I'm pretty much recovered from the heading-toward-depression-totally-pathetic crying jag of yesterday. Innana gave me 400 grams (about 14 ounces) of Toblerone to ingest, which I have done, and that definitely did the trick. But my low mood made me think about some stuff, first of which is writing and second of which is music.
When I was younger, I had fantasies of being a famous writer or alternatively being a famous singer and guitar player. Needless to say, I am not famous for my writing or my singing or my guitar playing. However, I have definitely gotten into the habit of writing almost everyday. Mostly for this blog, but also for some other attempts. I also have gotten back into singing and playing the guitar. Not for public consumption, but for myself and the Foilkids (who, flatteringly enough, although through total and utter ignorance, think I'm good). DestructoGirl, upon being tucked into bed, will demand "Song, Mama." Or "Sing to me, Mama." TigerGrrl loves it when I get out the guitar, and loves to play along on her guitar.
When I was married, then Mr. Foilwoman never seemed pleased to have me sing or play the guitar, and never got why I might want to write. Well, this was the man who told me I had "Too many books"*
Well, I'd like to say that in the wake of the divorce I've been writing and singing and playing up a storm, have realized my previously hidden talents, and have taken the publishing and musical worlds my storm, and now rule the world. In the Hollywood Unmarried Woman tradition, I should now be declaring victory over much of the known world, be coming into my own career-wise and in my personal life, and feel unfettered from the past.
Of course, just like the idea of perfect love, the ideal of the perfect life is hogwash. My career is still in the toilet. I have a good job, but I won't be applying for or receiving any promotions or big money until after my girls are a good bit older. We may have a President who espouses "family values" but valuing families and the sacrifices it takes to raise them? Not a value he has any idea of. I don't think he knows what the word sacrifice means.
[An aside about sacrifice] Look at the U.K. I have no use for the royal family (the Danish Royal Family is another thing, but that not monarchism, that's tribalism), but the news this week made me think for a second about the value of figurehead. I may think the House o' Windsor needs a collective chin implant, and may have had some embarrassing cell-phone moments, and get caught with your pants down moments, but being involved in a war that ain't ending, the country's head apparently did not stand in the way of her son's spare heir (the William, but hey) being sent into harms way, and he was only pulled out when exposure meant increased risk, not only for him, but for his brothers in arms.
Stop for a sec. Can you imagine Dubya doing something similar? He has no problem sending other people's children into harms way, but it would never occur to him (or any of his advisors) to have their children take that risk. Jenna and Barbara? Their idea of a sacrifice . . . no, they don't know what that word means (kind of like me and "too many books", which is a phrase I can see popping out of either of their mouths). [End of Aside.]
So working career? Stuck in mother-of-young-children-and-need-to-get-home-to-relieve-the-Saintly-Babysitter-after-work land. Imaginary careers (writing, playing guitar, and singing)? Still completely and utterly imaginary. And I've come to some realizations regarding Singing and playing the guitar and writing.
Singing and Playing the Guitar
I'm not that good, and I'm not going to get that good. I sang and played in public in Sant Just Desvern at the El Baco bar in 1977 for several months, I sang in chorus in high school, and I sang at a few political rallies in Maine in the late 70s and early 80s, but that's really it, and there isn't going to be any more. I'm not going to go to open mike nights. I'm not going to perform for parties. I'm not going to pursue any sort of remuneration or public recognition for this.
At the same time, I love it. Last night, I played until my fingers were sore, and I'll play again today, even though I have a sore throat. It is a bit emotionally painful to enjoy something so much with which I have no real chance of having any real impact on others, but there it is. My renditions of This Shirt, Love Me Like a Man, Romeo & Juliet, I Still Miss Someone, Ripple, Friend of the Devil, Sweet Sir Galahad, Song for David, Love Song to A Stranger, Love is Just a Four Letter Word, Suzanne, I'm on Fire, Mothers of the Disappeared, Guatanamera, If I Had a Hammer (all sung last night), and just about everything in my repertoire? These are for me and me alone. And occasionally the FoilKids, who do love it when I play the guitar, and like to play and sing along. That's enough. It's not what I dream about in Walter-Mitty like fantasies when cheering crowds acknowledge my musical greatness (no matter how hackneyed and dated my song selection, how limited my vocal range, and how basic my guitar picking technique), but it's more than good enough. And my guitars are, among things that I own (as opposed to people and interested in my life, that generally rank higher) truly beloved. So that'll do.
Writing
I have come to the sad, sad conclusion that I have no novel in me. I have lots of stories. Lots of essays. But no novel or big, meaningful non-fiction book. I just don't see the world in novelistic terms, and about three or four chapters into any novel I start writing, I stop and think something like this: "I can't write a story arc that makes sense because life just isn't like that." I can imagine a plot through to the denoument. I can imagine multiple characters growing and changing. I just don't and can't imagine it as a coherent whole.
Right now, I'm reading The Information by Martin Amis, in what must be my snooty-tooty Brit Author Week (hitherto: BAW, for a nice sound effect), as it follows Thinks, by David Lodge (I love me some David Lodge, but Paradise News is my favorite of his, even though it isn't his best work). Even as I admire how well they've crafted their stories, I'm always amazed at the unreality of it all. Because aside from birth and death, no story has an obvious beginning, and the endeing, timed to reinforce the message one wants to send, only works as a moment in time. A week or a year later, its different. That's why happily-ever-after stories bite, even if they are enjoyable to read. That's why roman a clef stories really should never end (until death): the hero or whoever is still growing, unless trapped in tragic stagnation** and any ending point is like the end of a telephone conversation: possibly occurring at a logical point, but of no real significance.
Yesterday, I saw a couple walking down the street, obviously deliriously in love. He was practically wrapped around her. Really, his body was literaly draped over her as they walked up H Street. This took some doing as she was probably twice his size. I merely saw this couple for a period of ten seconds. The were young, shabbily dressed, and looked counter-culture-y, in the scruffy beard, not-office work clothing of young people trying to set themselves off from the herd. No, they are iconoclasts, individuals, very interesting people, not one of the masses living in quiet desperation. Or maybe the message they were sending was: we don't make a lot of money and buy second-hand clothes. But our boy was truly in love with our girl. And it wasn't just lust (they were pretty obviously very recently post-coital, a fact I easily confirmed with no effort when they walk right past me within five feet***). These two radiated a O Happy Day vibe combined with Hallelujah chorus that a blind man couldn't miss. Or, as appropriately described in that great song, Good Lovin': Even a blind man knows when the sun is shining. For those two, the sun was shining, even though it was setting as I walked passed them.
So I thought of the pretty chunky young woman and her scruffy swain and how happy they were yesterday at about 5:45 p.m. How did they meet? How long did it take them to get together? How long will they stay together? Are they a couple for real, or is this an interlude? Who's going to betray who? Who's going to leave? Will they stay and be happy or stay and be miserable? Will they move to Alaska? What attracted him to her, and her to him? I'll never know. Obviously, in their early twenties, anything can (and will - this is life and it's the chaos theory) happen, and any story is as good as any other. Maybe they'll both turn into career-oriented automatons. Maybe he's the next Ralph Nader, for whom human connection just won't be as meaning as screwing up presidential elections. Maybe she'll run an opera house or a bakery or become a neurosurgeon or be a clerk at a seven eleven. Maybe he'll run off with another guy, or she'll run off with a woman she met at a tai chi class.
How is any of that a coherent whole? All I know is yesterday, on leap year in 2008, those two had a good day. They were blissfully happy and nothing will make that disappear. They may forget that day. It may be a story to tell their grandchildren (heavily edited) or it may be a lost episode of partners who faded into unrecognizability with time. Who knows. I can't write the arc. I can write the episode. Is that a skill I can learn? I'd rather see them clearly today, right now, that imagine them into a plot line that doesn't quite fit.
You know, the woman leaves bad marriage, finds herself, finds true fulfilment, has big career success, and finds her tru love arc. This is life: there is no arc. I did leave a bad marriage, and this morning I played First Cut Is the Deepest, Drift Away, Across the Great Divide, and Gulf Coast Highway on the guitar. I made coffee. I'm not going to rise phoenix-like from the ashses. I am going to get up and go to work every weekday, care for my children, play my music, try to learn more, and hopefully not get too sidetracked by the upcoming uvula-ectomy (ick ick ick).
One thing I did about the writing and Guy is that I took care of the worrying about him discovering that I write about my life on the Internet and feeling betrayed or outraged. In the middle of our diseases/condoms/safe sex/monogamy/where is this relationship going (hopefully, straight to bed tonight, I'll tell you that, with NO details) talk -- we can cover a lot of ground in twenty-five minutes, I'll tell you -- I told him that I write and publish on the Internet, anonymously. I told him that doing so had helped me survive my divorce in one piece with most of my sanity, such as it is.
He asked: "And you want this to be anonymous?"
Me: "Yup."
Him: "And it helps you?"
Me: "Yup."
Him: "Okay."
Okay, that was a moment where the whole "could I ever fall in love" didn't seem to ludicrous. He wasn't incurious. He wasn't disinterested. He was aware that I was telling him something, but I didn't want him to pry. Now, he could trip over the blog and potentially figure out who I am (I write the way I talk here, so I don't think it would take a rocket scientist) and disapprove of how I view the world and things I have done or even fictionalized events I have described, but he's now aware and not prying. This is one of those comparison moments: Insane Ex would have either been completely uninterested (no follow up questions at all), disdainful ("Why are you doing that? Are you stupid?"), or controlling ("I need to read this now."). Those were the only reactions I was really imagining and Guy's leave-me-room-to-write response was several flights of stairs above all of those. Nice.
Now, I've got a big date tonight. I think I'll shave my legs. (Alex in Oz, I don't want your thoughts on this issue, cute as you are.)
*Repeating myself, but two years later, that phrase still has no meaning for me. "Too many books"? What could that mean?
**For examples of the whole stagnation-as-writing style, see Updike or Roth or Cheever.
***Please don't get all offended here, but when you have sex, anyone with working olfactory glands can tell. It's not just the mussed up hair and JFG+. It was the smell of sex: arousal, sperm, satisfaction, all of that mixing together, and it's damn near unmistakeable. And yes, when you sneak away for some quick nookie at a party: yes, that's evident too, even if you comb your hair. I'm not complaining, mind you. Just know that those of us who pay attention to what our noses tell us will know what you've been up to. That's all.
+Again, for who aren't acronym-friendly: JFG = Just Fucked Glow.
February 29, 2008
New Clear Day
Nuclear Grammy celebrated her 24th birthday today. She's now younger than all of her grandchildren, and on her 25th birthday (Feb. 29, 2012, for those of you who haven't picked up on the whole Leap Year thing), she will still be one birthday older than her oldest great-grandchild, LOS's eldest, Eric the Viking. By her 26th birthday (which I am quite confident, or as confident as one can be when discussing the health of a nonagenarian, that we will celebrate), Nuclear Grammy will have been lapped by Eric, and several other great-grandchildren will be working on closing the gap.
Nuclear Grammy admitted that she actually felt like a lady in her mid-nineties, as she called me by LOS's name, then NSLOS's name, then Helen (for Cousin Helen), then my own name. She also referred to TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl by the names of other greatgranddaughters who have either the same initials or the same racial mix. No confusion with great-grandsons, great-granddaughters with either different initials or different racial backgrounds. I didn't correct Grammy regarding the names or identities. She admitted she was confused, but didn't seem too bothered. "Well, you're all my descendants aren't you? Don't complain. At least you know you'll be long-lived." and later "Well, of course I get confused and forgetful. I'm old. But I haven't received a thank you letter from Polly for that wedding present I gave her back in 1999, and don't let her think for one moment that I've forgotten."
I do love the specificity or the ailing and forgetful mind. There's a lesson there somewhere.
And I didn't take advantage of a an aging matriarch. Grammy asked me how I was doing financially, and I didn't allow myself to tip my hand. I just said: "Things will be a bit tight until I don't have to pay for full-time child-care. But in two years, DestructoGirl will start school, and that will ease things up." That was instead of saying: "I know you're forgetful and not all there, but you still are well-to-do. Send me a check NOW." Nope. I changed subjects and asked Grammy about her bridge game, and told her of TigerGrrl's most recent karate victory.*
*For those of you who think total rapid global dominance by my offspring isn't a given, I have just these words, revealing my total geekitudeness: "Resistance is futile." Your eminence: Send the BennyDude now. DestructoGirl has plans.
Nuclear Grammy admitted that she actually felt like a lady in her mid-nineties, as she called me by LOS's name, then NSLOS's name, then Helen (for Cousin Helen), then my own name. She also referred to TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl by the names of other greatgranddaughters who have either the same initials or the same racial mix. No confusion with great-grandsons, great-granddaughters with either different initials or different racial backgrounds. I didn't correct Grammy regarding the names or identities. She admitted she was confused, but didn't seem too bothered. "Well, you're all my descendants aren't you? Don't complain. At least you know you'll be long-lived." and later "Well, of course I get confused and forgetful. I'm old. But I haven't received a thank you letter from Polly for that wedding present I gave her back in 1999, and don't let her think for one moment that I've forgotten."
I do love the specificity or the ailing and forgetful mind. There's a lesson there somewhere.
And I didn't take advantage of a an aging matriarch. Grammy asked me how I was doing financially, and I didn't allow myself to tip my hand. I just said: "Things will be a bit tight until I don't have to pay for full-time child-care. But in two years, DestructoGirl will start school, and that will ease things up." That was instead of saying: "I know you're forgetful and not all there, but you still are well-to-do. Send me a check NOW." Nope. I changed subjects and asked Grammy about her bridge game, and told her of TigerGrrl's most recent karate victory.*
*For those of you who think total rapid global dominance by my offspring isn't a given, I have just these words, revealing my total geekitudeness: "Resistance is futile." Your eminence: Send the BennyDude now. DestructoGirl has plans.
February 28, 2008
The First Cut Is the Deepest
Yes, it's a terribly tacky song, but I realize I never really appreciated it before. Before I get back to that, I'm going to moan a bit. And not good, sexy moaning. Moaning like: I put a red shirt in with my undies and now everything is pepto-bismol pink, which ain't good.
I've neglected to pick up my sertraline renewal due to budgetary constraints, and gosh, it's time. I managed a full sob/tears flowing down the face/call to Innana whilst sobbing for no reason other than that a hitherto easygoing subordinate was more than a bit snippy (and totally lacking in judgment), some worries about bills and debts and related phone calls, TigerGrrl losing her scooter, complaints from my landlord about my inappropriate use of my patio for storage (DestructoGirl's tricycle is right there, apparently, I'm supposed to keep the damn tricycle in the living room), a little bit of worry about the Second Mate (all things considered, he's doing quite well) and TigerGrrl having a bad cold. Anyway, I called Innana and just started to sob. She suggested (and I was hoping she would) that I come by. I got there and she had hot soup, cheese toast, and beer waiting for me. I ranted for a while, then got a grip.
Note to self: keep antidepressant prescriptions current.
None of these events were that traumatic or depressing, although it is, of course, that time of the month again. I thought with menopause fast approaching (I hope, I hope, I hope) everything should slow down, but instead it's speeding up. Let me just say a 35-day cycle allows for substantially less PMT and MT than a 27-day cycle does. Grrr. And I hate feeling like hormones can make such a huge difference in my mood.
Also, there's an element of frustration. Guy and I had another date yesterday, and we had the history and personal physical safety talk (otherwise known as the "Are you such a doofus that you plan on engaging in sexual relations with a woman without having a condom in your wallet" talk). Actually, we didn't get to the condom in the wallet talk (although I'm pretty clear that Guy has his marching orders), but we did get to the health testing and proof thereof part of the conversation. Unfortunately, right about that time, Saintly Babysitter walked in, coming home from class. Neither of us has much personal space: while Guy has a house, he also has two young-adult (19 and 22) sons living with him (I'm thinking the interior of his house resembles Gold's Gym, which really doesn't do it for me). Me, during the week, I have Saintly Babysitter coming and going. Which really does put the kibosh on other people coming, or at least that's what it feels like.
But the real issue is that I don't know Guy well. I'm attracted to him, I like what I see, but I don't really know him yet, and I don't know when I will feel like I know him.** At the same time, it's time to put me and OGL Pt. Trois to bed. Please. But even with someone I feel very good about and kindly towards, my initial reaction to moving into a monogamous* physical relationship is "don't make me burn that bridge." Except, of course, not burning the bridge undoes plans.
So we already have a date for the weekend with no children, babysitters, nosy neighbors or whoever interrupting us, and I'm actually looking forward to that. But someone I like, who really is that into me who wants to be with me and who isn't asking me to convert to some weird fundie religion, have his babies, or otherwise jeopardize my existence? Who smells nice?++ Whose touch is pleasant or exciting, depending on the venue, etc. (as compared to those whose touch makes your flesh crawl? Okay, I'm looking forward to this. Except now I have a cold, and I'm hoping it will get better not worse, because nothing shows your soon-to-be-sweetheart your true feelings than a great case of strep throat.
But really, the tough thing is the whole first cut is the deepest thing. Knowing how badly things can turn out, how does one proceed in an appropriately self-protective manner without hobbling oneself with doubts? But I'm sure going to give it a try. I think our scars inform who we are, but don't rule our future existence.
So I started this post last night, and now it's morning (there was actually sleep involved, in the meantime), and I am feeling better. Not great, but better. After work today, I'll head over to Target and get the generic sertraline, without delay. Meantime, off to work to have a little talk with my snippy subordinate to explain what "chain of command" means and to suggest that petulant toddler thoughts are best not committed to email.
*We had the "Are we monogamous?"*** talk. Apparently, we are. Who knew?
**This is easier when younger, and is one of the few things about dating that is harder with age: I don't trust my impulsive feelings of attraction, I know (from real and hard won experience) how badly things can turn out, even with someone who seems just perfect. Guy doesn't seem just perfect. He does seem very likeable and reasonably attractive.+
***Monogamous meaning: no sex with other people. Not meaning: no interaction with people of the opposite sex. Of course, one can trust these promises as far as one can throw them, at least until you've actually had a chance to see how someone actually behaves (the real test).
+I don't mean to sound lukewarm about his attractiveness. I find him attractive. In terms of physical attractiveness, Guy is a reasonably in shape, decently groomed, well, guy, and that's fine.
++Dump all the "in love" crapola stuff. This is the real pheromone test.
I've neglected to pick up my sertraline renewal due to budgetary constraints, and gosh, it's time. I managed a full sob/tears flowing down the face/call to Innana whilst sobbing for no reason other than that a hitherto easygoing subordinate was more than a bit snippy (and totally lacking in judgment), some worries about bills and debts and related phone calls, TigerGrrl losing her scooter, complaints from my landlord about my inappropriate use of my patio for storage (DestructoGirl's tricycle is right there, apparently, I'm supposed to keep the damn tricycle in the living room), a little bit of worry about the Second Mate (all things considered, he's doing quite well) and TigerGrrl having a bad cold. Anyway, I called Innana and just started to sob. She suggested (and I was hoping she would) that I come by. I got there and she had hot soup, cheese toast, and beer waiting for me. I ranted for a while, then got a grip.
Note to self: keep antidepressant prescriptions current.
None of these events were that traumatic or depressing, although it is, of course, that time of the month again. I thought with menopause fast approaching (I hope, I hope, I hope) everything should slow down, but instead it's speeding up. Let me just say a 35-day cycle allows for substantially less PMT and MT than a 27-day cycle does. Grrr. And I hate feeling like hormones can make such a huge difference in my mood.
Also, there's an element of frustration. Guy and I had another date yesterday, and we had the history and personal physical safety talk (otherwise known as the "Are you such a doofus that you plan on engaging in sexual relations with a woman without having a condom in your wallet" talk). Actually, we didn't get to the condom in the wallet talk (although I'm pretty clear that Guy has his marching orders), but we did get to the health testing and proof thereof part of the conversation. Unfortunately, right about that time, Saintly Babysitter walked in, coming home from class. Neither of us has much personal space: while Guy has a house, he also has two young-adult (19 and 22) sons living with him (I'm thinking the interior of his house resembles Gold's Gym, which really doesn't do it for me). Me, during the week, I have Saintly Babysitter coming and going. Which really does put the kibosh on other people coming, or at least that's what it feels like.
But the real issue is that I don't know Guy well. I'm attracted to him, I like what I see, but I don't really know him yet, and I don't know when I will feel like I know him.** At the same time, it's time to put me and OGL Pt. Trois to bed. Please. But even with someone I feel very good about and kindly towards, my initial reaction to moving into a monogamous* physical relationship is "don't make me burn that bridge." Except, of course, not burning the bridge undoes plans.
So we already have a date for the weekend with no children, babysitters, nosy neighbors or whoever interrupting us, and I'm actually looking forward to that. But someone I like, who really is that into me who wants to be with me and who isn't asking me to convert to some weird fundie religion, have his babies, or otherwise jeopardize my existence? Who smells nice?++ Whose touch is pleasant or exciting, depending on the venue, etc. (as compared to those whose touch makes your flesh crawl? Okay, I'm looking forward to this. Except now I have a cold, and I'm hoping it will get better not worse, because nothing shows your soon-to-be-sweetheart your true feelings than a great case of strep throat.
But really, the tough thing is the whole first cut is the deepest thing. Knowing how badly things can turn out, how does one proceed in an appropriately self-protective manner without hobbling oneself with doubts? But I'm sure going to give it a try. I think our scars inform who we are, but don't rule our future existence.
So I started this post last night, and now it's morning (there was actually sleep involved, in the meantime), and I am feeling better. Not great, but better. After work today, I'll head over to Target and get the generic sertraline, without delay. Meantime, off to work to have a little talk with my snippy subordinate to explain what "chain of command" means and to suggest that petulant toddler thoughts are best not committed to email.
*We had the "Are we monogamous?"*** talk. Apparently, we are. Who knew?
**This is easier when younger, and is one of the few things about dating that is harder with age: I don't trust my impulsive feelings of attraction, I know (from real and hard won experience) how badly things can turn out, even with someone who seems just perfect. Guy doesn't seem just perfect. He does seem very likeable and reasonably attractive.+
***Monogamous meaning: no sex with other people. Not meaning: no interaction with people of the opposite sex. Of course, one can trust these promises as far as one can throw them, at least until you've actually had a chance to see how someone actually behaves (the real test).
+I don't mean to sound lukewarm about his attractiveness. I find him attractive. In terms of physical attractiveness, Guy is a reasonably in shape, decently groomed, well, guy, and that's fine.
++Dump all the "in love" crapola stuff. This is the real pheromone test.
February 24, 2008
The Social Whirl
On Friday, TigerGrrl and a friend (neither Sami who likes TigerGrrl nor Sanjay who resents that Sami likes her, but Giuseppe -- yes, my neighborhood is way international, and I think that's a very good thing) went to a board games club that I found for TigerGrrl during the chess aficionado period. Chess is still high on the list, but Go, Ticket to Ride, Carcassone, Settlers of Catan, Blockus, and Bang! have been added to the games requiring logical thinking list. I've brought several of TigerGrrl's friends to the club, and Giuseppe's mother took Giuseppe and TG there while I babysat Claudia, Giuseppe's little sister.
Claudia is six months younger than DG, and about a foot shorter and 20 pounds lighter. They look like they are from different species: Claudia is, perhaps a slim sea otter and DG is an elephant seal. Or Claudia is a Shetland pony or ocelot and DG is a Clydesdale or Siberian tiger. Really. The idea that these two are more genetically similar than a golden tamarind and mountain gorilla seems quite a stretch. Nonetheless, the frail and sylphlike Claudia (obviously, designed to be a gymnast) and the sturdy and solid DG are best buds. They played quite nicely with no fighting, and Claudia didn't seem the least bit intimidated by being towered over by my little tank girl. Nice.
Giuseppe and TG had a good time, and we'll be doing that again (I like to go to the games club too: I love playing Settlers of Catan or Carcassone, and I'm learning Go) now that Giulieta, Giuseppe's mother and I have the mutual-beneficial babysitting co-op established. So Friday was socially busy for all at ChezFoil, including me, because I was chasing after Claudia and DG who kept waking each other up.
Saturday was also busy: we started off with homemade pancakes (TigerGrrl did most of the work, but DestructoGirl did stir, even if she was mortally offended and upset that her attempt to flip a flapjack resulted in a very messy stovetop). Then we delivered TG to Mancini's in Del Ray (Barbara Mancini, have I said how truly fine a human being you air, even though I really don't know you? Why Daily Godmother gets all the press when your bakery, restaurant, and cooking school really are all that, I'll never know). We had a nice snack with Innana and were briefly joined by Ex-Marine Fred* and SNV. Then TigerGrrl scooted off over the horizon with Innana for a fun afternoon and evening. It was a sleepover.
Guy wanted to see me, and I agreed that we could visit, but warned him that it would be a three-year-old-centric non-date. Fine with him, he said. Little did he know.
DestructoGirl is destructive of most solid objects, but she's generally a cheerful child, awash in charm and high spirits. Not yesterday after discovering that for the second incredibly unfair weekend in a row her big sister was off having adventures, while she, poor deprived younger sibling, clearly afflicted with invisible but still quite harmful "failure to thrive"** due to the acute neglect from which she suffers (poor dear). So a hike around Roosevelt Island with Guy turned into quite the endurance test for Guy and me. Even a forty pound child can be quite immobile when digging heels into mud and flailing.
I thought: "That's the end of Guy", but apparently not. We're getting together on my next child free night, and he tactfully agreed that DestructoGirl must be a joy to me (He didn't say she was a joy yesterday, please note. He may think I'm "understated" --*snerk*, but he's not openly delusional) and that she's a cute kid. While his kids are grown, he clearly hasn't gotten amnesia yet.
TigerGrrl went to a play (in French) with Innana, and met some friends of Innana's who were in the play. Innana decided my tomboy needed some girling up, and apparently TG agreed, because TG now has a dress and apparently pink shoes (I haven't seen them yet. I'm stunned. I haven't been able to get TG into a dress since 2006. Not that I tried very hard. But Innana is clear that both my daughter have the potential to be ladies, so there you are.)
Today, Innana and TG are off on a drive. DG and I have done grocery shopping (the grocer gave DG candy, so the trip was a success). I'm going to nap now. I'm stalling on returning calls to make any plans with anyone other that Innana or Guy this week. Life is just too busy.
Oh, and while TG hasn't gotten home yet, Sanjay, Sami, Giuseppe, and little Jean-Claude have all stopped by (Sami and Giuseppe twice each) to see if TigerGrrl is home and can play. Why doesn't anyone like my kid?
*Yes, I know, there are no ex-marines. That's the joke. This is a marine, however, who has no problem discussing tutus with a three year old. I haven't sung EMF's praises lately. That is a really bad oversight. I'll have to do some EMF worship soon.
**She's only growing at twice the normal rate. She is completely off the charts height-wise. The doctor said she was above 100%, and I looked at the nice, but not statistically well-informed young man and said, "I think you are discovering, at this very moment, that that growth chart is inaccurate, because it seems quite obvious to me that she is the exemplar of the 100th percentile here, don't you think?"
Claudia is six months younger than DG, and about a foot shorter and 20 pounds lighter. They look like they are from different species: Claudia is, perhaps a slim sea otter and DG is an elephant seal. Or Claudia is a Shetland pony or ocelot and DG is a Clydesdale or Siberian tiger. Really. The idea that these two are more genetically similar than a golden tamarind and mountain gorilla seems quite a stretch. Nonetheless, the frail and sylphlike Claudia (obviously, designed to be a gymnast) and the sturdy and solid DG are best buds. They played quite nicely with no fighting, and Claudia didn't seem the least bit intimidated by being towered over by my little tank girl. Nice.
Giuseppe and TG had a good time, and we'll be doing that again (I like to go to the games club too: I love playing Settlers of Catan or Carcassone, and I'm learning Go) now that Giulieta, Giuseppe's mother and I have the mutual-beneficial babysitting co-op established. So Friday was socially busy for all at ChezFoil, including me, because I was chasing after Claudia and DG who kept waking each other up.
Saturday was also busy: we started off with homemade pancakes (TigerGrrl did most of the work, but DestructoGirl did stir, even if she was mortally offended and upset that her attempt to flip a flapjack resulted in a very messy stovetop). Then we delivered TG to Mancini's in Del Ray (Barbara Mancini, have I said how truly fine a human being you air, even though I really don't know you? Why Daily Godmother gets all the press when your bakery, restaurant, and cooking school really are all that, I'll never know). We had a nice snack with Innana and were briefly joined by Ex-Marine Fred* and SNV. Then TigerGrrl scooted off over the horizon with Innana for a fun afternoon and evening. It was a sleepover.
Guy wanted to see me, and I agreed that we could visit, but warned him that it would be a three-year-old-centric non-date. Fine with him, he said. Little did he know.
DestructoGirl is destructive of most solid objects, but she's generally a cheerful child, awash in charm and high spirits. Not yesterday after discovering that for the second incredibly unfair weekend in a row her big sister was off having adventures, while she, poor deprived younger sibling, clearly afflicted with invisible but still quite harmful "failure to thrive"** due to the acute neglect from which she suffers (poor dear). So a hike around Roosevelt Island with Guy turned into quite the endurance test for Guy and me. Even a forty pound child can be quite immobile when digging heels into mud and flailing.
I thought: "That's the end of Guy", but apparently not. We're getting together on my next child free night, and he tactfully agreed that DestructoGirl must be a joy to me (He didn't say she was a joy yesterday, please note. He may think I'm "understated" --*snerk*, but he's not openly delusional) and that she's a cute kid. While his kids are grown, he clearly hasn't gotten amnesia yet.
TigerGrrl went to a play (in French) with Innana, and met some friends of Innana's who were in the play. Innana decided my tomboy needed some girling up, and apparently TG agreed, because TG now has a dress and apparently pink shoes (I haven't seen them yet. I'm stunned. I haven't been able to get TG into a dress since 2006. Not that I tried very hard. But Innana is clear that both my daughter have the potential to be ladies, so there you are.)
Today, Innana and TG are off on a drive. DG and I have done grocery shopping (the grocer gave DG candy, so the trip was a success). I'm going to nap now. I'm stalling on returning calls to make any plans with anyone other that Innana or Guy this week. Life is just too busy.
Oh, and while TG hasn't gotten home yet, Sanjay, Sami, Giuseppe, and little Jean-Claude have all stopped by (Sami and Giuseppe twice each) to see if TigerGrrl is home and can play. Why doesn't anyone like my kid?
*Yes, I know, there are no ex-marines. That's the joke. This is a marine, however, who has no problem discussing tutus with a three year old. I haven't sung EMF's praises lately. That is a really bad oversight. I'll have to do some EMF worship soon.
**She's only growing at twice the normal rate. She is completely off the charts height-wise. The doctor said she was above 100%, and I looked at the nice, but not statistically well-informed young man and said, "I think you are discovering, at this very moment, that that growth chart is inaccurate, because it seems quite obvious to me that she is the exemplar of the 100th percentile here, don't you think?"
February 22, 2008
Dateworthiness
Okay, the biggest dating problem for me remains finding the time to date.* This week brought it to a head and I've had to do some culling. I don't like doing that. Most of the time, I'm pretty passive about it and just don't make much of an effort with someone with whom I've lost interest. Since most men seem to require a fair amount of care and feeding (What's this bullshit about trading phone calls every day? The only person I even have a chance of calling every day is Innana, and even that is subject to kids, work, and exhaustion. That's someone I truly love. Some mere acquaintance, trying to move up the dating food chain? Nuh-uh.)simply not returning phone calls within 8 hours seems to send most guys a signal that I'm not going to do the relationship heavy lifting they normally expect of a woman. And that analysis would be right: I am not doing the relationship maintenance work, so I might as well let the men who require that of a woman withdraw and go seek out some other lucky woman to run their lives for them.
Even so, I still have a few loose ends and I do have plans to resolve them. All will be revealed in time. Unless I get busy and forget to write about it or it is boring beyond belief.**
Guy and I had a lovely dinner out earlier this week, and I had lunch with a lunch buddy who'd like to be a bit more. Dr. Science called to ask me out, and seemed to have trouble processing the "I really don't have time right now." He wanted me to explain why I couldn't see him on any given night. Sorry, doesn't work that way. Good manners require me to politely accept or decline an invitation promptly, but do not require me to give explanations.***
Another man I've lunched with a few times, prior to discovering his marital status (married) is upset that I won't meet him in the evening, and that I've told him that while I don't mind being friends with him (I meant that -- I like him, what I know of him), I'm not going to do something so self-destructive as to have an affair with him. He explains how I won't be hurting his wife+ and that I shoudn't worry about this minor impediment. I said no. He tried to debate, and I explained that this issue was non-negotiable. Aside from any moral grounds (I'm not the sinless one who can throw stones), simply considering my own interests, it would be foolish of me to devote my own scarcest resource -- time -- on someone who really had nothing to offer long term. Then he started calling and asking me if I had changed my mind. No. Dinner? No. But he wants me to! No. It wouldn't have worked, but at no point did he ever do anything to change my mind other than tell me what he wanted. Even if I were looking for a completely no-strings attached physical relationship, why would I consider having one with a man who only looks at things in terms of what he wants? Would he even understand that what gave me satisfaction might be something utterly different than what gives him satisfaction?
Trey has definitely faded out, for reasons that aren't clear to me (but they don't have to be) and I'm sorry about that, but that does happen while getting to know people. Things move too fast, and someone backs away, normally the person who was rushing. Or situations change. Or there's some impediment somewhere (those pesky spouses) that wasn't initially obvious.
Meanwhile, Guy has really been moving forward to the front of the pack, beach house bragging or no. As I get to know him better (four dates so far), it is clear that he simply views putting his financial status out there as something he should do because any sane woman would (1) want to know he was solvent, and (2) might see him more favorably. At dinner this week I did mention that he didn't need to try to impress me with money. His response: "Oh, I know you aren't status-driven. I did figure, since you're a single mom and your ex is apparently not financially competent, that knowing that I am would establish one characteristic that you should be requiring in anyone who wants to be serious." That's pretty darn sweet. Still too early in getting to know him to really mean anything except that he is capable of sitting down and thinking: what would make me look better than some other guy? or What would increase my attractiveness? And possibly, what does she actually want and need? I'll be honest, someone who can make my life financially easier (given how much financially harder Insane Ex made things for me) does sound very nice, and definitely someone with that ability has an edge over someone who can just share financial constraints and anxiety. I have two girls to raise and an ex-husband who isn't going contribute dime one to their college fund.
It is scary that Guy seems to be jumping on this getting serious early train. Since that often precedes getting scared and getting out, I'm holding back even if it would be nice to announce the completion of OGL Part Trois. But he's not over-eager in a "let me take over your life" way (see Nguyen and PiousMan for examples of this). It's more: let's continue to move forward getting to know each other because that's what I really want.
But after a nice snog after dinner, I do have some sanity questions regarding Guy. Here's the clincher: aside from saying he's crazy about me (that doesn't mean "in love", could mean the eminently understandable -- I mean we're both sexually mature adults of our species -- "let's boink like bunnies"), and that I'm incredible (yeah, yeah, although I have to admit, I am susceptible to flattery), he said (and I'm calling BJ in OZ asking him to send some antipsychotics now even as I write this) "You're so understated." Does this word have some definition of which I remain clueless?
Innana thinks he might mean I look like suburban mom and East Coast educated preppy -- nothing too tight, nothing too revealing, most clothes chosen for comfort rather than speed or sex appeal (although I can, certainly, dress for sex appeal in a pinch). I could take the egotistical view that my external appearance gives no hint as to the deep reservoir of sexuality, sensuality, and sexiness that is me, but really, Guy doesn't know me that well, and I would rate myself merely average (if a tad more self-aware than your average repressed puritan, burqa wearing wife or daughter, Frum frump, Christian surrendered wife dim dim dim bulb, or enslaved porn star). I worry that he's thinking the understatement means I'm a "good" woman who isn't sensual or sexual for anyone but him, which means there will be some misogyny about female sexuality at some level. However, that isn't the only interpretation to put on this. Maybe he means that compared to all the other women he knows, who apparently are Klingons or the East German swim team, I am restrained and low key. You never know. Again, we will live and we will see.
So tomorrow, when TigerGrrl is with Innana, Guy's going to take DestructoGirl and me to a petting farm [edited afterwards: we went for a hike, not to a petting farm], with those fine mooing cows and such. I'm not worrying about scarring DG's psyche with a date: Guy knows that this is just an outing for DestructoGirl (if TigerGrrl were home, I'd have said no, because she would jump way ahead of the curve and might feel uncomfortable. DestructoGirl won't mind if, when DG and I both get tired, Guy provides the kid-on-shoulder life that's a little hard for someone with a prior shoulder dislocation.
*Atlantic Monthly editors: I am not unique. So why not publish this perspective? Oh, yeah, you've got to scare women into dating men they don't want to sit next to on the subway in the forlorn hope that one of those otherwise eschewable men will be you. How's that working out?
**That happens a lot more often than I would like.
***For those of you who get into trouble with scheduling, it's normally because you say "I can't because . . .". Just stop at "I can't." That's enough.
+It'd be a bit more convincing coming from her, you know?
Even so, I still have a few loose ends and I do have plans to resolve them. All will be revealed in time. Unless I get busy and forget to write about it or it is boring beyond belief.**
Guy and I had a lovely dinner out earlier this week, and I had lunch with a lunch buddy who'd like to be a bit more. Dr. Science called to ask me out, and seemed to have trouble processing the "I really don't have time right now." He wanted me to explain why I couldn't see him on any given night. Sorry, doesn't work that way. Good manners require me to politely accept or decline an invitation promptly, but do not require me to give explanations.***
Another man I've lunched with a few times, prior to discovering his marital status (married) is upset that I won't meet him in the evening, and that I've told him that while I don't mind being friends with him (I meant that -- I like him, what I know of him), I'm not going to do something so self-destructive as to have an affair with him. He explains how I won't be hurting his wife+ and that I shoudn't worry about this minor impediment. I said no. He tried to debate, and I explained that this issue was non-negotiable. Aside from any moral grounds (I'm not the sinless one who can throw stones), simply considering my own interests, it would be foolish of me to devote my own scarcest resource -- time -- on someone who really had nothing to offer long term. Then he started calling and asking me if I had changed my mind. No. Dinner? No. But he wants me to! No. It wouldn't have worked, but at no point did he ever do anything to change my mind other than tell me what he wanted. Even if I were looking for a completely no-strings attached physical relationship, why would I consider having one with a man who only looks at things in terms of what he wants? Would he even understand that what gave me satisfaction might be something utterly different than what gives him satisfaction?
Trey has definitely faded out, for reasons that aren't clear to me (but they don't have to be) and I'm sorry about that, but that does happen while getting to know people. Things move too fast, and someone backs away, normally the person who was rushing. Or situations change. Or there's some impediment somewhere (those pesky spouses) that wasn't initially obvious.
Meanwhile, Guy has really been moving forward to the front of the pack, beach house bragging or no. As I get to know him better (four dates so far), it is clear that he simply views putting his financial status out there as something he should do because any sane woman would (1) want to know he was solvent, and (2) might see him more favorably. At dinner this week I did mention that he didn't need to try to impress me with money. His response: "Oh, I know you aren't status-driven. I did figure, since you're a single mom and your ex is apparently not financially competent, that knowing that I am would establish one characteristic that you should be requiring in anyone who wants to be serious." That's pretty darn sweet. Still too early in getting to know him to really mean anything except that he is capable of sitting down and thinking: what would make me look better than some other guy? or What would increase my attractiveness? And possibly, what does she actually want and need? I'll be honest, someone who can make my life financially easier (given how much financially harder Insane Ex made things for me) does sound very nice, and definitely someone with that ability has an edge over someone who can just share financial constraints and anxiety. I have two girls to raise and an ex-husband who isn't going contribute dime one to their college fund.
It is scary that Guy seems to be jumping on this getting serious early train. Since that often precedes getting scared and getting out, I'm holding back even if it would be nice to announce the completion of OGL Part Trois. But he's not over-eager in a "let me take over your life" way (see Nguyen and PiousMan for examples of this). It's more: let's continue to move forward getting to know each other because that's what I really want.
But after a nice snog after dinner, I do have some sanity questions regarding Guy. Here's the clincher: aside from saying he's crazy about me (that doesn't mean "in love", could mean the eminently understandable -- I mean we're both sexually mature adults of our species -- "let's boink like bunnies"), and that I'm incredible (yeah, yeah, although I have to admit, I am susceptible to flattery), he said (and I'm calling BJ in OZ asking him to send some antipsychotics now even as I write this) "You're so understated." Does this word have some definition of which I remain clueless?
Innana thinks he might mean I look like suburban mom and East Coast educated preppy -- nothing too tight, nothing too revealing, most clothes chosen for comfort rather than speed or sex appeal (although I can, certainly, dress for sex appeal in a pinch). I could take the egotistical view that my external appearance gives no hint as to the deep reservoir of sexuality, sensuality, and sexiness that is me, but really, Guy doesn't know me that well, and I would rate myself merely average (if a tad more self-aware than your average repressed puritan, burqa wearing wife or daughter, Frum frump, Christian surrendered wife dim dim dim bulb, or enslaved porn star). I worry that he's thinking the understatement means I'm a "good" woman who isn't sensual or sexual for anyone but him, which means there will be some misogyny about female sexuality at some level. However, that isn't the only interpretation to put on this. Maybe he means that compared to all the other women he knows, who apparently are Klingons or the East German swim team, I am restrained and low key. You never know. Again, we will live and we will see.
So tomorrow, when TigerGrrl is with Innana, Guy's going to take DestructoGirl and me to a petting farm [edited afterwards: we went for a hike, not to a petting farm], with those fine mooing cows and such. I'm not worrying about scarring DG's psyche with a date: Guy knows that this is just an outing for DestructoGirl (if TigerGrrl were home, I'd have said no, because she would jump way ahead of the curve and might feel uncomfortable. DestructoGirl won't mind if, when DG and I both get tired, Guy provides the kid-on-shoulder life that's a little hard for someone with a prior shoulder dislocation.
*Atlantic Monthly editors: I am not unique. So why not publish this perspective? Oh, yeah, you've got to scare women into dating men they don't want to sit next to on the subway in the forlorn hope that one of those otherwise eschewable men will be you. How's that working out?
**That happens a lot more often than I would like.
***For those of you who get into trouble with scheduling, it's normally because you say "I can't because . . .". Just stop at "I can't." That's enough.
+It'd be a bit more convincing coming from her, you know?
February 21, 2008
The Atlantic Monthly and Women's Dating, Personal Lives, and Sexuality: Do They Live on the Same Planet I Do?
Yesterday, I saw a whole bunch of evidence that people who write about women's sexuality and women's life choices are delusional, not that there's anything new about that.* People are always getting women's sex and dating lives wrong, mostly by making vast judgments from their own experiences. So I'm going to tackle a few, mostly from that bastion of East Coast elitism (and not a women's magazine), The Atlantic Monthly.
But first I'll refer you to City Girl DC, who actually makes generalizations, but based on her own life experiences. LaurieWrites takes on being single in her thirties, and the concept of "settling." Laurie mentioned Lori Gottlieb's idiotic article in The Atlantic, which I will now comment on (but trust me, most of what the Atlantic, which I normally like, publishes on "women" or "women's issues" is bilge of the worse sort -- trust me, I'll explain).
Laurie refers to The Atlantic's women-should-feel-lucky-to-find-any-man-so-why-can't-our-male-writers-get-laid-so-let's-pay-a-women-to-make-other-women-scared-because-that's always-an-effective-courtship-technique page and a poorly reasoned article by the almost-as-hoodwinked-as-Caitlin Flanagan-but-not-quite-so-mean-spirited-but-definitely-bought-the-bill-of-goods-the-boys-were-selling Lori Gottlieb. The article tells women to marry, even if they don't feel like it, because their marketability will go down, down, down. (Scaring women into bed is almost as much fun as bullying them into bed. Ugh.)
Apparently, Lori Gottlieb never “settled” and now she’s a single Mom who thinks she should have settled, boohoo. She says:
“The dream, like that of our mothers and their mothers from time immemorial, was to fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after. Of course, we’d be loath to admit it in this day and age, but ask any soul-baring 40-year-old single heterosexual woman what she most longs for in life, and she probably won’t tell you it’s a better career or a smaller waistline or a bigger apartment. Most likely, she’ll say that what she really wants is a husband (and, by extension, a child).”
She says this as though this is a fact. Maybe Lori Gottlieb wishes this, but she has half of what she wanted (the child -- and let's be honest, that's the much more important half) and still feels short-changed. Maybe that says more about her than anything else. I had all that she wants, and I’m happy to be rid of the half I tossed out (the Insane Ex). He’s still single. I’ll send him her way. I don’t know tons of women who are pining for men and kids. Okay, CNL still wants a man and she’s not having kids, but Innana is pretty much out of the dating wars (although when she wants a man with her, she has asked, and they make themselves available, oddly enough, because they, I don’t know, like and respect her? Want her even though she’s over 40*** and according to Lori Gottlieb -- and everyone else who writes on this subject for the Atlantic-- not an object of desire anymore). Maybe not, but the guys still like her.
I know many other women who don’t date, not because they’ve given up, but because they have better things to do. Operas to sing. Books to write. Cats to cuddle. (“Men will come and men will go, but these are kitty’s golden years.”) Apparently, these women should be afraid, do things they don’t want to do, and settle, even if they have a good circle of friends, the ability to achieve orgasm on their own, and a firm belief that a partner is only worth it if he is better than the alternative. They simply have full, rich lives, and don’t see the need to date men to fill their time.
And I will say this: these women are doing me, a dating, single woman in my forties a real service. For all the talk about how hard it is to find a man, for a woman who is actually willing to meet and date icky boys (apparently me and one other woman in my zip code), the fact that most woman can’t be bothered+ with the courtship (if you want to call it that) offered by most local men really does work to my advantage.. Most men seem to think telling women that the women will soon be on the shelf and unwanted and unloved will make the women eager. Rather like channeling Mr. Collins of Pride and Prejudice fame.++ Trust me, if you want the women thronging around you panting, Mr. Collins is not the literary character you want to bring to mind. Thus I, according to most pundits, a largely undateworthy female (overweight, over forty, two kids under ten, and broke beyond belief) never have to look far for dates. Some I meet online, others in real life, but guys between age 35 and 65 are pretty anxious to get dates with someone like me, and some seem pretty interested in relationships, not just sex (there is the occasional booty call, but I feel completely free to ignore it unless I feel so inclined).
I’ve been asked to convert to a new religion so that someone who liked me (PiousMan) could marry me in good conscience. I said, “No, thank you.”+++ I never have to be alone if I don’t want to be alone. Regarding most men, I’d rather be alone than be on a date with them and I don’t feel like I need to spend time with people I don’t like or respect because I’m over forty and less desirable. Because, even if I am – gasp -- over forty, I am desirable and not just as a dating partner and potential sex partner, but as a possible long-term partner. I’m educated (even if I can’t spell or proof-read), funny, not bad looking, and I’m actually interested in men. According to men I have dated, I’m hot, sexy, clever, amazing, incredible, beautiful (okay, he was just hoping to get lucky, that one, but nice try), and (here’s a clearly delusional human being) understated.
Obviously, people see what they want to see and men are people. When they see the dating world, they tell themselves that they (men) are in short supply and we women will fall all over them. But when seeking a woman who will actually willingly go to a public place and dine with him, a man has to at some level realize that he’s part of a glut on the market. I’m not sure how the pay-for services work (E-Harmony, Chemistry, whatever), but a woman saying just about anything on Craig’s List in DC gets over 100 responses. Talk to a man without a wedding ring in a grocery store or wherever and he most often will volunteer early on his marital status (except some of the married guys remain silent – imagine that!) and seems flattered, not like he’s being hit on by women all the time.
So I’m wondering about the experiences of all these single women who can’t find a man, and I blame it on that tool of patriarchal oppression, romance. Almost as non-reality-based as religion. Yeah, I know romance started off with Eleanor of Aquitaine using it to raise women’s status, but nowadays, it, like marriage, is a chain around our necks.*+ People try to sell it to women the way they try to sell men cars. Why? Because modern women don’t have to get married to survive. As long as we feel we can turn down someone who doesn’t suit us and still live a meaningful live, lots of men aren’t going to be getting laid, much less married. No one tells men why they need to get married. They may complain about the alleged loss of freedom involved in marriage, but most men aren’t that dumb. They know that marriage is a very good deal for them. Not for women. For men.
The sky-fairy logic (you know: natural selection doesn't occur despite the exhistence of Tay-Sachs for inbreeders because some guy in the hills of Judea 5000 years ago wrote something in a starvation induced delusion = women want to be married because someone says so, and now someone else is telling women there's a guy shortage) permeates most discussions of the apparent (but really non-existent) man-shortage. It’s not a shortage of men. It’s a shortage of men with whom a delusional and hoodwinked woman can fall in love. Lori Gottlieb actually writes with an apparently straight face about holding out for “true love”. Stop right there. Everyone who expects Hollywood or Harlequin romances to actually be the model for your life: SNAP OUT OF IT. You're an immature nitwit and nothing good will come of your clearly stupid belief. You wouldn’t look to Beaches (I sincerely hope) to determine how to have and be a good friend. You wouldn’t look to The Firm, The Paper Chase, The Devil’s Advocate or whatever to learn to be a good lawyer. You wouldn’t look to Absence of Malice or The Front Page to learn how to be a good reporter. Why would anyone buy that portion of a septic tank to build an adult relationship? Teenagers. And The Atlantic, apparently. Of course, their former editor, Cullen Murphy was the guy behind the most boring comic strip of all time, Prince Valiant (ugh) so that this happened in the past shouldn’t surprise, but guys, it’s time to move out of the Dark Ages. If you can’t manage modern life, maybe the Middle Ages or the Renaissance? But try for the Enlightenment or later, okay?
But in reality land, once one removes the Fabio look alike (ugh), heaving pectorals, biceps of steel, etc. etc. fantasy, there really isn’t a man shortage. If anything, there are too darn many of them. Needless to say, that’s not the Atlantic’s writers’ position. Ms. Gottlieb eventually agrees that one should not use romantic love as an ideal, although she and countless others did until their thirties or forties. She doesn’t question why they ever bought the bill of goods to begin with. Instead of saying: Seeking a lifelong mate (or a medium term, say four- or five-year, mate) should be a practical, rational decision, taking into account one’s tastes and values, she seems to say: “Renounce romance and run desperately into the arms of whoever is willing to take you, you aging hag. I sure wish I did.”
But why? She thinks you won’t see much of your spouse if you’re married, so it won’t matter if you don’t think the world of him. Well, it’s true, spouses don’t see all that much of each other once the pitter patter of little feet are keeping you busy and exhausted. But when you see him, don’t you want to like and respect him? Where are liking and respect (you liking and respecting him, him liking and respecting you) in this mix? Apparently, you’re “settling” (not making a rational choice given the total lack of perfection in human beings as a whole).
Then Ms. Gottlieb catalogues how hard it is to date. Apparently, most men she meets aren’t men she can imagine herself living with, or she can, briefly, but then changes her mind. And this is different from reality how? Is there some rule somewhere that if you meet 10 people, five of them must be people you like and one must be your “soul mate” (gag me)? Newsflash to everyone: most people we meet aren’t going to fit into our lives, whether because we dislike them, they dislike us, or the timing is wrong. And of course, mere absence of dislike isn’t enough. While I reject the ideas of romantic love, true love, and soul mates, I do think real compatibility must exist for close friendships, either sexual or non-sexual, to last. Real compatibility doesn’t grow on trees and it isn’t readily apparent, although the lack of real compatibility might be very evident early on. So most dates are going to end with no further action. That’s not a man shortage or a woman shortage. That’s human nature.
To find someone one truly likes, one has to (1) meet him or her, (2) get to know him or her, (3) continue furthering the acquaintance over years, (4) have a personal crises or three and see who comes through, (5) come through yourself a few times for him or her, and (6) after baking or broiling at 350 degrees Fahrenheit or higher temps (given stress level and number of crises) you’ll know whether you have a lifelong friend or a lifelong partnership. No shortcuts. Oh, and use real butter or olive oil. The fake stuff just makes everything taste bad. And remember (even after having kids), there’s no guaranteed happily ever after.
Sorry about getting sidetracked there. But looking for true love? This idea that male-female relationships need to reach some higher plane not accessible to platonic friends, non-romantic lovers, and rational people everywhere? Go take some drugs and get away from me. If a supposedly intellectual and intelligent magazine like The Atlantic publishes writing about the search for true love with the seriousness one would expect about an article about the search for a cure for cancer rather than the seriousness one reserves for one’s eight-year old’s search for the perfect four-leaf clover or her destiny, something is sadly awry at that magazine. So here, in a nutshell, I will describe what’s wrong with The Atlantic: They’re idiots.
At which point, DestructoGirl pipes up saying: “You said idiot. That’s a bad word.”
Yes, it’s bad to say idiot. But it’s worse to be an idiot. It’s worse yet to publish idiocy, to pay people to write idiocy, and to promote idiocy. Lori Gottlieb as a middle-aged (Yes, Lori, if you are in your forties, you are middle-aged. Doesn’t mean you can’t be hot, or sexy, or even smart. If you’re none of those, it’s really up to you to change that. But you and I remain middle-aged. After that, we’ll be old.) woman, you should know better. Atlantic, and your largely male (and apparently totally clueless) editorial staff: this magazine has been around for over a century and now you’re trying to out-silly Glamour and Cosmopolitan (Women: Lasso Your Man Now Or NEVER Have One! Is that your next headline? Have some dignity. You’re embarrassing yourself, which should be hard to do, since you are, in fact, not sentient and self-aware but are a magazine.), try actually publishng something about the breadth of human experience that allows that women don’t exist merely in relationships with men. Hard as that may be for you to conceive of, it really is something you (or your editors) should try. And dump Caitlin Flanagan. She’s loathsome. I could expound upon Caitlin Flanagan's loathsomeness or the unfuckability of the Atlantic's editors, but I'll stop. Don’t feed the monster.
Here’s the deal. If one is heterosexual, male-female relationships can be a source of real joy outside of regular friendship. Good sex is nothing to sneeze at, shouldn’t be taken lightly, and is something for which to strive. But true love? Infatuation is fun, but it’s temporary. Real love, as opposed to adolescent true love, only appears over time. You know, when you’ve been friends with someone for twenty years. Otherwise, it’s a goal, a wished for occurrence, not something that is there at the starting line.
I like the partnership view of relationships. It’s negotiable (it can be just sex, it can be long-term but not defined, it can be platonic, it can follow gender stereotypes of not) and it’s reality based. Reality is a nice thing.
Being reality-based, I find, that as a mid-forties broke single mother with some attractive features, my biggest dating problem is having enough time to date. The problem with limited time is that I have to winnow the herd, so to speak. There is no man shortage. There is a definitely shortage of people I like, women and men, but that is just life.
The subtext of most women’s magazines (by which I mean care-and-feeding-of-men-you-should-want-to-mate-with magazines) and apparently The Atlantic's articles on women, is that there is a proper way of doing things (Settle with a guy, even if you don’t really want him, by age 35! Have a kid before 35, or you’ll be childless – please ignore the example of Foilwoman, starting at age 38 and popping out two the old-fashioned way) and if you do things properly you’re guaranteed success or happiness, or at least have the right to feel you should have it. Don’t follow the rules (or The Rules or whatever guidebook they throw at you) at your peril. Particularly remember that you, as a woman, are a diminishing asset.
I’ll just say: look at me. I married not young, not old, but for love. It didn’t work out. I did get lucky and have two great kids. Not because I followed rules, but because I have good genes and I was very, very lucky. My marriage? Not so lucky. I’m better off single (For one thing: I haven’t been punched by anyone since I left my marriage. That’s a plus, I’d say), even if logistics and finances are more than hard. Nonetheless, in my precarious, impecunious, and (according to The Atlantic and everyone else, except men who meet me) decrepit state, my dating trouble is a scheduling problem. Yes, some men I date do disappear, (I also do the fade on some. Some don’t get my phone number to have me do the fade.) but that’s just the way meeting people and getting to know people works. It’s a numbers game. Most people aren’t going to recognize the wonder that is me. They see me on the street, a tired and cranky woman heading home from work. Some people, men and women, get past that and get to know me. For some of them, getting to know me is not all they would wish it to be. I disappoint or I don’t give enough or whatever. Some disappoint me, for similar reasons. A very few make it past acquaintance stage, and that takes a fairly long time. That’s not a shortage of anyone. That’s just actually getting to know people.
Try that, Ms. Gottlieb. And make friends: especially someone who feels free to tell you when you are being a pissy bitch(or neurotic over-analytical loon, if you will). Your life will be better, and so will your kids. And good luck finding someone you like and respect and who likes and respect you. You just won’t know that until you’ve known them for a few years or so or more. Before that? It’s a gamble. Roll the dice.
If you look around The Atlantic’s links at the side of this article, there are a bunch of other lulus.** The Atlantic seems stuck in the 1980s mindset that women over thirty are past their prime, women under thirty should realize this and settle down. With whosoever. Apparently, preferably, with one of their largely male and undersexed (probably for very good reasons) editorial staff. Okay, that was mean. Not as mean as what they are saying to women, but mean. I should be above that. I’m not.
* But there is something wrong with it. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
** Lulu (and stupidity) examples: Delayed Child bearing, In Search of Mr. Right, and many others.
*** But will only admit to 29, so we’ll stick with that, but for the purposes of this post I want to be reasonably accurate.
+ And let’s be honest, that’s the reality. It’s not that they can’t find a man or men. It’s that they aren’t desperate, and don’t need a man.
++ And there you have it: Atlantic – you’re Mr. Collins (as are all your writers on this issue). And yes, he really was a self-satisfied stupid prat who the heroine was right to reject, even if she had ended up alone.
+++ In the interests of accuracy, I actually said “Fuck no.”
*+ I’ll admit to bias here. It took me over $50,000 that I did not have to unload the Insane Ex, and I didn’t see many of the benefits of matrimony these single women who embarrass themselves all over the Atlantic’s website by accepting money to write about their total and utter lack of desirability (a nice new spin on the whole prostitution thing, but there you are) and apparently believe the bilge they write, no matter how untrue or self-abasing.
But first I'll refer you to City Girl DC, who actually makes generalizations, but based on her own life experiences. LaurieWrites takes on being single in her thirties, and the concept of "settling." Laurie mentioned Lori Gottlieb's idiotic article in The Atlantic, which I will now comment on (but trust me, most of what the Atlantic, which I normally like, publishes on "women" or "women's issues" is bilge of the worse sort -- trust me, I'll explain).
Laurie refers to The Atlantic's women-should-feel-lucky-to-find-any-man-so-why-can't-our-male-writers-get-laid-so-let's-pay-a-women-to-make-other-women-scared-because-that's always-an-effective-courtship-technique page and a poorly reasoned article by the almost-as-hoodwinked-as-Caitlin Flanagan-but-not-quite-so-mean-spirited-but-definitely-bought-the-bill-of-goods-the-boys-were-selling Lori Gottlieb. The article tells women to marry, even if they don't feel like it, because their marketability will go down, down, down. (Scaring women into bed is almost as much fun as bullying them into bed. Ugh.)
Apparently, Lori Gottlieb never “settled” and now she’s a single Mom who thinks she should have settled, boohoo. She says:
“The dream, like that of our mothers and their mothers from time immemorial, was to fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after. Of course, we’d be loath to admit it in this day and age, but ask any soul-baring 40-year-old single heterosexual woman what she most longs for in life, and she probably won’t tell you it’s a better career or a smaller waistline or a bigger apartment. Most likely, she’ll say that what she really wants is a husband (and, by extension, a child).”
She says this as though this is a fact. Maybe Lori Gottlieb wishes this, but she has half of what she wanted (the child -- and let's be honest, that's the much more important half) and still feels short-changed. Maybe that says more about her than anything else. I had all that she wants, and I’m happy to be rid of the half I tossed out (the Insane Ex). He’s still single. I’ll send him her way. I don’t know tons of women who are pining for men and kids. Okay, CNL still wants a man and she’s not having kids, but Innana is pretty much out of the dating wars (although when she wants a man with her, she has asked, and they make themselves available, oddly enough, because they, I don’t know, like and respect her? Want her even though she’s over 40*** and according to Lori Gottlieb -- and everyone else who writes on this subject for the Atlantic-- not an object of desire anymore). Maybe not, but the guys still like her.
I know many other women who don’t date, not because they’ve given up, but because they have better things to do. Operas to sing. Books to write. Cats to cuddle. (“Men will come and men will go, but these are kitty’s golden years.”) Apparently, these women should be afraid, do things they don’t want to do, and settle, even if they have a good circle of friends, the ability to achieve orgasm on their own, and a firm belief that a partner is only worth it if he is better than the alternative. They simply have full, rich lives, and don’t see the need to date men to fill their time.
And I will say this: these women are doing me, a dating, single woman in my forties a real service. For all the talk about how hard it is to find a man, for a woman who is actually willing to meet and date icky boys (apparently me and one other woman in my zip code), the fact that most woman can’t be bothered+ with the courtship (if you want to call it that) offered by most local men really does work to my advantage.. Most men seem to think telling women that the women will soon be on the shelf and unwanted and unloved will make the women eager. Rather like channeling Mr. Collins of Pride and Prejudice fame.++ Trust me, if you want the women thronging around you panting, Mr. Collins is not the literary character you want to bring to mind. Thus I, according to most pundits, a largely undateworthy female (overweight, over forty, two kids under ten, and broke beyond belief) never have to look far for dates. Some I meet online, others in real life, but guys between age 35 and 65 are pretty anxious to get dates with someone like me, and some seem pretty interested in relationships, not just sex (there is the occasional booty call, but I feel completely free to ignore it unless I feel so inclined).
I’ve been asked to convert to a new religion so that someone who liked me (PiousMan) could marry me in good conscience. I said, “No, thank you.”+++ I never have to be alone if I don’t want to be alone. Regarding most men, I’d rather be alone than be on a date with them and I don’t feel like I need to spend time with people I don’t like or respect because I’m over forty and less desirable. Because, even if I am – gasp -- over forty, I am desirable and not just as a dating partner and potential sex partner, but as a possible long-term partner. I’m educated (even if I can’t spell or proof-read), funny, not bad looking, and I’m actually interested in men. According to men I have dated, I’m hot, sexy, clever, amazing, incredible, beautiful (okay, he was just hoping to get lucky, that one, but nice try), and (here’s a clearly delusional human being) understated.
Obviously, people see what they want to see and men are people. When they see the dating world, they tell themselves that they (men) are in short supply and we women will fall all over them. But when seeking a woman who will actually willingly go to a public place and dine with him, a man has to at some level realize that he’s part of a glut on the market. I’m not sure how the pay-for services work (E-Harmony, Chemistry, whatever), but a woman saying just about anything on Craig’s List in DC gets over 100 responses. Talk to a man without a wedding ring in a grocery store or wherever and he most often will volunteer early on his marital status (except some of the married guys remain silent – imagine that!) and seems flattered, not like he’s being hit on by women all the time.
So I’m wondering about the experiences of all these single women who can’t find a man, and I blame it on that tool of patriarchal oppression, romance. Almost as non-reality-based as religion. Yeah, I know romance started off with Eleanor of Aquitaine using it to raise women’s status, but nowadays, it, like marriage, is a chain around our necks.*+ People try to sell it to women the way they try to sell men cars. Why? Because modern women don’t have to get married to survive. As long as we feel we can turn down someone who doesn’t suit us and still live a meaningful live, lots of men aren’t going to be getting laid, much less married. No one tells men why they need to get married. They may complain about the alleged loss of freedom involved in marriage, but most men aren’t that dumb. They know that marriage is a very good deal for them. Not for women. For men.
The sky-fairy logic (you know: natural selection doesn't occur despite the exhistence of Tay-Sachs for inbreeders because some guy in the hills of Judea 5000 years ago wrote something in a starvation induced delusion = women want to be married because someone says so, and now someone else is telling women there's a guy shortage) permeates most discussions of the apparent (but really non-existent) man-shortage. It’s not a shortage of men. It’s a shortage of men with whom a delusional and hoodwinked woman can fall in love. Lori Gottlieb actually writes with an apparently straight face about holding out for “true love”. Stop right there. Everyone who expects Hollywood or Harlequin romances to actually be the model for your life: SNAP OUT OF IT. You're an immature nitwit and nothing good will come of your clearly stupid belief. You wouldn’t look to Beaches (I sincerely hope) to determine how to have and be a good friend. You wouldn’t look to The Firm, The Paper Chase, The Devil’s Advocate or whatever to learn to be a good lawyer. You wouldn’t look to Absence of Malice or The Front Page to learn how to be a good reporter. Why would anyone buy that portion of a septic tank to build an adult relationship? Teenagers. And The Atlantic, apparently. Of course, their former editor, Cullen Murphy was the guy behind the most boring comic strip of all time, Prince Valiant (ugh) so that this happened in the past shouldn’t surprise, but guys, it’s time to move out of the Dark Ages. If you can’t manage modern life, maybe the Middle Ages or the Renaissance? But try for the Enlightenment or later, okay?
But in reality land, once one removes the Fabio look alike (ugh), heaving pectorals, biceps of steel, etc. etc. fantasy, there really isn’t a man shortage. If anything, there are too darn many of them. Needless to say, that’s not the Atlantic’s writers’ position. Ms. Gottlieb eventually agrees that one should not use romantic love as an ideal, although she and countless others did until their thirties or forties. She doesn’t question why they ever bought the bill of goods to begin with. Instead of saying: Seeking a lifelong mate (or a medium term, say four- or five-year, mate) should be a practical, rational decision, taking into account one’s tastes and values, she seems to say: “Renounce romance and run desperately into the arms of whoever is willing to take you, you aging hag. I sure wish I did.”
But why? She thinks you won’t see much of your spouse if you’re married, so it won’t matter if you don’t think the world of him. Well, it’s true, spouses don’t see all that much of each other once the pitter patter of little feet are keeping you busy and exhausted. But when you see him, don’t you want to like and respect him? Where are liking and respect (you liking and respecting him, him liking and respecting you) in this mix? Apparently, you’re “settling” (not making a rational choice given the total lack of perfection in human beings as a whole).
Then Ms. Gottlieb catalogues how hard it is to date. Apparently, most men she meets aren’t men she can imagine herself living with, or she can, briefly, but then changes her mind. And this is different from reality how? Is there some rule somewhere that if you meet 10 people, five of them must be people you like and one must be your “soul mate” (gag me)? Newsflash to everyone: most people we meet aren’t going to fit into our lives, whether because we dislike them, they dislike us, or the timing is wrong. And of course, mere absence of dislike isn’t enough. While I reject the ideas of romantic love, true love, and soul mates, I do think real compatibility must exist for close friendships, either sexual or non-sexual, to last. Real compatibility doesn’t grow on trees and it isn’t readily apparent, although the lack of real compatibility might be very evident early on. So most dates are going to end with no further action. That’s not a man shortage or a woman shortage. That’s human nature.
To find someone one truly likes, one has to (1) meet him or her, (2) get to know him or her, (3) continue furthering the acquaintance over years, (4) have a personal crises or three and see who comes through, (5) come through yourself a few times for him or her, and (6) after baking or broiling at 350 degrees Fahrenheit or higher temps (given stress level and number of crises) you’ll know whether you have a lifelong friend or a lifelong partnership. No shortcuts. Oh, and use real butter or olive oil. The fake stuff just makes everything taste bad. And remember (even after having kids), there’s no guaranteed happily ever after.
Sorry about getting sidetracked there. But looking for true love? This idea that male-female relationships need to reach some higher plane not accessible to platonic friends, non-romantic lovers, and rational people everywhere? Go take some drugs and get away from me. If a supposedly intellectual and intelligent magazine like The Atlantic publishes writing about the search for true love with the seriousness one would expect about an article about the search for a cure for cancer rather than the seriousness one reserves for one’s eight-year old’s search for the perfect four-leaf clover or her destiny, something is sadly awry at that magazine. So here, in a nutshell, I will describe what’s wrong with The Atlantic: They’re idiots.
At which point, DestructoGirl pipes up saying: “You said idiot. That’s a bad word.”
Yes, it’s bad to say idiot. But it’s worse to be an idiot. It’s worse yet to publish idiocy, to pay people to write idiocy, and to promote idiocy. Lori Gottlieb as a middle-aged (Yes, Lori, if you are in your forties, you are middle-aged. Doesn’t mean you can’t be hot, or sexy, or even smart. If you’re none of those, it’s really up to you to change that. But you and I remain middle-aged. After that, we’ll be old.) woman, you should know better. Atlantic, and your largely male (and apparently totally clueless) editorial staff: this magazine has been around for over a century and now you’re trying to out-silly Glamour and Cosmopolitan (Women: Lasso Your Man Now Or NEVER Have One! Is that your next headline? Have some dignity. You’re embarrassing yourself, which should be hard to do, since you are, in fact, not sentient and self-aware but are a magazine.), try actually publishng something about the breadth of human experience that allows that women don’t exist merely in relationships with men. Hard as that may be for you to conceive of, it really is something you (or your editors) should try. And dump Caitlin Flanagan. She’s loathsome. I could expound upon Caitlin Flanagan's loathsomeness or the unfuckability of the Atlantic's editors, but I'll stop. Don’t feed the monster.
Here’s the deal. If one is heterosexual, male-female relationships can be a source of real joy outside of regular friendship. Good sex is nothing to sneeze at, shouldn’t be taken lightly, and is something for which to strive. But true love? Infatuation is fun, but it’s temporary. Real love, as opposed to adolescent true love, only appears over time. You know, when you’ve been friends with someone for twenty years. Otherwise, it’s a goal, a wished for occurrence, not something that is there at the starting line.
I like the partnership view of relationships. It’s negotiable (it can be just sex, it can be long-term but not defined, it can be platonic, it can follow gender stereotypes of not) and it’s reality based. Reality is a nice thing.
Being reality-based, I find, that as a mid-forties broke single mother with some attractive features, my biggest dating problem is having enough time to date. The problem with limited time is that I have to winnow the herd, so to speak. There is no man shortage. There is a definitely shortage of people I like, women and men, but that is just life.
The subtext of most women’s magazines (by which I mean care-and-feeding-of-men-you-should-want-to-mate-with magazines) and apparently The Atlantic's articles on women, is that there is a proper way of doing things (Settle with a guy, even if you don’t really want him, by age 35! Have a kid before 35, or you’ll be childless – please ignore the example of Foilwoman, starting at age 38 and popping out two the old-fashioned way) and if you do things properly you’re guaranteed success or happiness, or at least have the right to feel you should have it. Don’t follow the rules (or The Rules or whatever guidebook they throw at you) at your peril. Particularly remember that you, as a woman, are a diminishing asset.
I’ll just say: look at me. I married not young, not old, but for love. It didn’t work out. I did get lucky and have two great kids. Not because I followed rules, but because I have good genes and I was very, very lucky. My marriage? Not so lucky. I’m better off single (For one thing: I haven’t been punched by anyone since I left my marriage. That’s a plus, I’d say), even if logistics and finances are more than hard. Nonetheless, in my precarious, impecunious, and (according to The Atlantic and everyone else, except men who meet me) decrepit state, my dating trouble is a scheduling problem. Yes, some men I date do disappear, (I also do the fade on some. Some don’t get my phone number to have me do the fade.) but that’s just the way meeting people and getting to know people works. It’s a numbers game. Most people aren’t going to recognize the wonder that is me. They see me on the street, a tired and cranky woman heading home from work. Some people, men and women, get past that and get to know me. For some of them, getting to know me is not all they would wish it to be. I disappoint or I don’t give enough or whatever. Some disappoint me, for similar reasons. A very few make it past acquaintance stage, and that takes a fairly long time. That’s not a shortage of anyone. That’s just actually getting to know people.
Try that, Ms. Gottlieb. And make friends: especially someone who feels free to tell you when you are being a pissy bitch(or neurotic over-analytical loon, if you will). Your life will be better, and so will your kids. And good luck finding someone you like and respect and who likes and respect you. You just won’t know that until you’ve known them for a few years or so or more. Before that? It’s a gamble. Roll the dice.
If you look around The Atlantic’s links at the side of this article, there are a bunch of other lulus.** The Atlantic seems stuck in the 1980s mindset that women over thirty are past their prime, women under thirty should realize this and settle down. With whosoever. Apparently, preferably, with one of their largely male and undersexed (probably for very good reasons) editorial staff. Okay, that was mean. Not as mean as what they are saying to women, but mean. I should be above that. I’m not.
* But there is something wrong with it. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
** Lulu (and stupidity) examples: Delayed Child bearing, In Search of Mr. Right, and many others.
*** But will only admit to 29, so we’ll stick with that, but for the purposes of this post I want to be reasonably accurate.
+ And let’s be honest, that’s the reality. It’s not that they can’t find a man or men. It’s that they aren’t desperate, and don’t need a man.
++ And there you have it: Atlantic – you’re Mr. Collins (as are all your writers on this issue). And yes, he really was a self-satisfied stupid prat who the heroine was right to reject, even if she had ended up alone.
+++ In the interests of accuracy, I actually said “Fuck no.”
*+ I’ll admit to bias here. It took me over $50,000 that I did not have to unload the Insane Ex, and I didn’t see many of the benefits of matrimony these single women who embarrass themselves all over the Atlantic’s website by accepting money to write about their total and utter lack of desirability (a nice new spin on the whole prostitution thing, but there you are) and apparently believe the bilge they write, no matter how untrue or self-abasing.
February 19, 2008
Depths of Superficiality that I Have Not Yet Plumbed
Yes, I can get much shallower. But I'm waiting for a follow-up appointment with an ENT doctor about the recurrent uvulitis, considering what body parts I might let him lop off, and being the shallow and oversexed woman I am, I started thinking about the men in my life. Not in my life, skirting around the periphery of my life. Whether I'll ever have another man in my life after what the last man who got there did is pretty much an unanswered question.
Dr. Science is deadmeat of course. Trey is awol, and that's okay. Guy is present and has made no move to disappear. I have a few other lunch-but-might-like-to-be-more-partners in the wings. But lunch partners actually get to see me the most, because really, I only have two to five free nights a week, and at least one of those nights is reserved for Innana.*
But I'm thinking about Anon Dave's comments to my post Soothing the Savage Beast**. I really am radiating financial insecurity from every pore and guys are reacting to that, and I don't like that, even if it would be nicer to connect with a financially comfortable person than a not so financially comfortable person. Of course, since I'm thinking about TigerGrrl needing minor but still expensive braces (not the $10,000 it costs most people, but I haven't gotten the estimate yet at it's going to be over $1,000), me needing an onlay of a tooth that's mostly filling ($1,000 give or take, with three more teeth that will need the same treatment within the next five years), Saintly Babysitter needing gum scaling for gum disease ($375 per quadrant for a grand total of $1,500), the NuclearGrammyMobile needing new tires ($450-ish, at least) and new front struts (whatever those are, apparently $475) for a total pending financial disaster of at least $4,425.
So I'm thinking that at some level the guys who are displaying wealth or at least discussing wealth (and the fact that they have it) as a courtship technique are picking up on my financial-more-than-anxiety and thinking that maybe I'll be a woman who has adopted the attitude that it's just as easy to love a rich man as a poor one, so they might as well let me know that they fall within the former category rather than the latter.
However, I really can't imagine that someone who is, well, at best in straitened circumstances would be someone that a well-to-do person would feel the need to impress that way. Unless they think there will be some sort of quid pro quo. I don't feel that much financial unease. Okay, my id here speaking: if some guy who was otherwise likeable turned up at said he'd take care of all the financial worries listed above and the college education (at least $200,000 per) for both TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl, okay, I'd find a way to be attracted. Yup.
But that's not how life works. So I've got to continue to work on making more money (teaching knitting lessons, work harder on getting published, maybe take up some piece work of sorts for research and investigations) and cease sending these financial neediness vibes out there. It's just not healthy. And it's turning me into someone I really don't want to be, so I need to take charge and put a lid on that.
I'll let you know how that works out.
*Innana has the key, key advantage over all the men on the planet right now of being someone who, when she says she likes me, I believe her, and the equally important advantage of being someone who I really, really like. No, I'll be mushy. I love her. Between Innana and SNV and all TigerGrrl's social obligations, I don't have a lot of evening time for anyone.
**Which proves I have the attention span of a fruit fly since that post was supposed to be about music I was playing on the guitar (All Right for Now, This Shirt, Big Iron, Pamela Brown, etc.), but I got sidetracked.
Dr. Science is deadmeat of course. Trey is awol, and that's okay. Guy is present and has made no move to disappear. I have a few other lunch-but-might-like-to-be-more-partners in the wings. But lunch partners actually get to see me the most, because really, I only have two to five free nights a week, and at least one of those nights is reserved for Innana.*
But I'm thinking about Anon Dave's comments to my post Soothing the Savage Beast**. I really am radiating financial insecurity from every pore and guys are reacting to that, and I don't like that, even if it would be nicer to connect with a financially comfortable person than a not so financially comfortable person. Of course, since I'm thinking about TigerGrrl needing minor but still expensive braces (not the $10,000 it costs most people, but I haven't gotten the estimate yet at it's going to be over $1,000), me needing an onlay of a tooth that's mostly filling ($1,000 give or take, with three more teeth that will need the same treatment within the next five years), Saintly Babysitter needing gum scaling for gum disease ($375 per quadrant for a grand total of $1,500), the NuclearGrammyMobile needing new tires ($450-ish, at least) and new front struts (whatever those are, apparently $475) for a total pending financial disaster of at least $4,425.
So I'm thinking that at some level the guys who are displaying wealth or at least discussing wealth (and the fact that they have it) as a courtship technique are picking up on my financial-more-than-anxiety and thinking that maybe I'll be a woman who has adopted the attitude that it's just as easy to love a rich man as a poor one, so they might as well let me know that they fall within the former category rather than the latter.
However, I really can't imagine that someone who is, well, at best in straitened circumstances would be someone that a well-to-do person would feel the need to impress that way. Unless they think there will be some sort of quid pro quo. I don't feel that much financial unease. Okay, my id here speaking: if some guy who was otherwise likeable turned up at said he'd take care of all the financial worries listed above and the college education (at least $200,000 per) for both TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl, okay, I'd find a way to be attracted. Yup.
But that's not how life works. So I've got to continue to work on making more money (teaching knitting lessons, work harder on getting published, maybe take up some piece work of sorts for research and investigations) and cease sending these financial neediness vibes out there. It's just not healthy. And it's turning me into someone I really don't want to be, so I need to take charge and put a lid on that.
I'll let you know how that works out.
*Innana has the key, key advantage over all the men on the planet right now of being someone who, when she says she likes me, I believe her, and the equally important advantage of being someone who I really, really like. No, I'll be mushy. I love her. Between Innana and SNV and all TigerGrrl's social obligations, I don't have a lot of evening time for anyone.
**Which proves I have the attention span of a fruit fly since that post was supposed to be about music I was playing on the guitar (All Right for Now, This Shirt, Big Iron, Pamela Brown, etc.), but I got sidetracked.
February 18, 2008
Suffer the Little Children
DestructoGirl and TigerGrrl and their friends have their own take on love.
DestructoGirl told me this morning, after her father dropped her off here (she was clinging to his leg chortling and he was smiling fondly at her and I had a vision of how our marriage and family was before everything went all pear-shaped and I realized he really was batshit insane), that she loved her father. Then she told me I loved PdeFF, because I was his lady. Uh, what to say to that? "Not a snowball's chance in hell, sweetheart?" I know that's not the right response. I said nothing, for now. I just responded: "I know you love your Papa. And he loves you."
TigerGrrl is dealing with the trauma of being beautiful beyond belief, and it is rather annoying. First of all, TG has had a fight with two of her buddies who are fighting with each other. First of all, Sanjay (seven, the youngest boy in the "Scooter Club") told Sami (nine) that Sami liked TigerGrrl. TigerGrrl and Sami were mortally offended, although Sami does stop by frequently to see if TigerGrrl can come out and play football, soccer, baseball, go scooter riding, climb trees, watch movies, or play cards or board games. Sami visits to check on TigerGrrl's availability (and find out her schedule, like when TigerGrrl is at her father's place) at least once a day, and frequently more often. When TG is at her father's, Sami is a sad, sad nine-year old. But god forbid someone should say he likes TG. TG really doesn't want that. Boys are to play with, not to like or to have them like her.*
The next thing was a bit more traumatic. TG was at her father's on Thursday, Valentine's Day. She got boatloads of Valentines. She was pleased. Then she told me that she had gotten a Valentine that made her feel uncomfortable, so she had told her teacher and the teacher had taken the Valentine and told TG that the Valentine was inappropriate. I asked what the Valentine said, and TigerGrrl didn't feel comfortable telling me, so she wrote the word that made her feel awkward. "Sexiest." Someone sent my eight-year old daughter, who exists to roughhouse, get dirty, and play ball games, a card telling her she was the sexiest girl in town. Then the room parent saw the card and TigerGrrl felt so embarrassed she said, she wanted to faint, which I have to say, is not a reaction I've ever expected from my daughter. I need to talk to the teacher. I don't TG feeling responsible for guys' weird (or age-inappropriate) reactions to her. It's their problem, not hers. I told her that.
I told her that she wasn't responsible for whether anyone thought she was beautiful (or whatever) and that she had no obligation to like or be friendly (or be anything but polite) to anyone who thought she was beautiful (or sexy, ugh!). We discussed age appropriate language, and what sexy means in generic terms. I also told her that obviously, somebody's parents weren't paying attention to the language their kid was using around other kids.
Obviously, there's more of that shit floating around. Parents of boys, please take note: it's not the girl's responsibility to be pleased by your son's attentions. Actually, it's no-one's responsibility to be pleased by anyone's attentions, so initial attentions should be pretty darn restrained, especially at an early age. The Sami approach of liking "Wanna play Junior Monopoly?" works much better than the creepazola approach of liking "You, eight year old, are so sexy." What eight year old girl wouldn't say "Sure!" to the first request and "Eww!" to the second.
*Actually, I'm seeing a lot of my own psychological makeup here, not that there's anything wrong with that. Here's the FW/TG motto: boys are to play with, not run around having them make icky (and uncomfortable feeling) declarations of (ew!) liking. They have cooties, right?
DestructoGirl told me this morning, after her father dropped her off here (she was clinging to his leg chortling and he was smiling fondly at her and I had a vision of how our marriage and family was before everything went all pear-shaped and I realized he really was batshit insane), that she loved her father. Then she told me I loved PdeFF, because I was his lady. Uh, what to say to that? "Not a snowball's chance in hell, sweetheart?" I know that's not the right response. I said nothing, for now. I just responded: "I know you love your Papa. And he loves you."
TigerGrrl is dealing with the trauma of being beautiful beyond belief, and it is rather annoying. First of all, TG has had a fight with two of her buddies who are fighting with each other. First of all, Sanjay (seven, the youngest boy in the "Scooter Club") told Sami (nine) that Sami liked TigerGrrl. TigerGrrl and Sami were mortally offended, although Sami does stop by frequently to see if TigerGrrl can come out and play football, soccer, baseball, go scooter riding, climb trees, watch movies, or play cards or board games. Sami visits to check on TigerGrrl's availability (and find out her schedule, like when TigerGrrl is at her father's place) at least once a day, and frequently more often. When TG is at her father's, Sami is a sad, sad nine-year old. But god forbid someone should say he likes TG. TG really doesn't want that. Boys are to play with, not to like or to have them like her.*
The next thing was a bit more traumatic. TG was at her father's on Thursday, Valentine's Day. She got boatloads of Valentines. She was pleased. Then she told me that she had gotten a Valentine that made her feel uncomfortable, so she had told her teacher and the teacher had taken the Valentine and told TG that the Valentine was inappropriate. I asked what the Valentine said, and TigerGrrl didn't feel comfortable telling me, so she wrote the word that made her feel awkward. "Sexiest." Someone sent my eight-year old daughter, who exists to roughhouse, get dirty, and play ball games, a card telling her she was the sexiest girl in town. Then the room parent saw the card and TigerGrrl felt so embarrassed she said, she wanted to faint, which I have to say, is not a reaction I've ever expected from my daughter. I need to talk to the teacher. I don't TG feeling responsible for guys' weird (or age-inappropriate) reactions to her. It's their problem, not hers. I told her that.
I told her that she wasn't responsible for whether anyone thought she was beautiful (or whatever) and that she had no obligation to like or be friendly (or be anything but polite) to anyone who thought she was beautiful (or sexy, ugh!). We discussed age appropriate language, and what sexy means in generic terms. I also told her that obviously, somebody's parents weren't paying attention to the language their kid was using around other kids.
Obviously, there's more of that shit floating around. Parents of boys, please take note: it's not the girl's responsibility to be pleased by your son's attentions. Actually, it's no-one's responsibility to be pleased by anyone's attentions, so initial attentions should be pretty darn restrained, especially at an early age. The Sami approach of liking "Wanna play Junior Monopoly?" works much better than the creepazola approach of liking "You, eight year old, are so sexy." What eight year old girl wouldn't say "Sure!" to the first request and "Eww!" to the second.
*Actually, I'm seeing a lot of my own psychological makeup here, not that there's anything wrong with that. Here's the FW/TG motto: boys are to play with, not run around having them make icky (and uncomfortable feeling) declarations of (ew!) liking. They have cooties, right?
Soothing the Savage Beast
I've had a great weekend. Despite the trauma of shipping up TigerGrrl to close to the Northeast Kingdom, I had a wonderful Saturday: a nice lunch with a friend/potential partner in OGL-III (no cute nickname yet, I'll just call him Guy), a drink with another swain (not, however, a potential partner in OGL-III), then dinner with Innana, a friend of Innana's from Oxbridge, and his partner, some sort of financial whiz-kid in the City (of London), both of whom were here in the Colonies for the Oxbridge friend's job interview. Charming men.
I think I confirmed every stereotype these two highly cultured confirmed bachelors had about Americans (loud, overly familiar, chatty, crude), but they didn't seem to mind. They took Innana and me out to Innana's and my favorite restaurant (Taberna del Alabardero), and Innana and her buddy caught up on a decade's worth of personal development, crises, romances, breakups, scandals, and, possibly, spiritual growth while polishing off a nice meal and a bottle of wine. Fun.
Sunday morning, Innana and I were joined by SNV at Mancini's. I've been invited to the Buddy Guy concert at the Birchmere in March, and Guy, who had said he wanted to see me again soon*, called to see if he can see me on one of my non-custodial nights this week. I said yes. When I checked my email, I discovered he'd sent me an email saying he was "so taken" with me. I'm pretty flummoxed. In my experience of middle-aged male fickleness and inability to make a decision or say what one wants, a statement of real attraction or intent is immediately followed my either a slow or quick fade (yes, Trey appears to be gone). So to have a man ask, on Saturday, when my next free evening is and then call the following day to ask me out to dinner on that free evening (which is still several days hence) was a shocker and a poser. To have him commit to writing that he's "so taken" with me made me wonder what was going on.
I'm not getting a Nguyen or PiousMan vibe off of Guy. He just seems like a normal, well, guy trying to restart his life in the wake of a fairly unpleasant divorce. Nothing I can't identify with, certainly. Well, we will live and we will see. Guy is coming on a bit strong. He was talking about his beach house down near Chincoteague saying that he thought he might sell it and buy another one, but he wants to wait until his life is more settled with a partner. "For instance," he said, "if you and I were together, I wouldn't want to have made that sort of change unilaterally."
This was our third date. So me getting input into purchase of beach houses seems a tad premature. Nonetheless, if the beach house is real (not imaginary), I'm practical and pragmatic enough to know that assets are just that: they're assets -- pluses, not minuses -- and after fourteen years of marriage to Mr. Minus and the straightened circumstances that have followed my divorce, I'm not going to pretend that a guy having some wherewithal isn't attractive to me.
I assuaged my conscience that I haven't become the most materialistic woman on the planet by reminding myself that while Dr. Science has several patents that are worth a great deal, I felt no attraction whatsover once I realized that he was a boring boor who wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise** (and that's saying something -- I can always get a word in edgewise) and thought Julio Iglesias is an opera singer.
However, I'm wondering. Everyone always talks as though women are trying to trap men into marriage and men have fear of commitment. That's not what I'm feeling. There are men who aren't struck dumb by my charm and beauty, certainly. There are men who go out with me once or twice and then remove themselves from the lists, bowing out, due to lack of interest or whatever. But it is a not infrequent occurance, on a second or third date to hear some sort of statement of implied serious interest. What's that about? Of course, with a beach house thrown in, I'm all ears. But I can only assume that this over-eagerness will be followed by a realization that boundaries have been overstepped and then the man in question will back up, possibly to the point of absence. This whole endeavor would be easier if the societal expecations actually rang true. I'm beginning to wonder if I live in an alternative universe or something.
But anyway, I had fun. And several very nice meals. SNV looked good, Innana has had a good weekend, and I need to get some sleep. Good night.
*Which my skeptical brain translated as meaning: "Gosh, I like you this minute. That, of course, doesn't mean a thing."
**I do not believe Dr. Science, on my second and last date with him, asked me any questions. I don't believe he ever said the word "you" all evening.
I think I confirmed every stereotype these two highly cultured confirmed bachelors had about Americans (loud, overly familiar, chatty, crude), but they didn't seem to mind. They took Innana and me out to Innana's and my favorite restaurant (Taberna del Alabardero), and Innana and her buddy caught up on a decade's worth of personal development, crises, romances, breakups, scandals, and, possibly, spiritual growth while polishing off a nice meal and a bottle of wine. Fun.
Sunday morning, Innana and I were joined by SNV at Mancini's. I've been invited to the Buddy Guy concert at the Birchmere in March, and Guy, who had said he wanted to see me again soon*, called to see if he can see me on one of my non-custodial nights this week. I said yes. When I checked my email, I discovered he'd sent me an email saying he was "so taken" with me. I'm pretty flummoxed. In my experience of middle-aged male fickleness and inability to make a decision or say what one wants, a statement of real attraction or intent is immediately followed my either a slow or quick fade (yes, Trey appears to be gone). So to have a man ask, on Saturday, when my next free evening is and then call the following day to ask me out to dinner on that free evening (which is still several days hence) was a shocker and a poser. To have him commit to writing that he's "so taken" with me made me wonder what was going on.
I'm not getting a Nguyen or PiousMan vibe off of Guy. He just seems like a normal, well, guy trying to restart his life in the wake of a fairly unpleasant divorce. Nothing I can't identify with, certainly. Well, we will live and we will see. Guy is coming on a bit strong. He was talking about his beach house down near Chincoteague saying that he thought he might sell it and buy another one, but he wants to wait until his life is more settled with a partner. "For instance," he said, "if you and I were together, I wouldn't want to have made that sort of change unilaterally."
This was our third date. So me getting input into purchase of beach houses seems a tad premature. Nonetheless, if the beach house is real (not imaginary), I'm practical and pragmatic enough to know that assets are just that: they're assets -- pluses, not minuses -- and after fourteen years of marriage to Mr. Minus and the straightened circumstances that have followed my divorce, I'm not going to pretend that a guy having some wherewithal isn't attractive to me.
I assuaged my conscience that I haven't become the most materialistic woman on the planet by reminding myself that while Dr. Science has several patents that are worth a great deal, I felt no attraction whatsover once I realized that he was a boring boor who wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise** (and that's saying something -- I can always get a word in edgewise) and thought Julio Iglesias is an opera singer.
However, I'm wondering. Everyone always talks as though women are trying to trap men into marriage and men have fear of commitment. That's not what I'm feeling. There are men who aren't struck dumb by my charm and beauty, certainly. There are men who go out with me once or twice and then remove themselves from the lists, bowing out, due to lack of interest or whatever. But it is a not infrequent occurance, on a second or third date to hear some sort of statement of implied serious interest. What's that about? Of course, with a beach house thrown in, I'm all ears. But I can only assume that this over-eagerness will be followed by a realization that boundaries have been overstepped and then the man in question will back up, possibly to the point of absence. This whole endeavor would be easier if the societal expecations actually rang true. I'm beginning to wonder if I live in an alternative universe or something.
But anyway, I had fun. And several very nice meals. SNV looked good, Innana has had a good weekend, and I need to get some sleep. Good night.
*Which my skeptical brain translated as meaning: "Gosh, I like you this minute. That, of course, doesn't mean a thing."
**I do not believe Dr. Science, on my second and last date with him, asked me any questions. I don't believe he ever said the word "you" all evening.
February 16, 2008
TigerGrrl's Excellent Adventure
TigerGrrl is about to embark on her second annual pilgrimage to the home of the most doting Aunt of all time, my LOS. LOS only had boys (two delightful ones) who are now young men fledging from the nest. The crises and turmoil of my divorce has given LOS an opportunity to establish a beachhead with the Foilkids and have two girls to cosset and spoil. I wholeheartedly encourage this relationship. And thus, every winter (this is the second winter in a row, so now it's a tradition -- that's how it works with kids) TigerGrrl flies (alone as an unaccompanied minor) to Northern New England to ski, skate, and tobaggan.
It's tough putting her on the plane. And I miss her so. But she is so definitely off on her own adventure, it's a delight to watch her begin to spread her wings, almost literally.
They grow up so fast. Off skiing with her Aunt, barely looking over her shoulder as she skips onto the plane. That's my girl. You hold them close so they can leave you freely and happily. That's parenthood.
It's tough putting her on the plane. And I miss her so. But she is so definitely off on her own adventure, it's a delight to watch her begin to spread her wings, almost literally.
They grow up so fast. Off skiing with her Aunt, barely looking over her shoulder as she skips onto the plane. That's my girl. You hold them close so they can leave you freely and happily. That's parenthood.
February 14, 2008
Celebration of St. Valentine's Decapitation (Isn't It Romantic?)
Anyone thinking that your love life is blighted because you don't have a date tonight? Get over yourself. I have a date tonight and I'm wishing I didn't. I'm not over-enthused, and I need to do grocery shopping. Unfortunately, it's a third date with a nice man who apparently likes me (shocker) and if I cancel on the last minute he'll feel hurt/rejected/whatever and wonder what kind of a cold-hearted bitch makes excuses like "I need to go grocery shopping" on Valentine's Day. So, even though I'm feeling no more than mild amusement and some affection in his presence, I'm trundling off to dinner with him (although maybe this will get cancelled since as of yesterday, he hadn't told me where he had made reservations. If he hasn't managed reservations, this aardvark ain't flying, and I'll get to do the grocery shopping) despite feeling moderately overwhelmed.
I'm actually looking forward to a dinner date on Saturday with two guys I don't know. Nah, don't worry, I'm not going to become a swinger or more polyamorous (I hate that word) than I already am. The two guys are a gay couple one of whom is a buddy of Innana from her Oxbridge days (when she was a mere 15-year old, because, as we know, Innana is only 29).
Meanwhile, I turned down a second date with a guy I dated once in January. He called and asked me to "hook up" with him on Valentine's Day. "What do you mean, hook up?" I politely asked? "You know, come over, watch some videos, get it on." Obviously, this is a younger man. I politely declined this stellar opportunity.
"But I think you're great," he says (Well, so what?) "And I love older women." (This guy is maybe 34, 35, 36 tops, but he is over 30.) My response: "Yes, but you're not dealing with older women as a group now, are you? You're dealing with me. And telling me what you want to try and get me to do that is acting rather like my three-year old, not my eight year old. And, as I said, I already have plans."
Okay, as one: was I being a pissy bitch? Was I tactful considering the circumstances? Would moronic young would be date have understood my point? Did you?
Anyway, those of you lucky enough to be home with a nice shiraz, a cat or dog (your choice), and a good book, I'm envious. Enjoy. Happy Valentine's Day.
I'm actually looking forward to a dinner date on Saturday with two guys I don't know. Nah, don't worry, I'm not going to become a swinger or more polyamorous (I hate that word) than I already am. The two guys are a gay couple one of whom is a buddy of Innana from her Oxbridge days (when she was a mere 15-year old, because, as we know, Innana is only 29).
Meanwhile, I turned down a second date with a guy I dated once in January. He called and asked me to "hook up" with him on Valentine's Day. "What do you mean, hook up?" I politely asked? "You know, come over, watch some videos, get it on." Obviously, this is a younger man. I politely declined this stellar opportunity.
"But I think you're great," he says (Well, so what?) "And I love older women." (This guy is maybe 34, 35, 36 tops, but he is over 30.) My response: "Yes, but you're not dealing with older women as a group now, are you? You're dealing with me. And telling me what you want to try and get me to do that is acting rather like my three-year old, not my eight year old. And, as I said, I already have plans."
Okay, as one: was I being a pissy bitch? Was I tactful considering the circumstances? Would moronic young would be date have understood my point? Did you?
Anyway, those of you lucky enough to be home with a nice shiraz, a cat or dog (your choice), and a good book, I'm envious. Enjoy. Happy Valentine's Day.
February 11, 2008
You've Got To Have Friends*
Today I had an altercation with a clueless colleague (CC, for short). The details of the altercation are irrelevant. Trust me, I was right, he was wrong (and stupid and inconsiderate) and in the end, I won. But before I won (this was pretty trivial, it wasn't a big win), I got mad, he got mad, and voices were raised. Basically he tried to do an end run around me and get some of my subordinates to do what he wanted, even after I'd said: "No." Needless to say, my subordinates did not do what he requested after I'd said "No" and that was one of the reasons for the fight.
But voices, including my mellifluous voce, were raised, and I wanted to record the reasons for my position for posterity, and to forward to CC's boss, should it be necessary. So I did what any right thinking person would do. I called someone else to review my memorandum regarding the issue.
I called Innana and asked her to review my memo for tone. I requested (prior to sending the email with the memo attached): "Just tell me if I'm being a pissy bitch."
Innana said (prior to receiving, let alone reviewing the memorandum): "Let's save some time here. Yes. You are."**
That's why everyone needs lifelong friends.** If you don't have any, get busy.
*Thank you Bette Middler, before you got all sappy (think Wind Beneath Your Wings and anything to do with Beaches, which were both damn near unforgiveable).
**After that, she received my email, reviewed the memorandum, made it more coherent and so that I didn't sound upset or pissy. Well, I probably still sounded pissy and/or bitchy. I mean, those aren't necessarily bad things. And the subordinate in question who was being abused by CC felt protected and pleased, and I've created a record of CC's total cluelessness.
***If there isn't anyone in your life who can tell you without fear, humorously or otherwise, that you are being a pissy bitch/limp-dicked moron/asshole as big as Saskatchewan, you need to find that person and bring him or her into your life now. Yes, that means you.
But voices, including my mellifluous voce, were raised, and I wanted to record the reasons for my position for posterity, and to forward to CC's boss, should it be necessary. So I did what any right thinking person would do. I called someone else to review my memorandum regarding the issue.
I called Innana and asked her to review my memo for tone. I requested (prior to sending the email with the memo attached): "Just tell me if I'm being a pissy bitch."
Innana said (prior to receiving, let alone reviewing the memorandum): "Let's save some time here. Yes. You are."**
That's why everyone needs lifelong friends.** If you don't have any, get busy.
*Thank you Bette Middler, before you got all sappy (think Wind Beneath Your Wings and anything to do with Beaches, which were both damn near unforgiveable).
**After that, she received my email, reviewed the memorandum, made it more coherent and so that I didn't sound upset or pissy. Well, I probably still sounded pissy and/or bitchy. I mean, those aren't necessarily bad things. And the subordinate in question who was being abused by CC felt protected and pleased, and I've created a record of CC's total cluelessness.
***If there isn't anyone in your life who can tell you without fear, humorously or otherwise, that you are being a pissy bitch/limp-dicked moron/asshole as big as Saskatchewan, you need to find that person and bring him or her into your life now. Yes, that means you.
February 10, 2008
Charming or Clueless? You Decide
I'm hoping that Innana's bronchitis is better. TigerGrrl was going to have a sleepover (very big with the eight-year old set) at Innana's, but Innana has been really, really sick (and really, really cranky, but understandably so, since her lungs have been in rebellion against her body and not being able to breathe or sleep comfortable will make anyone cranky*). So we've postponed the sleepover for two weeks and the girls are hoping they'll see Innana today.
Back to Disaster Dating 101 or OGL Part Trois. I think it's easier to date as a hopeless romantic than as a hard-headed woman (thank you, Cat Stevens) who wants to see the best in people but actually sees the evidence in front of her. I have never figured out the mystery of men (and for heterosexual men and gay women who are dating, women, I'm pretty sure this is a gender neutral phenomenon) who come on very strong for a few dates and then simply drop off the face of the earth. I don't make excuses. You know: "He must be very busy with work." Or, "Maybe he got kidnapped by aliens." No, for whatever reason, anyone who says "I think I'm falling in love" before time, or, honestly, at any time, is someone at high risk for shortly thereafter disappearing off the planet.
Now, I may contribute to this. The minute any man says he might be falling in love with me** (hasn't happened often in my life, but twice since December already, and trust me, AnonDave, I'm not hot in the Hollywood/porn industry definition of hotness), I can feel my eyebrows raise and my inner bullshit detector go to Defcon IV. So maybe they feel scared or treated with a lack of respect or something. At which point, my reaction is you'd better run run run run run run run away. (Thank you Talking Heads.)
So I'm detecting in myself a lack of the openness necessary to actually connect with another person. Yet I'm having fun, despite the occasional ego blows and setback. And yes, it is a blow to my ego when someone who was hitherto attentive falls off the face of the planet.
Trey isn't doing that, but he has veered perilously close to over-exposing his emotions and then rapidly backing away. I can't analyze. So instead, I'll turn to the rest of the middle-aged dating in D.C. population.
At which point, I have to say that sometimes I wonder how some people have any friends at all and whether some people have ever gotten laid (or will ever get laid). I mean, some people really make you wonder. Some causes for eternal scepticism and annoyance at anyone who has ever dated, ever:
(1) Name-dropping: Really, I don't care if you've met Peter Frampton+ or anyone else.
(2) Discussing your wealth: Anyone can tell me they own this or that or are a great investor. That doesn't make it true (or relevant, unless you want someone who wants you for your wealth and not anything else, like, for instance your personality).
(3) Explaining the value and exclusiveness or your bike, your coffee-maker, your leather jacket, whatever: I'm glad you think you have nice things. Really. But if they are that nice, you really don't need to tell me the provenance of each one. Just let me enjoy the bottle of wine, the good cup of coffee, whatever. I don't need to know you bought the expresso maker in Italy and that it cost $1,000. If I believe you, that means I think you're frittering away your assets, most likely, and if I don't, I think you're a superficial nitwit.
(4) Saying the last book you read was "The Secret". Gaah. I'll say no more.
(5) Telling me about your sexual prowess, even if it looks like we're heading to bed. Trust me on this one. If you have sexual prowess, I'll tell you, early and often. Until then, shut up. You aren't in a position to judge your performance (which really isn't based on the length of time you stay erect or the size of your erection -- check and make sure you have hands and a tongue and make sure you can use them effectively. Heck, take up trombone and piccolo).
However, there are some really sweet moments to dating too. For me (and your mileage may vary), these work, but I can't vouch for any other woman on the planet):
(1) Telling funny stories about people you know that are funny but not mean.
(2) Walking closer to the curb (on the outside), holding the door, holding the chair, etc. Some women might find this sexist. I find it indicative that you have been taught manners, aren't afraid of showing consideration, and are willing to indicate that you will, in little ways at least, go to some effort to ensure my comfort.
(3) Actually asking me a question or two. Amazingly, many men on dates with me start on a litany of past accomplishment, achievement, and then the complete history of what they've done since getting out of bed in the morning. Really.
(4) If you have kids, saying good things about them, indicating that you are an empathetic and loving parent, not a narcissistic nitwit.
(5) If you have girls, realizing that they will grow up into sexual beings and that your job is not to halt that process but to ensure that the process is safe and pleasurable, to the extent you can (with the acknowledgment that other than giving a loving and respectful model of male behavior, you really aren't going to have a super big role to play).
I'm nowhere near making a decision or doing anything and I'm not sure if I will be. Of course, I really want to just say "eeny, meanie, miny, moe" and grab someone (really, so be careful walking around DC, boys). I'm not going to do that, but arrrgh.
*Of course, Innana, my love, it would help if you actually took the cough medicine with codeine the nice doctor gave you when she discovered your bronchial tubes were inflamed and clogged.
**And trust me, I am not the sort of woman*** who inspires men to fall in love all over the place. Actually, it never happened that I'm aware of in my teens and twenties, so that it's happening now seems to say more about single men in their late thirties, forties, and fifties than in does about me.
***I'm no Pamela Harriman, you know?
+Some men actually tried to use some vague connection with Peter Frampton (I mean, Peter "Baby I Love Your Way" Frampton? Mark Knopfler would impress me slightly, David Byrnes, Elvis Costello, Chryssie Hynde, Melissa Etheridge, or Bruce Springsteen would impress me a lot, but Peter Frampton? This isn't 1978 and I'm not a girl in high school.), Jay Leno (Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert would work a lot better), Christina Onassis (wha? She's been dead for a while), as evidence of . . . what? And not in fascinating anecdotes, just as in "I met them." Whoop de doo.
Back to Disaster Dating 101 or OGL Part Trois. I think it's easier to date as a hopeless romantic than as a hard-headed woman (thank you, Cat Stevens) who wants to see the best in people but actually sees the evidence in front of her. I have never figured out the mystery of men (and for heterosexual men and gay women who are dating, women, I'm pretty sure this is a gender neutral phenomenon) who come on very strong for a few dates and then simply drop off the face of the earth. I don't make excuses. You know: "He must be very busy with work." Or, "Maybe he got kidnapped by aliens." No, for whatever reason, anyone who says "I think I'm falling in love" before time, or, honestly, at any time, is someone at high risk for shortly thereafter disappearing off the planet.
Now, I may contribute to this. The minute any man says he might be falling in love with me** (hasn't happened often in my life, but twice since December already, and trust me, AnonDave, I'm not hot in the Hollywood/porn industry definition of hotness), I can feel my eyebrows raise and my inner bullshit detector go to Defcon IV. So maybe they feel scared or treated with a lack of respect or something. At which point, my reaction is you'd better run run run run run run run away. (Thank you Talking Heads.)
So I'm detecting in myself a lack of the openness necessary to actually connect with another person. Yet I'm having fun, despite the occasional ego blows and setback. And yes, it is a blow to my ego when someone who was hitherto attentive falls off the face of the planet.
Trey isn't doing that, but he has veered perilously close to over-exposing his emotions and then rapidly backing away. I can't analyze. So instead, I'll turn to the rest of the middle-aged dating in D.C. population.
At which point, I have to say that sometimes I wonder how some people have any friends at all and whether some people have ever gotten laid (or will ever get laid). I mean, some people really make you wonder. Some causes for eternal scepticism and annoyance at anyone who has ever dated, ever:
(1) Name-dropping: Really, I don't care if you've met Peter Frampton+ or anyone else.
(2) Discussing your wealth: Anyone can tell me they own this or that or are a great investor. That doesn't make it true (or relevant, unless you want someone who wants you for your wealth and not anything else, like, for instance your personality).
(3) Explaining the value and exclusiveness or your bike, your coffee-maker, your leather jacket, whatever: I'm glad you think you have nice things. Really. But if they are that nice, you really don't need to tell me the provenance of each one. Just let me enjoy the bottle of wine, the good cup of coffee, whatever. I don't need to know you bought the expresso maker in Italy and that it cost $1,000. If I believe you, that means I think you're frittering away your assets, most likely, and if I don't, I think you're a superficial nitwit.
(4) Saying the last book you read was "The Secret". Gaah. I'll say no more.
(5) Telling me about your sexual prowess, even if it looks like we're heading to bed. Trust me on this one. If you have sexual prowess, I'll tell you, early and often. Until then, shut up. You aren't in a position to judge your performance (which really isn't based on the length of time you stay erect or the size of your erection -- check and make sure you have hands and a tongue and make sure you can use them effectively. Heck, take up trombone and piccolo).
However, there are some really sweet moments to dating too. For me (and your mileage may vary), these work, but I can't vouch for any other woman on the planet):
(1) Telling funny stories about people you know that are funny but not mean.
(2) Walking closer to the curb (on the outside), holding the door, holding the chair, etc. Some women might find this sexist. I find it indicative that you have been taught manners, aren't afraid of showing consideration, and are willing to indicate that you will, in little ways at least, go to some effort to ensure my comfort.
(3) Actually asking me a question or two. Amazingly, many men on dates with me start on a litany of past accomplishment, achievement, and then the complete history of what they've done since getting out of bed in the morning. Really.
(4) If you have kids, saying good things about them, indicating that you are an empathetic and loving parent, not a narcissistic nitwit.
(5) If you have girls, realizing that they will grow up into sexual beings and that your job is not to halt that process but to ensure that the process is safe and pleasurable, to the extent you can (with the acknowledgment that other than giving a loving and respectful model of male behavior, you really aren't going to have a super big role to play).
I'm nowhere near making a decision or doing anything and I'm not sure if I will be. Of course, I really want to just say "eeny, meanie, miny, moe" and grab someone (really, so be careful walking around DC, boys). I'm not going to do that, but arrrgh.
*Of course, Innana, my love, it would help if you actually took the cough medicine with codeine the nice doctor gave you when she discovered your bronchial tubes were inflamed and clogged.
**And trust me, I am not the sort of woman*** who inspires men to fall in love all over the place. Actually, it never happened that I'm aware of in my teens and twenties, so that it's happening now seems to say more about single men in their late thirties, forties, and fifties than in does about me.
***I'm no Pamela Harriman, you know?
+Some men actually tried to use some vague connection with Peter Frampton (I mean, Peter "Baby I Love Your Way" Frampton? Mark Knopfler would impress me slightly, David Byrnes, Elvis Costello, Chryssie Hynde, Melissa Etheridge, or Bruce Springsteen would impress me a lot, but Peter Frampton? This isn't 1978 and I'm not a girl in high school.), Jay Leno (Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert would work a lot better), Christina Onassis (wha? She's been dead for a while), as evidence of . . . what? And not in fascinating anecdotes, just as in "I met them." Whoop de doo.
February 5, 2008
Much Less Important Than the Preceding Post (That's About Innana, This Is About Dating), So Read the Preceding Post First
In addition to other powers (think existence of DestructoGirl), Innana has the power to make men who haven't called call. On Saturday, I was sitting at Innana's, forcefeeding her croissants, pizza, and soda* and I commented that Trey, who normally emails me multiple times in a day hadn't contacted me since the Friday night date. I mentioned how I preferred to not care so that any perceived fading of attentiveness wouldn't be analyzed till the bovines returned to their abode. Then I speculated as to why I hadn't heard from Trey, going through numerous possibilities, none of which really had any validity. While I was droning on about this totally dull subject, of course, my cell phone range and it was Trey.
One email from him on Monday, and nothing . . . This morning I was chatting with Innana commenting that Trey was slowing down his attentiveness and another email popped up. Now, this is my busy week, no free time, so I'm not seeing him. Grrr. Anyway, that's the problem with this whole process. Until you commit to someone and he commits to you, there's no commitment. Since there's no sense in commiting until you know someone and it takes a long time to know someone, there's bound to be a fairly lengthy period of time before one can relax and know that a pattern or a routine has been established.
ScienceGuy and I had a dreadful date on Sunday. He must have been feeling nervous, because he name dropped all over the place. He kept telling me the names of people he had worked with, and how they were all in the running for the Nobel Prize. Right. He named every celebrity he'd ever met, and some he hadn't. I said, with pride, that he lived next door to Julio Iglesias's* understudy who has since become a great opera singler in his own right.** I'm annoyed enough at being name-dropped for hours. But for fictional, delusional, and ignorant name-dropping (Is there any other kind?), I really have a hard to putting up with it. I had to fight rather hard to end the evening. He just kept going on and on and on. I think we're done here.
*Why anyone would claim a connection with that man, I don't know.
*Trust me, these are good treatments.
**Should I have told him that Iglesias doesn't sing arias, he sings inanity? How else will he learn?
One email from him on Monday, and nothing . . . This morning I was chatting with Innana commenting that Trey was slowing down his attentiveness and another email popped up. Now, this is my busy week, no free time, so I'm not seeing him. Grrr. Anyway, that's the problem with this whole process. Until you commit to someone and he commits to you, there's no commitment. Since there's no sense in commiting until you know someone and it takes a long time to know someone, there's bound to be a fairly lengthy period of time before one can relax and know that a pattern or a routine has been established.
ScienceGuy and I had a dreadful date on Sunday. He must have been feeling nervous, because he name dropped all over the place. He kept telling me the names of people he had worked with, and how they were all in the running for the Nobel Prize. Right. He named every celebrity he'd ever met, and some he hadn't. I said, with pride, that he lived next door to Julio Iglesias's* understudy who has since become a great opera singler in his own right.** I'm annoyed enough at being name-dropped for hours. But for fictional, delusional, and ignorant name-dropping (Is there any other kind?), I really have a hard to putting up with it. I had to fight rather hard to end the evening. He just kept going on and on and on. I think we're done here.
*Why anyone would claim a connection with that man, I don't know.
*Trust me, these are good treatments.
**Should I have told him that Iglesias doesn't sing arias, he sings inanity? How else will he learn?
Video a Cold, DVD a Fever
So, I was FoilNurse on Saturday. And I felt very badly, as I didn't get to Innana's until late Saturday because PdeFF needed me to babysit the girls because he had scheduled a tennis match (I cleverly schedule my recreational activities for times that the girls are not with me, but that's just my illogical female brain at work).
But I got Innana her needed comfort foods and then she made me watch an X-Files episode that she had taped about women having all the adipose (fatty) tissue sucked out of them by some Internet dating type guy. Of course, Innana got the full-Foil annotated version. I explained forced teaming and how people bully people into doing things they really don't want to do, and how you can stop it just by saying: "No, I don't think so."
I think Innana was trying to send me a message about meeting people online. It didn't work.
The we turned to the real curative of the evening. We watched our favorite buddy movie of all time: Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. We saw that when it came out in the 80's (The Hair! The clothes! The historical babes!). Actually, Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey must now be re-viewed. I mean, any movie maker who spoofs Bergman's way-too-serious-for-its-wedgie The Seventh Seal has my undying love, and I'm Scandinavian. I mean, yeah, death can beat anyone at chess, but twister? Hee.
After a healthy dosage of Bill and Ted's Innana's decline was arrested and she felt restored enough to sit wanly on the couch (she's so delicate) and partake of the pizza we ordered. Yup, we're big Keanu Reeves fans. Sue us.
But I got Innana her needed comfort foods and then she made me watch an X-Files episode that she had taped about women having all the adipose (fatty) tissue sucked out of them by some Internet dating type guy. Of course, Innana got the full-Foil annotated version. I explained forced teaming and how people bully people into doing things they really don't want to do, and how you can stop it just by saying: "No, I don't think so."
I think Innana was trying to send me a message about meeting people online. It didn't work.
The we turned to the real curative of the evening. We watched our favorite buddy movie of all time: Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. We saw that when it came out in the 80's (The Hair! The clothes! The historical babes!). Actually, Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey must now be re-viewed. I mean, any movie maker who spoofs Bergman's way-too-serious-for-its-wedgie The Seventh Seal has my undying love, and I'm Scandinavian. I mean, yeah, death can beat anyone at chess, but twister? Hee.
After a healthy dosage of Bill and Ted's Innana's decline was arrested and she felt restored enough to sit wanly on the couch (she's so delicate) and partake of the pizza we ordered. Yup, we're big Keanu Reeves fans. Sue us.
February 3, 2008
Morning, When the Sun Creeps Through the Shutters, Like the Dew
I actually like the early morning hours, when, as a sometimes insomniac, I'm thinking about the state of the world and the Fate of the Earth (thank you, Jonathan Schell). And the state of OGL, Part III. It looks like we have a candidate heading into the final stretch, thank you very much. That would be Trey, the good ol' boy from Winston-Salem, or Tom Petty's more muscular brother. Actually, he doesn't look anything like Tom Petty (except he's blond -- that's a first). But he's a Southern boy with a Southern accent and sooner or later (probably later -- I'm a slow rising yeast right now, for whatever reason), I'm going to jump his bones and get back on the chain gang. He's just yummy.
I don't like liking someone this much. When I ask Trey to do something, he doesn't say "Why?" He says (and this is so sexy): "Yes, ma'am." I've never really liked men with Southern accents much (Other than Tom Petty, who is, fortuitously enough, starting a new tour. More yum. For a scraggly white guy, Tom Petty is a nice piece of peanut butter brickle, with chocolate on the side, that's all I'll say.) Trey calls me, Southern-style, Ms. [Foilwoman's firstname] (I do have a first name, and in the real world, it's not Foil -- sorry to shock you like that). He cleverly brought me a nice Australian Shiraz magnum. And, ignoring everything else, I just like the dude. (If you're a Big Lebowski fan, he abides.)
So why does this make me feel so nervous? Because I'm less in control and it's riskier for me, d'oh. It's easier when you don't really care. Trey, I'm beginning to like more than one likes a charming stranger. I've got to get the Innana screening going. Those two will like each other (son and daughter of the Confederacy, and all that), or at least understand each other culturally. There's no way I could get seriously involved with a man who didn't get along with Innana. Kind of like Innana and me when we had Azucar, the fat white wondercat. Guys would rag on the whole cat-lady stereotype and that was just making it easier for us. Direct Innana quote, stolen by me: "Guys may come and guys may go, but these are Azucar's golden years." Well, Trey may be yummy, but I don't know him 1/20th as well as I know Innana, and she's trump.
Nonetheless, great date last night. Really. And that doesn't mean that OGL Part Trois has reached a successful conclusion. Nuh-uh. I just had a really nice Italian meal with a man who I can discomfit just by patting his knee. There really is some sort of aphrodisiac quality about realizing that a man just lost his train of thought because you brushed a little close. I'm having a debate on another blog about women dressing modestly (among other things) and not being demeaned or debased by male desire. Boys, I'm not debased or demeaned. I'm pleased as punch. I think I could string this out for another month or two, especially given my custody schedule. (Golden rule of joint custody: never plan on getting nookie when the kids are in the house.) But I'm not sure I want to string things out.
Yeah, I know, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free and all that crap. But this cow doesn't really care about the purchase price. And I'll give the milk away to whosoever I want to give it. Yup.
The risk isn't the physical. It's the emotional. I don't know this man well enough, but I want him enough that I might not wait to know him well enough. Arrrgh. Enough for now. Sweet dreams.
I don't like liking someone this much. When I ask Trey to do something, he doesn't say "Why?" He says (and this is so sexy): "Yes, ma'am." I've never really liked men with Southern accents much (Other than Tom Petty, who is, fortuitously enough, starting a new tour. More yum. For a scraggly white guy, Tom Petty is a nice piece of peanut butter brickle, with chocolate on the side, that's all I'll say.) Trey calls me, Southern-style, Ms. [Foilwoman's firstname] (I do have a first name, and in the real world, it's not Foil -- sorry to shock you like that). He cleverly brought me a nice Australian Shiraz magnum. And, ignoring everything else, I just like the dude. (If you're a Big Lebowski fan, he abides.)
So why does this make me feel so nervous? Because I'm less in control and it's riskier for me, d'oh. It's easier when you don't really care. Trey, I'm beginning to like more than one likes a charming stranger. I've got to get the Innana screening going. Those two will like each other (son and daughter of the Confederacy, and all that), or at least understand each other culturally. There's no way I could get seriously involved with a man who didn't get along with Innana. Kind of like Innana and me when we had Azucar, the fat white wondercat. Guys would rag on the whole cat-lady stereotype and that was just making it easier for us. Direct Innana quote, stolen by me: "Guys may come and guys may go, but these are Azucar's golden years." Well, Trey may be yummy, but I don't know him 1/20th as well as I know Innana, and she's trump.
Nonetheless, great date last night. Really. And that doesn't mean that OGL Part Trois has reached a successful conclusion. Nuh-uh. I just had a really nice Italian meal with a man who I can discomfit just by patting his knee. There really is some sort of aphrodisiac quality about realizing that a man just lost his train of thought because you brushed a little close. I'm having a debate on another blog about women dressing modestly (among other things) and not being demeaned or debased by male desire. Boys, I'm not debased or demeaned. I'm pleased as punch. I think I could string this out for another month or two, especially given my custody schedule. (Golden rule of joint custody: never plan on getting nookie when the kids are in the house.) But I'm not sure I want to string things out.
Yeah, I know, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free and all that crap. But this cow doesn't really care about the purchase price. And I'll give the milk away to whosoever I want to give it. Yup.
The risk isn't the physical. It's the emotional. I don't know this man well enough, but I want him enough that I might not wait to know him well enough. Arrrgh. Enough for now. Sweet dreams.
February 2, 2008
Sick Friend
Innana is a sicklet right now. And it's all my fault. DestructoGirl is finally getting medicine and getting better, but not before infecting poor Innana. So for once (in the three years of this blog), I'm taking care of Innana and not vice-versa. I've got to do this right.
Fortunately, Innana has Rajah the wondercat and hot water bottle to keep her comfy and warm until I arrive later today with the magical curative and restorative powers of orange juice, coca-cola, croissants, throat lozenges, glazed donuts, and Contact.(Do they still make that? They'd damn well better. That's what she wants, so that's what I'm going to track down.)
Innana sounds dreadful and she's had this since early in the week (she was playing with DestructoGirl last Saturday, no surprises there). I'm getting more than a bit worried. But I can fuss and worry about her, fluff up her pillows, and say the patented cure-all phrase: "There, there." Or: "You poor baby." Or "You're sick! Sit back down and drink your juice!" Nothing like the hectoring maternal tones, dulcet or not, when one is really under the weather. Or so I fondly hope.
Wish me well with my patient. And wish her well. I sometimes pity her that she didn't manage to get a calmer and more soothing (and better nurse) best friend. Oh well, I'm here, and I'm on my way.
Fortunately, Innana has Rajah the wondercat and hot water bottle to keep her comfy and warm until I arrive later today with the magical curative and restorative powers of orange juice, coca-cola, croissants, throat lozenges, glazed donuts, and Contact.(Do they still make that? They'd damn well better. That's what she wants, so that's what I'm going to track down.)
Innana sounds dreadful and she's had this since early in the week (she was playing with DestructoGirl last Saturday, no surprises there). I'm getting more than a bit worried. But I can fuss and worry about her, fluff up her pillows, and say the patented cure-all phrase: "There, there." Or: "You poor baby." Or "You're sick! Sit back down and drink your juice!" Nothing like the hectoring maternal tones, dulcet or not, when one is really under the weather. Or so I fondly hope.
Wish me well with my patient. And wish her well. I sometimes pity her that she didn't manage to get a calmer and more soothing (and better nurse) best friend. Oh well, I'm here, and I'm on my way.
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