behind which he hid his terribly cheap nature. It was insidious, trips to the restroom when the bill came to prevent his contribution, ordering one diet coke with two straws at a club under the guise of romantic sharing of drinks. Thought love is blind; I eventually caught on to his true nature and jumped ship. If a man does not have enough class to pick up the majority of the expenses when first courting a woman, he is not worth your time. Down the road in an established relationship it is appropriate and expected for a woman to make her fair contribution. Limited self respect in the initial stages of dating serve as a red flag as to the status of his intent or his opinion of your self worth, and is hardly worth saving a few dimes in the effort. When my ex questioned my departure from the relationship, my retort of “I just got really thirsty” fell upon deaf ears. So much for the Ivy League education.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Take them at their word..
Of the many things I love about men, the one trait I consider most effective and admirable is their pragmatism and directness when dealing with uncomfortable issues; i.e. the ability to cut through the minutia of detail that unnecessarily layers a problem to get to the core issue. Men present facts without emotion, with enough analyzation of the simple data to assess, conclude and resolve the problem. Most women, including myself, when presented with an issue, get so overwhelmed with emotion and detail that they literally drown in the ancillary "white noise" of the drama, which ultimately obscures the core issue and thus prevents a practical assessment and conclusion.
Last night while out with my girlfriends at an upscale night club we sometimes frequent, I ran into my wonderfully practical and "NO BS" friend Matt, sometimes rough, always blunt, the epitome of the adage "say what you mean, and mean what you say" with no subterfuge in the sub context of his words. Listen closely ladies, for this is the point of this blog, cleverly disguised in the middle of my narrative rather than comprising the opening sentence. Listen to what men say, for they seldom beat around the bush, saying one thing but "meaning another" as we so foolishly delude ourselves when presented with rejection or an answer contrary to our desire. They don't like to prolong drama as we do. There are to many college football games to watch.
Back to Matt. After the requisite cordiality, I asked Matt how he was doing. His cryptic and emphatic reply "better than I was last night" opened the Pandora's box of my curiousity.
It seems that Matt was out alone the evening prior, enjoying a beer at a local watering hole. He was certainly not adverse to a night of no strings reciprocity with a willing female should the opportunity present itself as a relationship was the last thing on his mind.
The gods of physical gratificaton were smiling upon him, for soon thereafter drunk girl and her best friend, "buzzed girl" started chatting Matt up at the bar, engaging in the kind of banter that loudly infered their willingness to participate in some "no strings attached fun", whomever Matt decided to choose. Their good friend Jack Daniels turned on "drunk girl" making her feel ill and thus exit the bar. therefore Matt decided that "buzzed girl" would suffice. Now don't think badly of Matt; he is an honest about his intentions, whether it be to take a good woman out to dinner or a willing woman back to bed. and if the answer is no to either, then that is that, without any manipulation or dishonesty to gratify himself. After making out in the bar, the parking lot and before jumping in the cab, "buzzed girl" went from making sultry promises about that evening to feigning a headache and deciding she wanted to be alone. Matt chalked it up to alcohol and fickle females and headed home himself. Once home and dressed in sweats and a t shirt, his cell phone rang; the caller ID indicated "buzzed girl" had a change of heart and had become "willing girl". Thus at 2 am Matt was headed 20 minutes north up the freeway. True to his nature, before embarking on this adventure, Matt informed the girl he was not going to spend sixty dollars on a cab ride unless he was going to score. And who could blame him? He was laying his cards out on the table, with no BS. And what girl invites a stranger over to her house at 2am to play parcheesi. The female reiterated her desire to have fun, and thus Matt headed out into the evening, assured of the end result.
The evening did not turn out exatly as planned. Matt spent the next two hours dealing with a vasilating, unbalanced female who could not appreciate the importance of his uncomplicated and direct nature . "Willing" girl opened the door in sexy night clothes only to tell Matt she could not promise him "anything." Twenty minutes later she lay like a playboy model on the bed, (you get the visual picture), telling him she just wanted to "talk". Suffice to say at 4am Matt had enough and informed her of his depature. Strangely enough, she was angry, wondering why men disrepsected her and led her on, ultimately leaving her as he was now doing. Matt took one look at this cuckoo bird and being so wonderfully Matt, let her have it, reminding her that he made it perfectly clear his intention to hook up, and she should have taken him at his word and not wasted his time with her indecision. And ladies, the morale of this story is, when a man is good enough to lay out his cards at the beginning and tell you his true intent, take him at his word and spare yourself the mutual wasting of time and energy reading into his simple statement. Don't delude yourself that his directness was a ploy to disguise a deeper truth. Trust me it was not.
Last night while out with my girlfriends at an upscale night club we sometimes frequent, I ran into my wonderfully practical and "NO BS" friend Matt, sometimes rough, always blunt, the epitome of the adage "say what you mean, and mean what you say" with no subterfuge in the sub context of his words. Listen closely ladies, for this is the point of this blog, cleverly disguised in the middle of my narrative rather than comprising the opening sentence. Listen to what men say, for they seldom beat around the bush, saying one thing but "meaning another" as we so foolishly delude ourselves when presented with rejection or an answer contrary to our desire. They don't like to prolong drama as we do. There are to many college football games to watch.
Back to Matt. After the requisite cordiality, I asked Matt how he was doing. His cryptic and emphatic reply "better than I was last night" opened the Pandora's box of my curiousity.
It seems that Matt was out alone the evening prior, enjoying a beer at a local watering hole. He was certainly not adverse to a night of no strings reciprocity with a willing female should the opportunity present itself as a relationship was the last thing on his mind.
The gods of physical gratificaton were smiling upon him, for soon thereafter drunk girl and her best friend, "buzzed girl" started chatting Matt up at the bar, engaging in the kind of banter that loudly infered their willingness to participate in some "no strings attached fun", whomever Matt decided to choose. Their good friend Jack Daniels turned on "drunk girl" making her feel ill and thus exit the bar. therefore Matt decided that "buzzed girl" would suffice. Now don't think badly of Matt; he is an honest about his intentions, whether it be to take a good woman out to dinner or a willing woman back to bed. and if the answer is no to either, then that is that, without any manipulation or dishonesty to gratify himself. After making out in the bar, the parking lot and before jumping in the cab, "buzzed girl" went from making sultry promises about that evening to feigning a headache and deciding she wanted to be alone. Matt chalked it up to alcohol and fickle females and headed home himself. Once home and dressed in sweats and a t shirt, his cell phone rang; the caller ID indicated "buzzed girl" had a change of heart and had become "willing girl". Thus at 2 am Matt was headed 20 minutes north up the freeway. True to his nature, before embarking on this adventure, Matt informed the girl he was not going to spend sixty dollars on a cab ride unless he was going to score. And who could blame him? He was laying his cards out on the table, with no BS. And what girl invites a stranger over to her house at 2am to play parcheesi. The female reiterated her desire to have fun, and thus Matt headed out into the evening, assured of the end result.
The evening did not turn out exatly as planned. Matt spent the next two hours dealing with a vasilating, unbalanced female who could not appreciate the importance of his uncomplicated and direct nature . "Willing" girl opened the door in sexy night clothes only to tell Matt she could not promise him "anything." Twenty minutes later she lay like a playboy model on the bed, (you get the visual picture), telling him she just wanted to "talk". Suffice to say at 4am Matt had enough and informed her of his depature. Strangely enough, she was angry, wondering why men disrepsected her and led her on, ultimately leaving her as he was now doing. Matt took one look at this cuckoo bird and being so wonderfully Matt, let her have it, reminding her that he made it perfectly clear his intention to hook up, and she should have taken him at his word and not wasted his time with her indecision. And ladies, the morale of this story is, when a man is good enough to lay out his cards at the beginning and tell you his true intent, take him at his word and spare yourself the mutual wasting of time and energy reading into his simple statement. Don't delude yourself that his directness was a ploy to disguise a deeper truth. Trust me it was not.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
The Christmas Gift Tragedy
If you want a power tool for Christmas, and the pearl earrings waiting for your ears to don them at Bergdorf's are of no consequence, please disregard this blog. However, if you, in the spirit of love, want to "help" your significant other purchase your ideal Christmas gift. If you unselfishly want to prevent his nervous exertion and sleepless nights pondering your pant size, favorite appliance or the advantages of paper vs. plastic in pursuit of gift choices (painfully lost) then read on and prevent another unnecessary tragedy of misguided and inappropriate Christmas gifts. Men do not possess the emotional intuition and detail that drives our decision process; they are practical creatures who make decisions based on logic. This will apply with the ultimately logical decision they will make with regard to your Christmas gift. And women don't want logical for Christmas.
Without your intervention, Christmas morning you once again feign anticipation and excitement over your Christmas gift, and form the ever reliable "fake" smile that pre-empts the poker face you will assume for the rest of the morning as you unwrap the gift (be it a toaster as your husband/boyfriend observed that the previous one burnt your bagels) or a set of tools (as he noticed you hammering a nail into the wall with your stiletto heel) or God forbid, the size 18 pair of "Bongo" jeans that he purchased at the advice of his mother who saw a unique and perfect opportunity at revenge for stealing her precius son. He unfortunately does not realize that size 18 is indicative of a backside nearly 40 inches in diameter nor does he remember that Bongo's hey day corresponded to mullet hair cuts and neon socks. And hello, you don't spend 40 minutes a day on the stair master to fit into your size small seven jeans for nothing. As you provide the requisite "oh you shouldn't have" token response to his precious but incorrect attempt at pleasing you, you resentfully reflect upon the hours he will spend perfecting his verion of Eddie Van Halen's guitar solo with the "guitar hero" Nintendo game set you purchased for him, as you know he does not need guitar lessons but that the 12 year old boy in him still fantasizes about his alternative career as a rock star, groupies and all. Meanwhile you strap on a tool belt, grit your teeth and unsuccessfully convince yourself that would much rather dry wall the front of the house than enjoy a mani, pedi and foot massage at your favorite nail salon.
It is our responsibility to acknowledge and correct this deficit, not walk around in unspoken anger and thus scream at our partner in suppressed frustration when getting your Starbuck's latte order incorrect as you are inwardly seething over his gift purchase.
I highly recommend direct and specific hints regarding Christmas. Especially if you don't have a lovely and knowing man with the foresight to ask you to provide several options as gifts.
1. Whip out your oldest coach handbag, bemoan it's sorry state and reflect upon the imminent and dire need for a replacement, adding the convenience of the Coach outlet store at the nearest outlet mall.
2. Place your feet upon his lap and ask for his opinion on nail shape, color, while innocently reminding him of where you get your nails done, providing salon name, address, zip code and nearest cross street.
3. Walk out in your favorite pair of jeans, while swathed in your favorite scent, sit upon his lap and simply state "I never feel better than when hanging out with my best friends Chanel and 7 denim".
If these attempts fall upon deaf ears and your man's crystal ball is broken, as a last resort you can "fool" your man into hearing your Christmas list. At any sporting event half time, with the assuredness of his "high spirits" place a sticky note on his lap, with a specific list of options. Preface this by apologizing for the latent "wish list" while pretending he had requested this of you weeks ago. He will never deny that he did not request this, merely bow his head in thanks over your forgetfulness and white knuckle the sticky note as the proverbial "Holy Grail". And you will dance around Christmas morning in your new Manolo Blahnick strappy sandals while he signs fake autographs in his boxer shorts.
Without your intervention, Christmas morning you once again feign anticipation and excitement over your Christmas gift, and form the ever reliable "fake" smile that pre-empts the poker face you will assume for the rest of the morning as you unwrap the gift (be it a toaster as your husband/boyfriend observed that the previous one burnt your bagels) or a set of tools (as he noticed you hammering a nail into the wall with your stiletto heel) or God forbid, the size 18 pair of "Bongo" jeans that he purchased at the advice of his mother who saw a unique and perfect opportunity at revenge for stealing her precius son. He unfortunately does not realize that size 18 is indicative of a backside nearly 40 inches in diameter nor does he remember that Bongo's hey day corresponded to mullet hair cuts and neon socks. And hello, you don't spend 40 minutes a day on the stair master to fit into your size small seven jeans for nothing. As you provide the requisite "oh you shouldn't have" token response to his precious but incorrect attempt at pleasing you, you resentfully reflect upon the hours he will spend perfecting his verion of Eddie Van Halen's guitar solo with the "guitar hero" Nintendo game set you purchased for him, as you know he does not need guitar lessons but that the 12 year old boy in him still fantasizes about his alternative career as a rock star, groupies and all. Meanwhile you strap on a tool belt, grit your teeth and unsuccessfully convince yourself that would much rather dry wall the front of the house than enjoy a mani, pedi and foot massage at your favorite nail salon.
It is our responsibility to acknowledge and correct this deficit, not walk around in unspoken anger and thus scream at our partner in suppressed frustration when getting your Starbuck's latte order incorrect as you are inwardly seething over his gift purchase.
I highly recommend direct and specific hints regarding Christmas. Especially if you don't have a lovely and knowing man with the foresight to ask you to provide several options as gifts.
1. Whip out your oldest coach handbag, bemoan it's sorry state and reflect upon the imminent and dire need for a replacement, adding the convenience of the Coach outlet store at the nearest outlet mall.
2. Place your feet upon his lap and ask for his opinion on nail shape, color, while innocently reminding him of where you get your nails done, providing salon name, address, zip code and nearest cross street.
3. Walk out in your favorite pair of jeans, while swathed in your favorite scent, sit upon his lap and simply state "I never feel better than when hanging out with my best friends Chanel and 7 denim".
If these attempts fall upon deaf ears and your man's crystal ball is broken, as a last resort you can "fool" your man into hearing your Christmas list. At any sporting event half time, with the assuredness of his "high spirits" place a sticky note on his lap, with a specific list of options. Preface this by apologizing for the latent "wish list" while pretending he had requested this of you weeks ago. He will never deny that he did not request this, merely bow his head in thanks over your forgetfulness and white knuckle the sticky note as the proverbial "Holy Grail". And you will dance around Christmas morning in your new Manolo Blahnick strappy sandals while he signs fake autographs in his boxer shorts.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
What I am thankful for.
On this Thanksgiving eve, I feel compelled to be extraordinarily cliché and bust out the requisite “what am I thankful for”.
I find myself wistfully reflecting upon my years of dating and what I have experienced. I feel great satisfaction for the wonderful, character building lessons learned, though a little regretful at what cost, righteous indignation over mistreatment, sadness for what I endured and compromised in the name of love, outright laughter over some of the hilarious and idiotic individuals I encountered and their circumstances unwittingly thrust upon me, and overwhelming relief to have finally found someone I love, utterly and passionately, with blissful reciprocity and a full understanding of the importance of timing and circumstance fully synchronized.
I am thankful that I won’t have to debate a restroom call before the dinner bill appears for worry that my seemingly cheap first date won’t do the right thing and pick up the tab, as he did ask ME out. He did not preface this with a “dutch” suggestion.
I am thankful to avoid the uncomfortable, yet intense staring contest that ensues across said dinner bill as my date tries to psychically manipulate my mind into feigning feminism and picking up the dinner tab.
I am thankful to no longer endure the hideous breath and trickle of slobber that follows the horrific blind date attempt at a “good night” kiss. This is best avoided by a preempted request for “drive by and drop off” at the corner intersection nearest your house at the conclusion of the date.
I am thankful to not have to rationalize to my friends or myself picking up my date at his parents’ house, which is really his house, as he cannot afford his own place, nor a car, as he is steeped in student loan debt, though he did not finish college, while trying to “find” himself, though he can be found in the nearest strip bar any given Friday night.
I am thankful to no longer feel compelled to date anyone I feel sorry for due to a medical condition, a bad divorce, or loathe to break up despite my lack of physical attraction or chemistry as he is “such a nice guy”.
I am thankful to have extricated myself from the clutches of any dishonest manipulator who tries to convince me of my lack of self worth to compensate for his poor self esteem.
I am thankful to have the gumption to slap any loser who feels it is alright to paw my backside at a nightclub.
I am thankful for wonderful friends who have the propensity to see and verbalize when someone is not right for me, when I lack the clarity for myself.
I am thankful to not have to see in person how badly my match date did not resemble his profile pictures, big ears, bad skin, beer gut in full glory. Gotta love photo shop.
I am thankful for the wonderful family and friends who surround and protect me, motivate me, teach me, call me out on my ridiculous immaturity and always provide the unselfish love and support that grounds and directs me.
I find myself wistfully reflecting upon my years of dating and what I have experienced. I feel great satisfaction for the wonderful, character building lessons learned, though a little regretful at what cost, righteous indignation over mistreatment, sadness for what I endured and compromised in the name of love, outright laughter over some of the hilarious and idiotic individuals I encountered and their circumstances unwittingly thrust upon me, and overwhelming relief to have finally found someone I love, utterly and passionately, with blissful reciprocity and a full understanding of the importance of timing and circumstance fully synchronized.
I am thankful that I won’t have to debate a restroom call before the dinner bill appears for worry that my seemingly cheap first date won’t do the right thing and pick up the tab, as he did ask ME out. He did not preface this with a “dutch” suggestion.
I am thankful to avoid the uncomfortable, yet intense staring contest that ensues across said dinner bill as my date tries to psychically manipulate my mind into feigning feminism and picking up the dinner tab.
I am thankful to no longer endure the hideous breath and trickle of slobber that follows the horrific blind date attempt at a “good night” kiss. This is best avoided by a preempted request for “drive by and drop off” at the corner intersection nearest your house at the conclusion of the date.
I am thankful to not have to rationalize to my friends or myself picking up my date at his parents’ house, which is really his house, as he cannot afford his own place, nor a car, as he is steeped in student loan debt, though he did not finish college, while trying to “find” himself, though he can be found in the nearest strip bar any given Friday night.
I am thankful to no longer feel compelled to date anyone I feel sorry for due to a medical condition, a bad divorce, or loathe to break up despite my lack of physical attraction or chemistry as he is “such a nice guy”.
I am thankful to have extricated myself from the clutches of any dishonest manipulator who tries to convince me of my lack of self worth to compensate for his poor self esteem.
I am thankful to have the gumption to slap any loser who feels it is alright to paw my backside at a nightclub.
I am thankful for wonderful friends who have the propensity to see and verbalize when someone is not right for me, when I lack the clarity for myself.
I am thankful to not have to see in person how badly my match date did not resemble his profile pictures, big ears, bad skin, beer gut in full glory. Gotta love photo shop.
I am thankful for the wonderful family and friends who surround and protect me, motivate me, teach me, call me out on my ridiculous immaturity and always provide the unselfish love and support that grounds and directs me.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
A Woman's Weight (or wait)
A woman’s weight, a treacherous topic to navigate, tantamount to discussing the advantages of western attire and hair/face exposure to a group of Islamic extremists considering a jihad on the infidel.
The best advice I can proffer to the unwitting male so queried by his partner “do I look like I have gained weight”
· Develop a sudden onset of laryngitis
· Shake your head emphatically side to side and exit the room slowly
· Grab your passport and set your car GPS to the nearest border town, Canada or Mexico, whatever is closest
In all seriousness, women are as fickle about body image and weight as a dog debating a chew stick vs. a left over steak bone. One day we are on top of the world, as our skinny jeans fit just a little bit looser on our already narrow hips, thereby providing a waiver to eat the 99 cent monster taco combo deal at Jack in the box. The next day, sodium overload produces the ever torturous “cankles”, the inability to twist or pull our rings over our swollen knuckles, and forget the skinny jeans, as they wouldn’t budge past our knee caps let alone our now cellulitic ridden thighs. (That mind you amazingly gained seven inches of extra skin overnight due to one high calorie consumption). Even a mere three pound weight gain can render the most stalwart of creatures depressed and housebound, her body image distorted to the point of glimpsing a big, fat moon face staring back in the mirror, atop a grotesque mound of human flesh that was once a lithe body. And of course this is not the true perception, but our distorted view as a result of a miniscule weight gain. And we wonder why men avoid those loaded weight questions. When you know you top the scale by several pounds above your fighting weight, eliciting an emotional and traumatic response on heart and spirit, relegating us to depressed self esteem and vacillating mood swings that would scare the devil in their ferocity, why would you then subject your partner to the age old question, “do I look fat?” that has no right answer. If in an attempt to assuage your negativity he volunteers that you look “skinny”, you then accuse him of a dishonest betrayal tantamount to adultery or murder. And bless his heart, if he chooses honesty, and comments on your slight weight gain, offering diet tips from the goodness of his simple heart, he might as well buy the pistol, load it with uber bullets and shoot himself in the foot, or better yet blow his proverbial brains out, thus preventing the plotting and completion of his demise by your semi irrational mind and logic.
Ladies, if you are feeling fat, close the bedroom door, obsessively try on your skinny jeans and force them over your hips, ignore the ripping seams and delude yourself that you really are the same weight. Or better yet, slap on your cross trainers and hit the road. You can lose a pound or two of water weight with forty minutes of cardio. For gosh sakes, do! Not! Ask! Your! Man! If! You! Look! Fat! Trust that the prison sentence provided as a result of your violent reaction to his response is not worth the affect. And until men are given scripted responses to correctly answer all of our semi irrational questions regarding body image or appearance, leave him to his channel surfing and call a friend, or your psychic.
The best advice I can proffer to the unwitting male so queried by his partner “do I look like I have gained weight”
· Develop a sudden onset of laryngitis
· Shake your head emphatically side to side and exit the room slowly
· Grab your passport and set your car GPS to the nearest border town, Canada or Mexico, whatever is closest
In all seriousness, women are as fickle about body image and weight as a dog debating a chew stick vs. a left over steak bone. One day we are on top of the world, as our skinny jeans fit just a little bit looser on our already narrow hips, thereby providing a waiver to eat the 99 cent monster taco combo deal at Jack in the box. The next day, sodium overload produces the ever torturous “cankles”, the inability to twist or pull our rings over our swollen knuckles, and forget the skinny jeans, as they wouldn’t budge past our knee caps let alone our now cellulitic ridden thighs. (That mind you amazingly gained seven inches of extra skin overnight due to one high calorie consumption). Even a mere three pound weight gain can render the most stalwart of creatures depressed and housebound, her body image distorted to the point of glimpsing a big, fat moon face staring back in the mirror, atop a grotesque mound of human flesh that was once a lithe body. And of course this is not the true perception, but our distorted view as a result of a miniscule weight gain. And we wonder why men avoid those loaded weight questions. When you know you top the scale by several pounds above your fighting weight, eliciting an emotional and traumatic response on heart and spirit, relegating us to depressed self esteem and vacillating mood swings that would scare the devil in their ferocity, why would you then subject your partner to the age old question, “do I look fat?” that has no right answer. If in an attempt to assuage your negativity he volunteers that you look “skinny”, you then accuse him of a dishonest betrayal tantamount to adultery or murder. And bless his heart, if he chooses honesty, and comments on your slight weight gain, offering diet tips from the goodness of his simple heart, he might as well buy the pistol, load it with uber bullets and shoot himself in the foot, or better yet blow his proverbial brains out, thus preventing the plotting and completion of his demise by your semi irrational mind and logic.
Ladies, if you are feeling fat, close the bedroom door, obsessively try on your skinny jeans and force them over your hips, ignore the ripping seams and delude yourself that you really are the same weight. Or better yet, slap on your cross trainers and hit the road. You can lose a pound or two of water weight with forty minutes of cardio. For gosh sakes, do! Not! Ask! Your! Man! If! You! Look! Fat! Trust that the prison sentence provided as a result of your violent reaction to his response is not worth the affect. And until men are given scripted responses to correctly answer all of our semi irrational questions regarding body image or appearance, leave him to his channel surfing and call a friend, or your psychic.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
the emotional rollercoaster ride
I wonder how poor, unwitting men endure it, the vast, complex and sometimes ridiculous moods of women.
For simple, straightforward, practical creatures who are challenged with simply multi tasking and consider it a small victory to have popped open their pabst blue ribbon simultaneously while choosing which play off game to watch, I am sure dealing with the difficult and diverse moods of women is tantamount to the apocalypse, or a tragedy of similar proportions.
The stalwart general, when prepping for battle, first and foremost has a plan; he has gathered reconnaissance of the enemy battle fields and arsenal, and has meticulously studied the moves of his opponent, to ensure he is familiar with the territory and tactics and to level the odds for possible victory. He knows his enemy. Only an ignorant soldier with a death wish will venture into battle with no plan or strategy, defeat most assurred with his only tools being the unknown, and thus unpreparedness. And yet this is the role we force men to assume when they become involved with and thus exposed to our vasilating, estrogen fueled mood swings with no prepatory answer of where or why. They have no knowledge basic of reference with which to draw logical conclusions; out of nowhere they are ambushed with this irrational behavior.
Men may initially find our sometimes volatile behavior intriguing; variety is the spice of life and high strung emotional creatures are never boring or predictable.
However Intrigue seques to impatience when a man comes home from work and finds his wife or girlfriend clanging around the kitchen, foaming at the mouth and wild eyed, her token response to his concerned inquiry a high pitched shriek and slamming of the proverbial door, leaving him to shake his head in bemused costernation, as he left a smiling and gracious creature earlier in the day, someone with whom he was looking forward to relaxing and spending time.
Or when a slack eyed man, peacefully sedated on Sunday afternoon with mindless channel surfing and potato chip ingestion to ease his stress focuses his gaze temporarily upon his girlfriends backside and is rewarded with "what are you looking at? You think I look fat don't you?" When he was focusing on nothing at all.
This confuses him. In his mind first comes step A, then step B, black and white, stark reasoning and logic, problem, plan solution. There is no consistency, no predictability and this he cannot understand. It kind of lends some understanding to why some men prefer the company of men to women. How was he supposed to know his girlfriend had gained three pounds and was therefore feeling like a bloated cow. Nobody told him this, and his crystal ball is in the shop.
Men are not programmed to deal with our emotional swings and they should not have to consistently endure this. Nor it is fair to change your sweetness and light to dark and tormented Meredith without some kind of concilatory explanation. Men do not have ESP. they cannot sense our thoughts or instinctively gauge our moods once in love with us. There is no psychic connection I am sorry to explain. Therefore if you are feeling depressed or moody for no reason, or anticipate a hormonal influx, either put on your best poker face and keep conversation sparse, encouraging him to watch the Hawaiin Tropic bikini contest to deflect from Sybil of the many personalities taking over your psyche, or tell him you are in "one of those moods" and call a female friend with whom to share your woes, as the minute you confide complex drama to your "man" he will snap on his proverbial construction belt and try to solve your problem. What men don't understand is that sometimes there is no rhyme or reason to our dark moods. Like the mist or the wind, it just "is". I am not saying that we have to always put on a brave face while we tie our Betty Crocker Apron Strings and perpetuate the myth of the eternally happy 50s housewife, never burdening our "men" with our problems or concerns. That is unhealthy and unrealistic. And most of those Gen x marriages are now finished. Our men are our protectors, defenders and can handle some mood swings and somber thoughts. However if the walls of ratonality are closing in, and you feel your fifth mood swing of the day coming on for no apparent reason, your arsenal of friends are there for your comfort and absolution. This is our right as those possessing a Y chromosome. However relieve the burden of your man, and leave him to his singular thoughts and logic while he blissfully tunes out to football and potato chips. It will provide a better balance to the communication factor.
For simple, straightforward, practical creatures who are challenged with simply multi tasking and consider it a small victory to have popped open their pabst blue ribbon simultaneously while choosing which play off game to watch, I am sure dealing with the difficult and diverse moods of women is tantamount to the apocalypse, or a tragedy of similar proportions.
The stalwart general, when prepping for battle, first and foremost has a plan; he has gathered reconnaissance of the enemy battle fields and arsenal, and has meticulously studied the moves of his opponent, to ensure he is familiar with the territory and tactics and to level the odds for possible victory. He knows his enemy. Only an ignorant soldier with a death wish will venture into battle with no plan or strategy, defeat most assurred with his only tools being the unknown, and thus unpreparedness. And yet this is the role we force men to assume when they become involved with and thus exposed to our vasilating, estrogen fueled mood swings with no prepatory answer of where or why. They have no knowledge basic of reference with which to draw logical conclusions; out of nowhere they are ambushed with this irrational behavior.
Men may initially find our sometimes volatile behavior intriguing; variety is the spice of life and high strung emotional creatures are never boring or predictable.
However Intrigue seques to impatience when a man comes home from work and finds his wife or girlfriend clanging around the kitchen, foaming at the mouth and wild eyed, her token response to his concerned inquiry a high pitched shriek and slamming of the proverbial door, leaving him to shake his head in bemused costernation, as he left a smiling and gracious creature earlier in the day, someone with whom he was looking forward to relaxing and spending time.
Or when a slack eyed man, peacefully sedated on Sunday afternoon with mindless channel surfing and potato chip ingestion to ease his stress focuses his gaze temporarily upon his girlfriends backside and is rewarded with "what are you looking at? You think I look fat don't you?" When he was focusing on nothing at all.
This confuses him. In his mind first comes step A, then step B, black and white, stark reasoning and logic, problem, plan solution. There is no consistency, no predictability and this he cannot understand. It kind of lends some understanding to why some men prefer the company of men to women. How was he supposed to know his girlfriend had gained three pounds and was therefore feeling like a bloated cow. Nobody told him this, and his crystal ball is in the shop.
Men are not programmed to deal with our emotional swings and they should not have to consistently endure this. Nor it is fair to change your sweetness and light to dark and tormented Meredith without some kind of concilatory explanation. Men do not have ESP. they cannot sense our thoughts or instinctively gauge our moods once in love with us. There is no psychic connection I am sorry to explain. Therefore if you are feeling depressed or moody for no reason, or anticipate a hormonal influx, either put on your best poker face and keep conversation sparse, encouraging him to watch the Hawaiin Tropic bikini contest to deflect from Sybil of the many personalities taking over your psyche, or tell him you are in "one of those moods" and call a female friend with whom to share your woes, as the minute you confide complex drama to your "man" he will snap on his proverbial construction belt and try to solve your problem. What men don't understand is that sometimes there is no rhyme or reason to our dark moods. Like the mist or the wind, it just "is". I am not saying that we have to always put on a brave face while we tie our Betty Crocker Apron Strings and perpetuate the myth of the eternally happy 50s housewife, never burdening our "men" with our problems or concerns. That is unhealthy and unrealistic. And most of those Gen x marriages are now finished. Our men are our protectors, defenders and can handle some mood swings and somber thoughts. However if the walls of ratonality are closing in, and you feel your fifth mood swing of the day coming on for no apparent reason, your arsenal of friends are there for your comfort and absolution. This is our right as those possessing a Y chromosome. However relieve the burden of your man, and leave him to his singular thoughts and logic while he blissfully tunes out to football and potato chips. It will provide a better balance to the communication factor.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The gym is for "working out" not "hooking up!"
Apparently I am one of the few souls who subscribe to the belief that the gym is a place to :
-burn calories through cardiovascular exercise and thus maintain ones shape
-improve physical health by increasing metabolism and thus improving body system efficiency
-release stress through physical exertion and release of endorphins to promote health and well being
With nary an ounce of makeup or care for my physical appearance, I throw on my requisite spandex and sports top and spend a blissful 35 minutes on the treadmill , blasting my iPod and pounding out the days stress to Rihanna or Jay Zee. My ears may subsequently ring in protest over the increased music volume they were unmercifully exposed to, but at the end you can be assured I am dripping wet, exhausted and smiling; the last thing on my mind my appearance or a prospective date I may conjure up between the cardiovascular equipment on the second floor and the water fountain near the back bathroom.
As I said, I appear to be in the minority.
I work out at a popular fitness chain that will remain nameless, and the souls that frequent this former establishment of health and well being have transformed it into hook up central with their ridiculous preening and manipulative tactics to elicit any type of attention and possible assignation with a member of the opposite sex.
Apparently now the gym is a place to:
-Wear an inordinate amount of makeup, a thong up said cheeks and occupy a treadmill for an hour with a sweat inducing “stroll” as you attempt to elicit conversation with any man with an established pulse and respiratory rate.
-Troll the free weights in dolphin shorts and a muscle shirt, inflicting self proclaimed and surely imagined weight lifting prowess and personal training tips to any female who gives you half a glance and yet never invites your “advances”.
-Clog the hallways between aerobics classes as you leer at the local professional football cheer squad during their thrice weekly practice sessions, blocking the way of those individuals who actually come to the gym to work out.
My favorite suspect is the middle aged man who wears a skin tight unitard (I kid you not) that leaves nothing to the imagination downstairs (beware of meal consumption prior to this) yet still showcases his skinny white legs and spindly arms. To top it off, he has an odor that could finish the war in Iraq so ferocious is its intensity. And he is seemingly oblivious for several times throughout the course of the evenings “workout” he will pause to admire his appearance in the floor to ceiling mirrors, smiling and nodding his head while I stare unabashed at his ridiculousness.
I am not unkind dear reader, rather pitying than poking fun at the glaringly pathetic. However I resent having to endure this individual’s creepy stare and horrid odor as he pauses to start a conversation with me every time I am on the treadmill, ear phones and iPod blocking verbal and auditory communication process. He just does not get it. Tonight his smell preceded him as it wafted up the stairs, signaling my urgent and relieved departure to the women’s locker room.
I understand and embrace any dating opportunity that presents itself, whether it is at the gym, the mall, the car wash, wherever fate intervenes and provides an attractive and prospective suitor. However, I wish there was a separate sector of the gym relegated to those desperate souls who will employ any tactic to hook up and in turn disturb those of us in pursuit of good health by occupying scarce cardio equipment and our previous time with your ridiculous and manipulative actions. At least have the decency to wear deodorant and pop an altoid.
-burn calories through cardiovascular exercise and thus maintain ones shape
-improve physical health by increasing metabolism and thus improving body system efficiency
-release stress through physical exertion and release of endorphins to promote health and well being
With nary an ounce of makeup or care for my physical appearance, I throw on my requisite spandex and sports top and spend a blissful 35 minutes on the treadmill , blasting my iPod and pounding out the days stress to Rihanna or Jay Zee. My ears may subsequently ring in protest over the increased music volume they were unmercifully exposed to, but at the end you can be assured I am dripping wet, exhausted and smiling; the last thing on my mind my appearance or a prospective date I may conjure up between the cardiovascular equipment on the second floor and the water fountain near the back bathroom.
As I said, I appear to be in the minority.
I work out at a popular fitness chain that will remain nameless, and the souls that frequent this former establishment of health and well being have transformed it into hook up central with their ridiculous preening and manipulative tactics to elicit any type of attention and possible assignation with a member of the opposite sex.
Apparently now the gym is a place to:
-Wear an inordinate amount of makeup, a thong up said cheeks and occupy a treadmill for an hour with a sweat inducing “stroll” as you attempt to elicit conversation with any man with an established pulse and respiratory rate.
-Troll the free weights in dolphin shorts and a muscle shirt, inflicting self proclaimed and surely imagined weight lifting prowess and personal training tips to any female who gives you half a glance and yet never invites your “advances”.
-Clog the hallways between aerobics classes as you leer at the local professional football cheer squad during their thrice weekly practice sessions, blocking the way of those individuals who actually come to the gym to work out.
My favorite suspect is the middle aged man who wears a skin tight unitard (I kid you not) that leaves nothing to the imagination downstairs (beware of meal consumption prior to this) yet still showcases his skinny white legs and spindly arms. To top it off, he has an odor that could finish the war in Iraq so ferocious is its intensity. And he is seemingly oblivious for several times throughout the course of the evenings “workout” he will pause to admire his appearance in the floor to ceiling mirrors, smiling and nodding his head while I stare unabashed at his ridiculousness.
I am not unkind dear reader, rather pitying than poking fun at the glaringly pathetic. However I resent having to endure this individual’s creepy stare and horrid odor as he pauses to start a conversation with me every time I am on the treadmill, ear phones and iPod blocking verbal and auditory communication process. He just does not get it. Tonight his smell preceded him as it wafted up the stairs, signaling my urgent and relieved departure to the women’s locker room.
I understand and embrace any dating opportunity that presents itself, whether it is at the gym, the mall, the car wash, wherever fate intervenes and provides an attractive and prospective suitor. However, I wish there was a separate sector of the gym relegated to those desperate souls who will employ any tactic to hook up and in turn disturb those of us in pursuit of good health by occupying scarce cardio equipment and our previous time with your ridiculous and manipulative actions. At least have the decency to wear deodorant and pop an altoid.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Significance of the gold band.
As I travel quite a bit for my profession, and being the proverbial observer of human nature (or a nosy people watcher as my mother so aptly dubbed me) I am constantly provided opportunities to interact with and thus assess my fellow weary travelers. The experiences are consistently interesting, occasionally dubious, and alternately provide exasperation and humor... As a result of said interactions, one is often reminded how sleep deprivation and extended periods of isolation do not always provide key elements for enlightened conversation or behavior, i.e. sometimes I wonder how people can act the way they do and expect to get away with it??
People assume that traveling for business provides a plethora of opportunities for meeting potential matches, for what could be more glamorous than visiting exciting cities and mingling with other career professionals of like mind?
Well, I have been traveling for business for close to ten years, and I have yet to meet my life partner as a result of this. I have met a lot of yahoos, namely married men who seem to think the right handed band signifies a license to thrill, rather than the lifetime commitment so pledged in the eyes of God, man, and your scowling mother in law.
Just so you know, oh nomad of the skies, looking for some simple minded female who will look past the gold band you obviously consider your shackle, I do respect the significance of the gold, and I do not believe it is your pinky ring thus moved to your fourth finger due to the miraculous weight loss in your right hand. The tan line gives it away. Look for some other fool who feels adultery does not count if it occurs in another zip code. Those same individuals look for guidance on the inside of a bazooka wrapper. For my conscience, hell fire and brimstone trump giving in to carnal desire any day.
Call me crazy, I always wanted my own boyfriend, not someone else’s.
I will end this chapter with a true story. I was recently flying home from a stressful business trip, sitting in the gate area, engrossed in my computer work when a voice piped up above my head. “Are you waiting for the flight to San Diego?” I wanted to say, “No, I just enjoy the delayed wireless internet access the airport provides” or some sarcastic retort, but instead I looked up to my horror into a pair of beady eyes and shimmer of perspiration above a pair of thin lips eagerly peering down my neckline. “Yes, it is.” I did not want to be rude, but right away I could tell this little man, with wedding ring intact and on display, was looking for more than casual business speak, and I was in no mood to pursue this. After five more minutes of inane conversation, I whispered my hail Mary’s and threw into the conversation that I could not wait to “see my husband when I got home.” God will forgive this lie as my intent was to deter this creep with the ill intentions. Still it did not sway his pursuit, and endless series of questions as to where I lived, worked, what show size, car, type of tile grout, you get the gist, endless probing that I was beginning to resent.
Finally divine intervention came in the form of the first class cabin boarding, and the creepy stranger left.
Much to my dismay, twenty minutes later, as I was boarding with the other “sardines” into the last confines of the economy class cabin, the creep was waiting for me at the boarding door, and asked loudly “if I wanted a glass of wine”. I rolled my eyes and kept walking, amazed at the depth at some individuals will stoop in the pursuit of their sex drive.
Adultery is adultery no matter how you slice it, and as for myself, the gold band has as much significance as a red flashing sign at a construction site, “DO NOT ENTER”. And this is one rule I have no problem complying with.
People assume that traveling for business provides a plethora of opportunities for meeting potential matches, for what could be more glamorous than visiting exciting cities and mingling with other career professionals of like mind?
Well, I have been traveling for business for close to ten years, and I have yet to meet my life partner as a result of this. I have met a lot of yahoos, namely married men who seem to think the right handed band signifies a license to thrill, rather than the lifetime commitment so pledged in the eyes of God, man, and your scowling mother in law.
Just so you know, oh nomad of the skies, looking for some simple minded female who will look past the gold band you obviously consider your shackle, I do respect the significance of the gold, and I do not believe it is your pinky ring thus moved to your fourth finger due to the miraculous weight loss in your right hand. The tan line gives it away. Look for some other fool who feels adultery does not count if it occurs in another zip code. Those same individuals look for guidance on the inside of a bazooka wrapper. For my conscience, hell fire and brimstone trump giving in to carnal desire any day.
Call me crazy, I always wanted my own boyfriend, not someone else’s.
I will end this chapter with a true story. I was recently flying home from a stressful business trip, sitting in the gate area, engrossed in my computer work when a voice piped up above my head. “Are you waiting for the flight to San Diego?” I wanted to say, “No, I just enjoy the delayed wireless internet access the airport provides” or some sarcastic retort, but instead I looked up to my horror into a pair of beady eyes and shimmer of perspiration above a pair of thin lips eagerly peering down my neckline. “Yes, it is.” I did not want to be rude, but right away I could tell this little man, with wedding ring intact and on display, was looking for more than casual business speak, and I was in no mood to pursue this. After five more minutes of inane conversation, I whispered my hail Mary’s and threw into the conversation that I could not wait to “see my husband when I got home.” God will forgive this lie as my intent was to deter this creep with the ill intentions. Still it did not sway his pursuit, and endless series of questions as to where I lived, worked, what show size, car, type of tile grout, you get the gist, endless probing that I was beginning to resent.
Finally divine intervention came in the form of the first class cabin boarding, and the creepy stranger left.
Much to my dismay, twenty minutes later, as I was boarding with the other “sardines” into the last confines of the economy class cabin, the creep was waiting for me at the boarding door, and asked loudly “if I wanted a glass of wine”. I rolled my eyes and kept walking, amazed at the depth at some individuals will stoop in the pursuit of their sex drive.
Adultery is adultery no matter how you slice it, and as for myself, the gold band has as much significance as a red flashing sign at a construction site, “DO NOT ENTER”. And this is one rule I have no problem complying with.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Mismanagement of Love
Most of us, including myself, have been guilt of “mismanagement of love”. With regard to matters of the heart, our once rigorous control is lost, our proverbial filters lose their ability to asses and ultimately judge, thus words and actions are compulsively implemented prior to consideration, much to our regret. Why are those of us, blessed with incredible business savvy, tactical diplomacy with co workers and clients, brilliant perspective with interpersonal relationships and methodical consideration with financial and professional decisions, lose our edge regarding “love” , that ever elusivity and keen sense that navigates our decisions and words? When it comes to romance, we are too enthusiastic, too available, our words sometimes trite and unconsidered, our actions immature, we sometimes compromise standards religiously adhered to in other areas of line. WE become as obvious as “drunk girl” on Saturday night live, staggering around with our proverbial neon billboard flashing our desire, advertising our loneliness every 2.5 seconds, baring our soul in our romantically misguided notion that we should do “anything for love”. Has this gotten us anywhere? When desperation comprises our internal GPS, it becomes time to mimic the practical brown bear, and hibernate for the winter or darkness, or at least hole up behind closed shutters until the time of repression of standards and low self esteem has passed. For the consequences resulting from bad decisions have far reaching and highly adverse implications, that can permanently wound the soul.
No one should be blamed for wearing this self deprecating cloak, for if one has experienced an unwilling period of solace, or an extended dry spell, the need for human contact, tenderness, intimacy and validation becomes a tangible, uncontrolled hunger requiring satisfaction. However, once the season of darkness has passed, and the sun appears overhead to provide its light and comfort, you may turn over and shudder in horror over the person lying beside you, chosen when your GPS was in the shop for repairs, and your loneliness overcame your good sense, i.e. you chose at the wrong time.
Take periodic stock over your internal compass, the content of your heart, become painfully self aware of how you are feeling about yourself, your life and your heart, that you may recognize your own ability or lack thereof to attract and choose the right person for yourself. These decisions must be crucially considered and thus implemented only when one is feeling internally strong and self confident, cognoscenti of self worth, invigorated by self love, with the filter clean and running strong. It is only the rest of your life you know. And most of us are only provided one out of jail free card.
No one should be blamed for wearing this self deprecating cloak, for if one has experienced an unwilling period of solace, or an extended dry spell, the need for human contact, tenderness, intimacy and validation becomes a tangible, uncontrolled hunger requiring satisfaction. However, once the season of darkness has passed, and the sun appears overhead to provide its light and comfort, you may turn over and shudder in horror over the person lying beside you, chosen when your GPS was in the shop for repairs, and your loneliness overcame your good sense, i.e. you chose at the wrong time.
Take periodic stock over your internal compass, the content of your heart, become painfully self aware of how you are feeling about yourself, your life and your heart, that you may recognize your own ability or lack thereof to attract and choose the right person for yourself. These decisions must be crucially considered and thus implemented only when one is feeling internally strong and self confident, cognoscenti of self worth, invigorated by self love, with the filter clean and running strong. It is only the rest of your life you know. And most of us are only provided one out of jail free card.
Monday, October 13, 2008
10 cheesiest pick up lines I have had the misfortune to recall.
Worst pick up lines I have had the misfortune to recall.
After years in the dating trenches, with an accumulation of good and terrible dating experiences beneath the proverbial belt, I feel thus compelled to recall some of my favorite cheesy pick up lines, undoubtedly recycled by the ill intended lotharios who had the misfortune to utter them.
10-Him “My eyes are hurting me”
Her-“and why is that?”
Him-“Your eyes are so bright, because the stars fell from the skies and placed their light within your eyes, blinding me with their intensity”
Her-"No, your vision problems are most likely a result of over administration of visine to eliminate the proverbial redness from all the pot you have been smoking.”
9. Him-“your legs must be tired”
Her-“And why is that”
Him-“Because you have been running around in my mind all night!”
Her-"No, my legs are sore from all of the core training I have compled in preparation for running far and fast from anyone uttering such a ridiculous pick up line”. .
8-Him, after introduction to his female victim-“Enough about you, let’s talk about me.”
That one was honestly pretty clever and deserves a cheesiness reprieve.
7-Him-“ I knew I recognized you.”
Her-“From where?”
Him-“You were first runner up in the Miss America 2007 pageant, right?”
Her-“No, but I am the winner of the ‘knowing what a fool you are contest’, 2008.”
6. Him-“Do you have an aspirin?”
Her-“What for?”
Him-“ I need something for the pain I feel of not knowing who you are”.
Her-“And I need a valium to help me forget I ever met you.”
5. Him-“Come here often?”
Her-“Not anymore”.
4. Him-“Hey baby, what’s your sign?” (Yes this is actually still attempted)
Her “I have a sign for you buddy. Let me just put down my drink long enough to raise both my hands in a universal we both know and understand.”
3. Him-“I’d really love to continue this conversation about the election at my place, it’s so loud in here.”
Her-“I vote NO!”
2. Him-“Hey baby, I don’t play games.”
Her, “I do. My favorite is called, “watch the loser leave alone.”
And finally, drum role, the cheesiest pick up line I have EVER heard
1 Him-“Where have you been all my life?”
Her-“In the leprosy camp. My skin treatments are progressing nicely don’t you think?”
Bless the sweet ones with honest and sincere words, and pity the earnest fools who will try anything but an honest approach, who in ten years will still be supplying unwitting girls with this ridiculous approach while adjusting their hairpieces and wondering why they are still alone.
After years in the dating trenches, with an accumulation of good and terrible dating experiences beneath the proverbial belt, I feel thus compelled to recall some of my favorite cheesy pick up lines, undoubtedly recycled by the ill intended lotharios who had the misfortune to utter them.
10-Him “My eyes are hurting me”
Her-“and why is that?”
Him-“Your eyes are so bright, because the stars fell from the skies and placed their light within your eyes, blinding me with their intensity”
Her-"No, your vision problems are most likely a result of over administration of visine to eliminate the proverbial redness from all the pot you have been smoking.”
9. Him-“your legs must be tired”
Her-“And why is that”
Him-“Because you have been running around in my mind all night!”
Her-"No, my legs are sore from all of the core training I have compled in preparation for running far and fast from anyone uttering such a ridiculous pick up line”. .
8-Him, after introduction to his female victim-“Enough about you, let’s talk about me.”
That one was honestly pretty clever and deserves a cheesiness reprieve.
7-Him-“ I knew I recognized you.”
Her-“From where?”
Him-“You were first runner up in the Miss America 2007 pageant, right?”
Her-“No, but I am the winner of the ‘knowing what a fool you are contest’, 2008.”
6. Him-“Do you have an aspirin?”
Her-“What for?”
Him-“ I need something for the pain I feel of not knowing who you are”.
Her-“And I need a valium to help me forget I ever met you.”
5. Him-“Come here often?”
Her-“Not anymore”.
4. Him-“Hey baby, what’s your sign?” (Yes this is actually still attempted)
Her “I have a sign for you buddy. Let me just put down my drink long enough to raise both my hands in a universal we both know and understand.”
3. Him-“I’d really love to continue this conversation about the election at my place, it’s so loud in here.”
Her-“I vote NO!”
2. Him-“Hey baby, I don’t play games.”
Her, “I do. My favorite is called, “watch the loser leave alone.”
And finally, drum role, the cheesiest pick up line I have EVER heard
1 Him-“Where have you been all my life?”
Her-“In the leprosy camp. My skin treatments are progressing nicely don’t you think?”
Bless the sweet ones with honest and sincere words, and pity the earnest fools who will try anything but an honest approach, who in ten years will still be supplying unwitting girls with this ridiculous approach while adjusting their hairpieces and wondering why they are still alone.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Ode to the clue deficient
How to take a hint
We know the scene well. Typical Friday night at your favorite watering hole, watching the “lovelies” troll around the dance floor, those Jersey boys with slicked back hair, baggy jeans and bad acne who (have to) mimic the godfather’s quintessential gangster accent, look you up and down with beady, close set eyes that make you break out into a cold sweat and test your gag reflex to an infinite degree, and utter, “how you doing?”. You shudder as you helplessly appeal to your prince charming with the jewel green eyes and sexy smile across the room, willing him to come to your aid and save you from the sweaty palms and noxious breath of the guy who should not be hitting on you, the relentless, driven creepazoid with the tenacity to approach attractive females as if they are proverbial “pieces of meat” and give the nice, respectable guys a bad name. The guy who thinks Z cavaricci pants are still in style, the guy who used an entire can of plaster of paris on his hair, the guy who thinks brushing closely against you as he swaggers by is an attractive mating effort. .
Why does the “oh no he didn’t” guy always unfortunately “do it?” And why does prince charming lack the psychic know how to sense your distress and come to your aid, saving you from the ones who won’t give up.
I call these men who cannot take a hint the “clue deficient”, for they are as consistent as the ocean’s current in their pursuit of our affection and attention and fail to recognize the most obvious rebuff to each overture.
I once had a guy seriously follow me after I walked away from his multiple, disgusting attempts to sway me to dance, “just one little dance” as king kong put it. Each excuse seemed to spur him on, from no thank you, I have a boyfriend, I have a terminal illness, foot drop, out of control body odor, I am entering a convent, I’m abstaining for lent, I have to save my friend from her murderous ex husband…Nothing seemed to work. Which begs the question, why these are fools unable to see the writing on the wall?. NO self respecting female with an ounce of self esteem will give the time of day to a sleazy guy who blatantly rubs up against you before proffering a name or introduction, and who makes a mockery of the initial flirting ritual with leering evidence of his intent. It has nothing to do with looks, either. It is all in the delivery. A polite, respectful inquiry into one’s heath, evening, as a lead in to the initial conversation in lieu of the quintessential “hey baby” (who even says that anymore) greeting will do a world of wonders toward your progress in striking up a conversation with the object of your affections.
One evening I witnessed a triumphant scene where justice prevailed. A smart female, tired of politely providing ignored excuses to a creepy guy getting too friendly (groping her), threw her drink in his face and stormed to the side of her ignorant prince charming, thus thwarting the maneuvers of her “clue deficient” swain and seizing the opportunity to meet her prospective match in one fell swoop. I am now the official president of her North American Fan Club. Security threw the guy out on his keister.
And what do I say to the clue deficient, the creepy guys who cannot take no for an answer, with the limited cognitive ability to recognize that sleazy pick up lines really DON”T work no matter what your unemployed, couch cemented older brother with the receding hairline told you. Try and honest and respectful approach, and you won’t end up with Jack Daniels in your face and a bad taste in your mouth from all the proverbial crow you have eaten.
We know the scene well. Typical Friday night at your favorite watering hole, watching the “lovelies” troll around the dance floor, those Jersey boys with slicked back hair, baggy jeans and bad acne who (have to) mimic the godfather’s quintessential gangster accent, look you up and down with beady, close set eyes that make you break out into a cold sweat and test your gag reflex to an infinite degree, and utter, “how you doing?”. You shudder as you helplessly appeal to your prince charming with the jewel green eyes and sexy smile across the room, willing him to come to your aid and save you from the sweaty palms and noxious breath of the guy who should not be hitting on you, the relentless, driven creepazoid with the tenacity to approach attractive females as if they are proverbial “pieces of meat” and give the nice, respectable guys a bad name. The guy who thinks Z cavaricci pants are still in style, the guy who used an entire can of plaster of paris on his hair, the guy who thinks brushing closely against you as he swaggers by is an attractive mating effort. .
Why does the “oh no he didn’t” guy always unfortunately “do it?” And why does prince charming lack the psychic know how to sense your distress and come to your aid, saving you from the ones who won’t give up.
I call these men who cannot take a hint the “clue deficient”, for they are as consistent as the ocean’s current in their pursuit of our affection and attention and fail to recognize the most obvious rebuff to each overture.
I once had a guy seriously follow me after I walked away from his multiple, disgusting attempts to sway me to dance, “just one little dance” as king kong put it. Each excuse seemed to spur him on, from no thank you, I have a boyfriend, I have a terminal illness, foot drop, out of control body odor, I am entering a convent, I’m abstaining for lent, I have to save my friend from her murderous ex husband…Nothing seemed to work. Which begs the question, why these are fools unable to see the writing on the wall?. NO self respecting female with an ounce of self esteem will give the time of day to a sleazy guy who blatantly rubs up against you before proffering a name or introduction, and who makes a mockery of the initial flirting ritual with leering evidence of his intent. It has nothing to do with looks, either. It is all in the delivery. A polite, respectful inquiry into one’s heath, evening, as a lead in to the initial conversation in lieu of the quintessential “hey baby” (who even says that anymore) greeting will do a world of wonders toward your progress in striking up a conversation with the object of your affections.
One evening I witnessed a triumphant scene where justice prevailed. A smart female, tired of politely providing ignored excuses to a creepy guy getting too friendly (groping her), threw her drink in his face and stormed to the side of her ignorant prince charming, thus thwarting the maneuvers of her “clue deficient” swain and seizing the opportunity to meet her prospective match in one fell swoop. I am now the official president of her North American Fan Club. Security threw the guy out on his keister.
And what do I say to the clue deficient, the creepy guys who cannot take no for an answer, with the limited cognitive ability to recognize that sleazy pick up lines really DON”T work no matter what your unemployed, couch cemented older brother with the receding hairline told you. Try and honest and respectful approach, and you won’t end up with Jack Daniels in your face and a bad taste in your mouth from all the proverbial crow you have eaten.
Friday, October 3, 2008
You have to let love happen..
My life is navigated by subscribing to the ever reliable type “A” adage of “making things happen” vs. “letting things happen” naturally. A natural born “doer”, my self described impatient and compulsive nature propels me to constantly think ahead, considering all angles, proactively planning every minute detail to control a rapid start, maintain a furious and relentless momentum, with a predetermined and ultimately successful end result. This formula has proved wildly successful in my career, but as they say “not so much” in my personal life, related to dating. I would never presume to dictate another’s outcome, but perhaps would lend this perspective gleaned from a trial and error formula chock full of “Lessons Learned”. Unfortunately for me, the strongest and harshest lessons have been learned from following my impulses vs. practicing restraint, and those mistakes resulted from turning a deaf ear to those exponentially wiser individuals whom have advised me countless times regarding matters of the heart. “You have to let love happen”.
I don’t like to let “anything” happen. I am the one pacing the floor, making furious plans in my head while surrounded by patient souls neither plotting nor planning the next move, rather letting things “be” until the dust settles and the chips have fallen where they may.
And having spent years since my divorce, mowing impatiently through relationships, either letting go of individuals who’s relationship pace I considered too slow, or myself being “let go” for trying to manipulate and control said pace to my liking, over the last year I at last came to the frustrating and semi painful realization that while I may choose to live my life at this relentless pace, the individual with whom I am spending my time should feel blessedly free to maintain the pace of his choosing. If it is the right time, the right place, and the right moment, the velocity shall either propel or relent, allowing us to meet peacefully in the middle.
If you have to make it happen with contrived circumstances, excuses or manipulation, you will control your outcome to ultimately no outcome, and thus the continued solidarity.
Rather if you live your life, make your own plans, without trying to force the circumstances or actions of another to serve your ultimate outcome, I firmly believe that relationship and love you desire will come to you naturally. It requires a sturdy faith, a massive amount of patience, and the art of not acting on every impulse to “make something happen”. As for myself, with regard to love, now when things aren’t going as I like or as I have planned, I slow down, take a deep breath and practice the painful art of doing absolutely nothing, for I know in my heart that things shall happen as they should. And so far it has worked out rather well for me.
I don’t like to let “anything” happen. I am the one pacing the floor, making furious plans in my head while surrounded by patient souls neither plotting nor planning the next move, rather letting things “be” until the dust settles and the chips have fallen where they may.
And having spent years since my divorce, mowing impatiently through relationships, either letting go of individuals who’s relationship pace I considered too slow, or myself being “let go” for trying to manipulate and control said pace to my liking, over the last year I at last came to the frustrating and semi painful realization that while I may choose to live my life at this relentless pace, the individual with whom I am spending my time should feel blessedly free to maintain the pace of his choosing. If it is the right time, the right place, and the right moment, the velocity shall either propel or relent, allowing us to meet peacefully in the middle.
If you have to make it happen with contrived circumstances, excuses or manipulation, you will control your outcome to ultimately no outcome, and thus the continued solidarity.
Rather if you live your life, make your own plans, without trying to force the circumstances or actions of another to serve your ultimate outcome, I firmly believe that relationship and love you desire will come to you naturally. It requires a sturdy faith, a massive amount of patience, and the art of not acting on every impulse to “make something happen”. As for myself, with regard to love, now when things aren’t going as I like or as I have planned, I slow down, take a deep breath and practice the painful art of doing absolutely nothing, for I know in my heart that things shall happen as they should. And so far it has worked out rather well for me.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Expiration Date.
Expiration Date
It seems that a person’s words, much like 2% milk or a five year automobile warranty, have an expiration date.
Thus content must be closely considered during pointed conversations where declarations of feelings or intent, impending plans or relationship status have been discussed, as there seems to be an implied deadline.
I remember a friend’s recounting of a conversation she had with her recent “X” that both puzzled and humored me; puzzling as the affirmative declarations of affection and continuity during the relationship were in direct conflict with his lack of follow through and subsequent termination of the relationship. Humorous as you will note the adjective used to describe her “X” is a one word name, with no verb following suit to lend clarity or defining status.
According to her “X”, (he is now merely her “X”, not ‘X” boyfriend) though he fondly referred to her as his “girlfriend” throughout the course of their relationship, post break up, he clarified that they were never really a committed couple. They were merely “seeing each other” casually and thus he is truly not her “ex boyfriend”. It seems he was “confused” and that she “read into things.” Yet she is possession of sufficient auditory and verbal faculties to recognize and process his exact words at the time. Nor is she a simpering girl to read volumes into simple words or gestures. Trust that she did not misunderstand him. In retrospect, what she should have done was to ask for the expiration date attached to his words, to determine longevity and validity.
They say hindsight is 20/20.
I return once again to the old adage, “say what you mean and mean what you say”.
Apparently he subscribed to the cliché of “I meant it at the time”.
Women and Men are both guilty of this. Impulsive declarations of affection provided without consideration beyond the moment (sometimes inspired by Jose Cuervo or an intense make out session) do often result in false hope and mixed perception. Worst case scenario you end up with midnight text messages, and dead rabbit stew reminiscent of our favorite stalker movie, for not truly meaning what you said “beyond the moment”. .
Some things to consider…
If on a first date, he tells you that he can see a future with you, ask him to clarify if that extends beyond the next 24 hours period after his proposed “night cap”. If after this he relents, perhaps he meant it but only “at the time”.
If she tells you that she feels a “close connection” twenty minutes into initial conversation, affirm that she will continue to feel this after you stick her with the bar tab after 15 more minutes have elapsed.
Don’t put too much stock into something said “at the moment” but rather consider the long term follow through to assess validity.
The small and simple moral to this story is, always consider your words and the impact, for the short term gratification may not be worth the long term and possibly negative affect on the person’s state of mind, and your own conscience..
It seems that a person’s words, much like 2% milk or a five year automobile warranty, have an expiration date.
Thus content must be closely considered during pointed conversations where declarations of feelings or intent, impending plans or relationship status have been discussed, as there seems to be an implied deadline.
I remember a friend’s recounting of a conversation she had with her recent “X” that both puzzled and humored me; puzzling as the affirmative declarations of affection and continuity during the relationship were in direct conflict with his lack of follow through and subsequent termination of the relationship. Humorous as you will note the adjective used to describe her “X” is a one word name, with no verb following suit to lend clarity or defining status.
According to her “X”, (he is now merely her “X”, not ‘X” boyfriend) though he fondly referred to her as his “girlfriend” throughout the course of their relationship, post break up, he clarified that they were never really a committed couple. They were merely “seeing each other” casually and thus he is truly not her “ex boyfriend”. It seems he was “confused” and that she “read into things.” Yet she is possession of sufficient auditory and verbal faculties to recognize and process his exact words at the time. Nor is she a simpering girl to read volumes into simple words or gestures. Trust that she did not misunderstand him. In retrospect, what she should have done was to ask for the expiration date attached to his words, to determine longevity and validity.
They say hindsight is 20/20.
I return once again to the old adage, “say what you mean and mean what you say”.
Apparently he subscribed to the cliché of “I meant it at the time”.
Women and Men are both guilty of this. Impulsive declarations of affection provided without consideration beyond the moment (sometimes inspired by Jose Cuervo or an intense make out session) do often result in false hope and mixed perception. Worst case scenario you end up with midnight text messages, and dead rabbit stew reminiscent of our favorite stalker movie, for not truly meaning what you said “beyond the moment”. .
Some things to consider…
If on a first date, he tells you that he can see a future with you, ask him to clarify if that extends beyond the next 24 hours period after his proposed “night cap”. If after this he relents, perhaps he meant it but only “at the time”.
If she tells you that she feels a “close connection” twenty minutes into initial conversation, affirm that she will continue to feel this after you stick her with the bar tab after 15 more minutes have elapsed.
Don’t put too much stock into something said “at the moment” but rather consider the long term follow through to assess validity.
The small and simple moral to this story is, always consider your words and the impact, for the short term gratification may not be worth the long term and possibly negative affect on the person’s state of mind, and your own conscience..
Friday, September 26, 2008
"Fiery Car Crash"
I had a wonderful date, she pondered, and then I never heard from him again.
We were together for 4 months, she cried into her Kleenex, and then he just vanished.
He told me he would call, she pondered; I wonder if he lost my phone number? Yet I provided my cell number, home number, work number, work fax, home fax, skype address, home address, work email address-yes he lost all of this information soon after he was admitted to the rehab hospital for adult onset dementia and the loss of his limbs, thereby rendering it impossible to make contact.
Do any of these scenarios sound familiar to you? I know I have experienced this same disillusionment, where the stirring of hope, spurred by attention and affection from a person of seeming worth, are stifled before given time to flourish from possibility to improbability faster than I can gain a pant size. And that my friend is fast.
A strange and disturbing phenomenon is affecting a targeted male population between 22 and 50, unreported deaths and disappearances are occurring with no explanation, and the numbers are fearfully rising. I call this “fiery car crash phenomena” the inexplicable reason why the seemingly nice guy you spent your valuable time with, who acted with intent and gave promises of future encounters, disappears with out so much as a parting phone call or gift, leaving you a little saddened and a lot questioning. Unfortunately the questioning is of yourself rather than the individual who decided to flee the scene of the crime without nary a by your leave or “I am just not that into you”.
Stop the hopeless tears and questions of self worth. It is one of life’s inexplicable secrets I liken to the Bermuda Triangle or space flight. There is only one possible conclusion I can draw, that the guy you liked has mysteriously perished, whether deep in a comatose state in the nearby hospital ICU, where even in his healing slumber he is tormented by his inability to contact you. Or death by fiery car crash, where your name was surely the last word he uttered before perishing in the sharp rocks below.
What other answer could there be? What rational, kind adult would make that kind of promise but ultimately not deliver in the follow through?
I am unfortunately not the author of the creative title to this syndrome. A brash and creative old room mate of mine offered this an explanation one Friday night when I was crying into my cheerios, bemoaning my fate as the young man with whom I had spent two glorious weeks had simply vanished into thin air.
“He must have died in a fiery car crash” she simply and emphatically stated.
I looked up in surprise.
“Of course it was a fiery car crash, what other reason could there be for his non responsiveness?” She pondered momentarily, and then added “or his hands were cut off and he has no way to call you.” I likened the secondary rationalization to the old adage of “the dog ate my homework” and reverted to the initial proposal. “You must be right” I exclaimed as I feverishly checked the obituary section of the newspaper for any trace of his demise.
This recently happened to me again, after two dates with a very attractive and successful man (age does not preclude this disaster) he simply vanished, no email, no contact, no nothing.
“How is Fred doing” my friends queried. (names have been changed to protect the guilty) “Oh, he is unfortunately in a coma” I proffered, explaining his lack of contact. And of course they all agreed, for surely he would not simply decide to end contact without an explanation. We turned this into a humorous saga, with weekly updates that went as follows
“How is Fred?"-"oh his brother called and his prognosis is not good. However they know he is thinking of me, for when they speak my name he blinks his eyelids twice.” This then progressed to “oh, his brother told me that he unfortunately passed away last night. They asked me to speak at his funeral”. So that is the sad reason why he never called me again.
Putting a humorous twist to a potentially disappointing situation made it that much easier to endure, and reminded us all of the true insignifigance of this in the big picture.
So what is our request? I presume to speak on behalf of womankind when I simply say that though it may be easier for men to merely walk away without any type of explanation, it is difficult for us. Please provide some type of closure. Don’t worry about how you words of rejection may affect our frail egos. The repercussions of the silent, non responsive rejection are far worse.
The moral to this story is, girls, if you don’t hear, shed a tear over the tragic demise of the one for whom you held affection. Dust yourself and move on, for there are plenty of others with the kindness and fortitude to not treat you this way.
We were together for 4 months, she cried into her Kleenex, and then he just vanished.
He told me he would call, she pondered; I wonder if he lost my phone number? Yet I provided my cell number, home number, work number, work fax, home fax, skype address, home address, work email address-yes he lost all of this information soon after he was admitted to the rehab hospital for adult onset dementia and the loss of his limbs, thereby rendering it impossible to make contact.
Do any of these scenarios sound familiar to you? I know I have experienced this same disillusionment, where the stirring of hope, spurred by attention and affection from a person of seeming worth, are stifled before given time to flourish from possibility to improbability faster than I can gain a pant size. And that my friend is fast.
A strange and disturbing phenomenon is affecting a targeted male population between 22 and 50, unreported deaths and disappearances are occurring with no explanation, and the numbers are fearfully rising. I call this “fiery car crash phenomena” the inexplicable reason why the seemingly nice guy you spent your valuable time with, who acted with intent and gave promises of future encounters, disappears with out so much as a parting phone call or gift, leaving you a little saddened and a lot questioning. Unfortunately the questioning is of yourself rather than the individual who decided to flee the scene of the crime without nary a by your leave or “I am just not that into you”.
Stop the hopeless tears and questions of self worth. It is one of life’s inexplicable secrets I liken to the Bermuda Triangle or space flight. There is only one possible conclusion I can draw, that the guy you liked has mysteriously perished, whether deep in a comatose state in the nearby hospital ICU, where even in his healing slumber he is tormented by his inability to contact you. Or death by fiery car crash, where your name was surely the last word he uttered before perishing in the sharp rocks below.
What other answer could there be? What rational, kind adult would make that kind of promise but ultimately not deliver in the follow through?
I am unfortunately not the author of the creative title to this syndrome. A brash and creative old room mate of mine offered this an explanation one Friday night when I was crying into my cheerios, bemoaning my fate as the young man with whom I had spent two glorious weeks had simply vanished into thin air.
“He must have died in a fiery car crash” she simply and emphatically stated.
I looked up in surprise.
“Of course it was a fiery car crash, what other reason could there be for his non responsiveness?” She pondered momentarily, and then added “or his hands were cut off and he has no way to call you.” I likened the secondary rationalization to the old adage of “the dog ate my homework” and reverted to the initial proposal. “You must be right” I exclaimed as I feverishly checked the obituary section of the newspaper for any trace of his demise.
This recently happened to me again, after two dates with a very attractive and successful man (age does not preclude this disaster) he simply vanished, no email, no contact, no nothing.
“How is Fred doing” my friends queried. (names have been changed to protect the guilty) “Oh, he is unfortunately in a coma” I proffered, explaining his lack of contact. And of course they all agreed, for surely he would not simply decide to end contact without an explanation. We turned this into a humorous saga, with weekly updates that went as follows
“How is Fred?"-"oh his brother called and his prognosis is not good. However they know he is thinking of me, for when they speak my name he blinks his eyelids twice.” This then progressed to “oh, his brother told me that he unfortunately passed away last night. They asked me to speak at his funeral”. So that is the sad reason why he never called me again.
Putting a humorous twist to a potentially disappointing situation made it that much easier to endure, and reminded us all of the true insignifigance of this in the big picture.
So what is our request? I presume to speak on behalf of womankind when I simply say that though it may be easier for men to merely walk away without any type of explanation, it is difficult for us. Please provide some type of closure. Don’t worry about how you words of rejection may affect our frail egos. The repercussions of the silent, non responsive rejection are far worse.
The moral to this story is, girls, if you don’t hear, shed a tear over the tragic demise of the one for whom you held affection. Dust yourself and move on, for there are plenty of others with the kindness and fortitude to not treat you this way.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
"Athletic and toned" is a subjective description.
Subjective is defined as “not impartial: based on somebody’s opinions or feelings rather than fact or evidence. Existing by perception: existing only in the mind and not independently of it.”
Our perceptions are inherently subjective, comprised of our thoughts, and experiences, refined by a lifetime of self scrutiny and reaction, supplemented by feedback and assessment from others, which is unfortunately not consistently accurate or honest. One would assume that most rational, intelligent adults would possess a fairly accurate perception of themselves, their appearance, demeanor, and would therefore present an honest description of said perception, when requested. Well you know what they say about “assuming” anything, and this is infallibly applicable to the world of on line dating. The subjective perceptions of appearance and demeanor, freely provided by millions of subscribers to various internet dating web sites, vary from significantly underestimated to glaringly dishonest, making the already precarious navigation of said medium prohibitively daunting in the attempt to filter truth from untruth. All we girls have for a basis of determination in a potential matches profile is what they have detailed before us. And the most subjective and abused category on a user’s (men) dating profile is the descriptor of body type. There are various categories to describe one’s build, “athletic and toned”, “average”, “slender”, “a few extra pounds”. And these descriptors are used liberally in the subjective sense, i.e. dishonestly, to compensate for body type deficiencies. I must have missed the memo that provided a blanket exemption for the use of “athletic and toned” to describe an individual with a beer gut. A hard stomach does not include a basketball sized abdomen disguised under a conveniently baggy shirt, courtesy of Pabst Blue Ribbon and fried cheese sticks. An athletic lifestyle is not inclusive of beer pong and channel surfing, though I am sure strong and developed index fingers from frequent channel changing reps would cause the strongest hearts to swoon. Don’t post “athletic and toned” pictures from your high school yearbook on your dating profile, when you were sculpted and sharp from Varsity football and photo shop out the mullet with a current facial view. If you are hoping that your charming email repartee will sway us so definitively that when the first meet occurs, the real “you”, (dishonestly portrayed and 20 lbs heavier), won’t matter, then you are severely mistaken. And while you mutter and moan over how superficial we are, you must realize that this has nothing to do with superficiality and everything to do with honesty. While looks matter to some extent, reality dictates that once one ventures beyond the 20s, age and gravity set in, complete with figure flaws. And most discerning girls would much rather spend time with someone who may not look like Brad Pitt, 12 pack and all, but who is witty, attractive and kind, with the temerity to present an honest profile from the onset.
Our perceptions are inherently subjective, comprised of our thoughts, and experiences, refined by a lifetime of self scrutiny and reaction, supplemented by feedback and assessment from others, which is unfortunately not consistently accurate or honest. One would assume that most rational, intelligent adults would possess a fairly accurate perception of themselves, their appearance, demeanor, and would therefore present an honest description of said perception, when requested. Well you know what they say about “assuming” anything, and this is infallibly applicable to the world of on line dating. The subjective perceptions of appearance and demeanor, freely provided by millions of subscribers to various internet dating web sites, vary from significantly underestimated to glaringly dishonest, making the already precarious navigation of said medium prohibitively daunting in the attempt to filter truth from untruth. All we girls have for a basis of determination in a potential matches profile is what they have detailed before us. And the most subjective and abused category on a user’s (men) dating profile is the descriptor of body type. There are various categories to describe one’s build, “athletic and toned”, “average”, “slender”, “a few extra pounds”. And these descriptors are used liberally in the subjective sense, i.e. dishonestly, to compensate for body type deficiencies. I must have missed the memo that provided a blanket exemption for the use of “athletic and toned” to describe an individual with a beer gut. A hard stomach does not include a basketball sized abdomen disguised under a conveniently baggy shirt, courtesy of Pabst Blue Ribbon and fried cheese sticks. An athletic lifestyle is not inclusive of beer pong and channel surfing, though I am sure strong and developed index fingers from frequent channel changing reps would cause the strongest hearts to swoon. Don’t post “athletic and toned” pictures from your high school yearbook on your dating profile, when you were sculpted and sharp from Varsity football and photo shop out the mullet with a current facial view. If you are hoping that your charming email repartee will sway us so definitively that when the first meet occurs, the real “you”, (dishonestly portrayed and 20 lbs heavier), won’t matter, then you are severely mistaken. And while you mutter and moan over how superficial we are, you must realize that this has nothing to do with superficiality and everything to do with honesty. While looks matter to some extent, reality dictates that once one ventures beyond the 20s, age and gravity set in, complete with figure flaws. And most discerning girls would much rather spend time with someone who may not look like Brad Pitt, 12 pack and all, but who is witty, attractive and kind, with the temerity to present an honest profile from the onset.
Monday, September 22, 2008
"Oh where, oh where have the normal men gone, oh where, oh where can they be?
I will preface this posting by stating emphatically that I am not a man hater. Rather, I love men, for their broad shoulders, adorable inability to multi-task, tactical avoidance of confrontation or any type of serious discussions with their "women", and especially for their wonderfully emotion free, pragmatic decision making abilities. And I firmly believe that there are still honest, kind, relatively tall and at least fairly handsome men left out their for us single gals to choose from. Yes, you read the verbiage correctly, "relatively tall, fairly handsome." I am not a defeatest, and I retain my faith in an exciting, compatably matched partnership for us all. However that is tempered with practicality (which I have been sorely lacking in my life) based on my own observations. The proverbial check list we all secretly harbor, (I am the biggest culprit) comprised of our perfect matches "criteria", inclusive of a six figure income, Fabio's hair, the abs of Adonis and wit of Robin Williams is unrealistic.. Create a new checklist with important, attainable criteria, back shelve the unrealistic, and sigh in acceptance of the realization that Prince Charming's horse broke a shoe, his navigation system is on the fritz, he missed the fork in the road, and the perfect man died in a fiery car crash. Or as my friends and I like to put it, "Kevin is still in a coma." The good ones are still out there; I hold steadfast to my grocery store fantasy of the frozen food aisle, where my true match, a kind, successful, attractive, funny, imperfect man will pop his head around the economy size freezer and compliment my taste in Lean Cuisine.
The philosophical out of the way, a segue into the blog title for tonight, "where have all the normal men gone?" serves as the humorous recounting of a close friend's ridiculous and semi horrifying experience of not once, not twice, not thrice, but seriously, and I repeat, in honor of our favorite medical drame, "seriously" a four time occurence of being stood up in one evening. I know the good ones are out there, but why do we keep meeting the losers?
They met that fateful night on her 28th birthday, nearly one month ago. The girls were kicking it up 80's style on the dance floor when he glimpsed her face and knew he had to have her. Ok, really, he and his buzzed friend asked the birthday girl and her friend for their numbers, and they planned a potential meet up for the following weekend. The first red flag was that the wing man of the birthday girls friend decided not to show to the first double date. Though I am sure the two girls and only him on the date were the fulfillment of his adolescent fantasy, as for the female counterpart, being the third wheel can do hell on the ego. The girls chalked it up to the unchecked randomness that is life and moved on. Then this last Friday, Heckle and Jeckle decide to contact my friend and her friend again for another attempt at the proverbial double date,. Out of boredom they agreed to meet up at a bar/restaurant near the beach, or rather the beneficence of second chances. On the drive to the restaurant, visions of the last debacle flashed through her mind, but my friend, if anything, is a random free spirit, and thought "what the heck?". . Famous last words. The girls waited for over an hour for these clowns, and then left the restaurant for another bar to try and salvage some semblance of a fun evening. Later that evening, idiot one calls my friend and makes all sorts of excuses about running late, the dog at his homework, excuse after excuse for never showing up, which nearly fell upon deaf ears. However, out of pity the girls opted to provide one last chance..Again fateful words, for the girls arrived at the second destination of the night only to be stood up again. The! guys! never! showed! up! Secretly hoping they had suffered from the fiery car crash that undoubtedly prevented their arrival at each bar, my friend received a 3 am phone call from the loser, and a repeat text the next day insinuating that it was her fault the plans got mixed up. She very succintly detailed the events of the evening, and finished with a polite but firm explanation as to why she would not be able to go out with him again. These were not 21 year old children, but rather 34 year old men with the obvious brain span of infant monkeys. Girls, repeat this daily affirmation, "there are still good men out there". And always bring a compass to assist navigating the lost souls worthy of your direction.
The philosophical out of the way, a segue into the blog title for tonight, "where have all the normal men gone?" serves as the humorous recounting of a close friend's ridiculous and semi horrifying experience of not once, not twice, not thrice, but seriously, and I repeat, in honor of our favorite medical drame, "seriously" a four time occurence of being stood up in one evening. I know the good ones are out there, but why do we keep meeting the losers?
They met that fateful night on her 28th birthday, nearly one month ago. The girls were kicking it up 80's style on the dance floor when he glimpsed her face and knew he had to have her. Ok, really, he and his buzzed friend asked the birthday girl and her friend for their numbers, and they planned a potential meet up for the following weekend. The first red flag was that the wing man of the birthday girls friend decided not to show to the first double date. Though I am sure the two girls and only him on the date were the fulfillment of his adolescent fantasy, as for the female counterpart, being the third wheel can do hell on the ego. The girls chalked it up to the unchecked randomness that is life and moved on. Then this last Friday, Heckle and Jeckle decide to contact my friend and her friend again for another attempt at the proverbial double date,. Out of boredom they agreed to meet up at a bar/restaurant near the beach, or rather the beneficence of second chances. On the drive to the restaurant, visions of the last debacle flashed through her mind, but my friend, if anything, is a random free spirit, and thought "what the heck?". . Famous last words. The girls waited for over an hour for these clowns, and then left the restaurant for another bar to try and salvage some semblance of a fun evening. Later that evening, idiot one calls my friend and makes all sorts of excuses about running late, the dog at his homework, excuse after excuse for never showing up, which nearly fell upon deaf ears. However, out of pity the girls opted to provide one last chance..Again fateful words, for the girls arrived at the second destination of the night only to be stood up again. The! guys! never! showed! up! Secretly hoping they had suffered from the fiery car crash that undoubtedly prevented their arrival at each bar, my friend received a 3 am phone call from the loser, and a repeat text the next day insinuating that it was her fault the plans got mixed up. She very succintly detailed the events of the evening, and finished with a polite but firm explanation as to why she would not be able to go out with him again. These were not 21 year old children, but rather 34 year old men with the obvious brain span of infant monkeys. Girls, repeat this daily affirmation, "there are still good men out there". And always bring a compass to assist navigating the lost souls worthy of your direction.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
More than an age old question..
Let's face it, I have been accused of over thinking everything my entire life, rarely accepting the status quo or things at face value, questioning the rationale or motivation behind people's actions or decisions. That is inherent to my inquisitive nature, and has led to both success and failure in my life. The positive is that I constantly observe, assess and retain, the negative is that all things observed therefore elicit over analysis that can sometimes lead to insomnia and compulsiveness. The proverbial hamster upstairs never stops the wheel turning. And thus in this spirit I feel compelled to question and assess a prevalent and challenging issue that affects my friends and myself, dating and singlehood. Today's dating challenges are vastly more complex and far reaching than faced by our parents, they encompass far more than the age old question of "why am I still single?" We can categorize dating difficulty by age group, zip code or profession. And yet I still come back to another question, when did it become so hard to find that special someone? My friends comprise a group of beautiful and accomplished girls, ranging in age from 28-44, yet most are single, myself included. We are neither a bitter nor troubled group, and our experiences range from naive first daters to divorcees with small children. We have endured our battle scars, triumphed in our relationship successes and gleaned insight and lessons from our bad decisions and disappointments. The commonality that bonds us are our wonderfully joyful, hilarious and horrifying dating experiences that help us more clearly navigate and define the journey. My blog will summarize and recount these experiences, to perhaps lend clarify and assistance, or at the very least inspire limited laughter..Girls, you are not alone.
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