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.

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 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.