Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Tuesday, February 27, 2007 Vote Early, Vote Often
Does giving out donuts at a polling place qualify as electioneering?
Civic Duty So, I’m walking into my polling place this morning, which happens to be in my compartment building, and a man walks in behind me with a big box of donuts. It was early, the place just opened, and the workers were not all there yet. Those who were there were busy. So the donut guy held out the huge box of donuts at me in a gesture of offering me a donut. I, being me, chuckled and said, “It takes a lot more than a donut to bribe a vote out of me.” Nyuck nyuck implied.
The donut guy laughed and said, “Perhaps you have a dead relative who might like a donut.” Nyuck nyuck.
Har hars all around.
He sets the donuts on a table comes back over to where I’m waiting to check-in to vote. He smiles, puts out his hand as if to shake mine, I reach to shake his hand and...kisses it instead.
Okay, ewwwwwwwwww. Maybe he fancies it as a charming gesture. But unless you are in fact Maurice Chevalier and acting in a Merchant Ivory Edwardian period film, or mocking either of those, you cannot pull off this maneuver and come across as anything other than a ridiculous jerk. Way too swing for a guy with donuts at an election polling place. Way too swing for 6 AM. Just way too swing period.
So I beat it over to the kiosk and busy myself with voting. (not that I really believe my vote counts or matters, dis is Chicago, kid, but my civic responsibility is so ingrained in me I feel dirty and shameful if I don’t vote)
I finish my voting and I’m walking toward the door and the donut guy reaches out to shake my hand again. I fear another kiss so I hesitate and back a step away from him. So instead, on my way out the door he pats my ass.
You heard me.
This was no “oops, I accidentally brushed against her ass” situation. This was a blatant “hey baby, buy you a drink and take you to bed” situation.
Ewwwwwwwwwww. I mean, nice to have some attention from a man, but, ewwwwwwwwwwwww. Right there in front of the election workers and the voting kiosks and the donuts and the American flag and everything. Brazenly pats my ass right there under the flag.
There’s got to be a happy medium between being completely ignored by men and insulted by a creepy donut guy copping a feel of my ass in front of a bunch of people at the polling place. Right? I mean, it is possible for a man to show interest in a woman without being suggestive or molestive, right? And, who hangs around a polling place to pick up women? Ewwwwwwwwww. Who does that to a complete stranger in front of other (presumed) complete stranger witnesses?
I keep thinking there must be some misinterpretation. I must have got it wrong. I’m lonely and tired and stressed and surely I must be misinterpreting this. But I replay it and replay it and come up with no way this could be an accident. It was blatant and obvious. And just to ice the cake and cement my take on the whole thing, he raises a suggestive eyebrow at me and gives me a “hey baby” grin.
Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
I beat a hasty retreat back to my compartment, contemplate taking another shower to try to wash off the stink of the creepy donut guy, get ready for work and head back down to the lobby.
My doorperson, with whom I've become friends, stops me and says, "One of those election guys was asking about you." She then gives a description of the creepy donut guy.
I tell her what happened. She chuckles. She tells me he had a salivating dog look when he described me to her. He asked her my name. She, being a good security person and better friend didn't give up any information about me. I feel like I dodged a potentially weird bullet and head off to work.
I walk out of the building and turn the corner and: There’s the donut guy handing out election flyers.
He sees me, flashes that “hey baby” grin and raises the suggestive eyebrow and says, “I already got you.” Wink wink nudge nudge implied.
Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
"There's a party tonight, you should come, it's going to be a lot of fun," again with a suggestive eyebrow and a "hey baby" swaggering grin.
Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
I mean, what kind of person uses an election as a way to hit on women? Oh wait. I just answered my own question.
It's just, you know, gross. You think it won't happen to you and then it does and you just feel gross and dirty.
I'm above that sort of thing, and I go through life presuming it's obvious I'm not the kind of woman who falls for that sort of thing. Power doesn't turn me on, and politicians most certainly do not turn me on. I've spent my adult life trying to avoid politicians and real estate agents and anyone affiliated with either industry. Dirty. Rotten. Scoundrels.
But wait. There’s more. Because there’s always more.
Curious as to who would hire this guy to stump for him, I took one of his flyers. On the flyer is the name of an alderman running for election and a photo of the alderman running for election.
Guess who.
Yep. Donut guy. Way too swing kissing hand guy. Copping a feel guy. The picking up women at the election polling place guy. “Hey baby” grin and suggestively raised eyebrow guy. That guy is running for alderman.
I did some research before I voted, but he looks different in person than in his online photos. I never would have recognized him in person based on his photos.
Maybe it’s because in most of the photos his wife is beaming brightly by his side and his two kids and dog posing in front of him. Such a devoted family man.
And.
Wait a minute.
Isn't there a rule or an actual law about people running for elections not being allowed within a certain radius of the actual voting area?
I mean, even if all he was doing was dropping off donuts - let's pretend the hand kiss and ass pat hadn't happened - what was he doing hanging around the voting area in the first place?
Then again, any married man running for elected office who hits on female voters probably isn't too concerned with pesky rules or ethics of the voting process.
Buy hey, a guy made a physical pass at me, so, you know, that’s something.
I guess.
Right?
I guess that’s something, I mean, for me that’s a pretty big deal and I should be flattered. I guess. I don’t feel flattered. I feel gross and dirty and disgusted. Because polling places are not singles bars. Polling places are about serious civic duty. They’re not about lecherous politicians feeling up the local constituency.
Of course, dis is Chicago.
Post Script: The term evading me earlier is: Electioneering. The word for the day is: Electioneering. So easy even a child can do it, or at least learn about it, so no excuses. See page 10 of the "Let's Vote" public school voting education guide for grade K-3. While my aldermanic paramour didn't technically electioneer within the voting zone he might want to brush up on the election day basics. (Actually, do kisses on the hand, pats on the arse, or donuts count as electioneering? I'm thinking no to the first two, yes to the donuts. Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Dohhhhhnuuuuuuts) His defense would have to be something like, "I wasn't electioneering in the polling place, I was groping a women at the polling place." I wonder which is worse for a politician's image: Getting caught electioneering in a polling place, or getting caught groping a woman who is not his wife in a polling place. I'm guessing it depends on the constituency. I'm guessing electioneering is to Chicago as philandering is to the Kennedys: Accepted norm.
Monday, February 26, 2007
I’ve been to a marvelous party. Oh lucky me, right?
Wrong.
Same old story: Nice function, loads of people, even eligible bachelors, me and a single female friend.
I put on my happy “I’m nice and easy going and approachable” face and set out to enjoy the evening. If I meet an interesting man, so be it, but statistically I know that’s a long shot so I just enjoy the moments and the event. A couple of men approach me, but, as is always the case, it’s my friend they’re interested in, not me. They’re using me to get to my friend.
She spends the night fighting off men, trying to enjoy the event and have a good time with me, but eventually it becomes obvious the men are not going to leave her alone and heck, she’s single and looking and dolled up and isn’t that really the point anyway? And eventually meets one she likes and the two of them leave for someplace quieter where they can talk.
It’s not enough that I have to go home alone (and pay for the taxi which my friend had promised to pay because I paid for the taxi there, ugly loser girls always know to carry cab fare, though, so I was covered. Still. What if I hadn’t been?) It’s not enough that I had to suffer an evening of being left out and basically on my own at an event where I was the guest of a friend. It’s not enough that every time I went to the ladies room or to the bar a man would start talking to me all nice and friendly and charming and then say, “What’s your friend’s story? Is she available?” It’s not enough that I’m left to watch the purse and the table while my friend dances and goes to another table to meet some guy’s friends. It’s not enough that I’ve suffered a lifetime of this, none of that is enough. There’s one more insult to be hurled to put the nail in the coffin. As I was standing out in the winter storm trying to hail a taxi, my friend and her new love interest were waiting for the valet to bring his car. Did he offer me a ride? Of course not, and I wouldn’t expect him to do that. I would if I were a guy in that situation, but my parents raised me differently that apparently other people are raised. Did he offer to help me get a cab by going a block up the street and hailing one for me? Of course not. Why would he do that? I’m a capable adult, why should he get wet, deal with an icy sidewalk or take five minutes to help me? Just because I’m a woman in heels and an evening dress and a friend of the woman he’s clearly hoping to score with later in the evening doesn’t make him responsible for me safely getting a taxi. Forgetting all those breaches of chivalry, the final insult came as they got into his car. My friend gave me a hug good night and told me to be careful going home. Gee, thanks, okay, I’ll take that advice, what with the ice and me in heels and not a cab to be had on this Godforsaken venue to which she begged me to accompany her, being careful is good advice which never would have occurred to me. As her new man nearly carried her to car, (“oh, be careful darling, it’s very icy, let me help you, those heels are lovely but hard to walk in, how about if I just carry you the few steps to my car?”) I heard him say, “Why do women like that bother to come to these things? It’s a waste of time and can’t be any fun, she’ll never get a cab around here and God knows no one wants to go out with her.”
To be fair, I did hear my friend attempting to protest his remarks but then he shut her into the car without a backward glance at me and off they drove to that quieter place where they can talk.
“Oh Trill, the guy’s a jerk, you don’t want someone like that anyway.”
“Forget it, Trill, it’s no big deal. Your friend’s a slut and the guy’s cad.”
“Why do you keep doing this to yourself, Trill? It always ends the same way.”
Here’s the thing: My friend is not gorgeous. And she’s a horrible conversationalist. The first impression she gives is one of scatterbrained and tired. She’s attractive, but wears a lot of the wrong make-up and desperately needs a haircut and could at times be described as unkempt. She is intelligent but it’s not obvious, and in fact she often comes off as a dull, dimwitted, loud mouthed, sometimes rude bore tinged with a bit of bitchiness.
No, I’m not lashing out at my friend. She has some great qualities, I like her, but only because I was put in a situation which forced me to be with her and get to know her beyond her surface and first impressions. I wasn’t fond of her at first, but as time went by and I was forced to spend time with her, I got to know her a bit and learned sparks of profound intelligence lurk in there. But let me tell you, it took a long time for those sparks to shine bright enough to see.
So, what makes her a man magnet? I mean, seriously, men literally flocked to her and a one point there was even a bit of a fight over her between two would-be suitors. She had her choice of too many to count men, and opted for the best looking and most smooth talking of the bunch.
Most of my other friends, the friends with whom I’ve endured similar evenings watching them get loads of attention from men, have obvious appeal. They’re beautiful. And charming. And witty. And intelligent. And good at flirting without coming off looking desperate or dumb. Heck, how could any man not be attracted to them?
But this woman, this new friend of mine, adds a new spin on the old tale. She’s not especially attractive. She comes off as humorless. And dim-witted. And when she does flirt it comes off pathetic and silly, and worse, she’s completely unaware that she’s making a fool of herself. Not only is she unemployed, she’s been fired from three jobs in the past six years. She’s living off an insurance settlement from her brother’s murder. And she has a habit of correcting people, especially men – their grammar, their manners, their choice of drink. She has a lot of problems and talks about them to complete strangers. And no, she doesn’t even possess that certain kind of vulnerability that some men find so appealing.
Am I jealous? Well, not of her. I wouldn’t want to be her. But I am jealous of the attention she got from all those men. She left with a man who was clearly captivated by her. Or at least clearly wanting something other than conversation from her. Tucked into her purse were several phone numbers and email addresses of other men hoping for a shot with her.
I studied this situation for a few hours hoping I could learn from her. Learning a few tricks or getting some new ideas on how to present myself to the world would make this evening worth my while.
But I’ve been re-evaluating it and I’m coming up with nothing. Well, nothing but more blows to my self esteem, more insults hurled at me and more proof that there really is no one who’s interested in me. There really is no one for me. If men like her they’ll never like me. Because I’m nothing like her. And I’m not gorgeous like my other friends.
So.
Let’s review.
Homeless in a few weeks.
Low income. (by real estate market standards)
Not just alone, but alone to the point of repelling men.
Medical expenses piling up and no end to the doctor visits (or pain) in sight.
No home, no money, no love, and increasing health problems.
What’s the point of life(?) again? Someone please remind me.
11:08 AM
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
What they tell you: You don’t need any money because it’s a zero down payment, low income, low interest loan.
What they mean: You don’t need money for the actual mortgage, but before you can proceed to a mortgage you will need: Earnest money ($500 - $1,000 for a small place), inspector fees, attorney fees and some other fee I can’t recall at the moment.
I didn’t know this. I mean, I sort of knew it but I didn’t really. I mean, not in the bottom line, dollars and cents, I need this amount of cash for these reasons the second I decide to make an offer on a place, prior to even making a final mortgage agreement kind of way.
I’m not completely ignorant and I did the best homework I could, but still I wasn’t prepared to cough up $1,500 just to start the process. I thought I had a week or so to come up with the cash for those fees. But no. I don’t. Didn’t.
So. I lost the one place I thought I could actually afford to buy and might actually grow to like as a first home. I was literally a day late and a dollar short. Someone else had more earnest money and an inspector at the ready and I didn’t. So I lost the place I was considering calling home. It’s a cut throat world out there in the low stakes real estate market. It’s dog eat dog and every low income first time homebuyer for themselves.
My new best friend and real estate agent tells me not to worry. We’ll find me another, better place.
What he means is that I can’t stop trying because my real estate purchase is money in his pocket so I have to keep trying.
My landlord and current apartment management company tell me, daily, that I need to start packing because they want to show the place to prospective buyers and my lease is up March 31 and I’m just “in the way.”
What they mean is that they don’t care that I have a lease through the end of March, they’re going condo and stand to sell the place for a lot more money than my rent so me and my “legal rights” are insignificant.
My cat’s veterinarian tells me the Furry Creature is showing signs of stress and wonders if there’s something going on at home to upset him and reminds me that in his fragile health state I need to be extra sensitive to his needs and try to keep things calm and routine at home so he feels safe and in control.
What she means is that I’m being a bad pet owner and am carelessly forsaking the needs of a very sick animal in his time of need and compassion.
My boss tells me I can’t keep leaving work early (I’ve done this exactly twice in three weeks, and we’re talking an hour early) and that the office and the world doesn’t revolve around me and every crisis I have in my life and if I can’t get my personal life together how can I keep my career together?
What she means is that just because everyone else in the office routinely comes in late, takes long lunches and breaks to go to the gym and then leaves early, I am held to a different standard and if I’m not in the office until 7:00 every night the world as we know it will fall apart because someone else, maybe even her, will have to actually do something or handle a client.
My friends flippantly tell me how easy their real estate transactions were because they had money in the bank and spouses to help maneuver through the process.
What they mean is that I’m a loser single/zero and maybe I should just stay a renter like all the other single/zero losers.
My parents tell me I should quit and move home with them and try to sort out my life because they’re worried about me because I haven’t quite seemed like myself lately.
What they mean is that they are concerned that I am going to shave my head, get tattoos and stop wearing underwear and if those are my choices that’s fine but no daughter of theirs is going to screw up her life any more than she already has because they certainly didn’t raise her to be this incapable of handling basic life needs and they’re sick of me snapping at them every time they suggest finding a cheaper apartment or another job or a different city or better still, a nice young man to marry and take care of all this for me.
11:18 AM
Friday, February 16, 2007 I'm just an animal looking for a home...
Oh. My. Swutting. Deity. I knew there were housing "issues" in Chicago. I knew, that just like the "middle class," affordable housing for low to moderate income employed people was vestige of a bygone era. If you have a lot of money to rent or buy a place to live in Chicago there are many lovely options. There are also many housing options if you are on the lower end of the income scale and willing to share your home with rats and termites and the occasional crime perp/gang member/drug dealer. If you are unemployed or receiving public assistance there are some very nice options. And some pretty crappy choices, too. It's luck of the draw and who you know in the public housing game. It can be the best of times or the worst of times depending on who you know and what deal you're able to make.
And then there are the rest of us. Those of us with jobs which pay us a low or middle income salary. Just enough to keep us ineligible for public housing, but not enough to actually afford rent in a safe, clean apartment in the city.
No surprise at all - there's barely a middle class anymore, so why would there be a need for middle class level housing? The assumption is that if even if you're just squeaking into a middle income salary you will buy a piece of the dream and become a homeowner. Unfortunately the assumption is also that if you somehow manage to qualify for a mortgage on your low to moderate income, there will be housing to buy in your approved budget. The people who make those assumptions have apparently not priced housing in Chicago.
The best of times, the worst of times indeed.
I have been pre-approved for a mortgage. Woo hoo. Yay me. I rock. It's been a long, long, long time and ordeal, but finally, by finding a savvy and sympathetic mortgage broker who went out of her way to find every first time buyer program and every lower income buyer program (more on that in a minute) as well as a couple of "hidden" resources for single women homebuyers, I finally got pre-approved for a mortgage. That's the "good" news.
The bad news is that it's such a pittance of a sum that there are exactly 7 small condos in the city limits from which I can choose. Well, yes, there are a few more than that, but, um, well, not that I have much value for my life, but I really don't want to invest what to me is a lot of money in a place where I know the value will never increase and I will be hearing the sound of gunfire and living on gang turf. Call me a coward. Call me a snob. Call me a white girl. Call me part of the problem. But. No thanks. This is a lot of money to me and I am not going to throw it away on a bad investment, especially when that investment requires me to live in fear. Cripes, I got mugged just looking at an apartment in a "good" neighborhood. I am not stupid enough to risk buying in a known bad neighborhood. My situation is further worsened by the fact that I do not have a car. Public transportation is a factor in my housing situation, or, buying a car is a factor in my already negative budget. So, after eliminating the "bad" zip codes from the search, I am left with 7 choices. I think you can guess what those choices are like. Still in "difficult" neighborhoods. Very small. In need of major renovation.
But hey! There's at least a shred of forward motion in my life, I actually got pre-approved which is more than I've been able to do until now.
If you've never been through the pre-approval process, let me tell you, it's not for the faint of heart. You know credit checks? Multiply a credit check by 1,000 and you've got the pre-approval process. People have told me if you have two incomes or a higher income this process doesn't take as long and isn't as involved. Which is probably why some mortgage companies don't want to deal with single or less than upper middle income people. That's been my mortgage approval experience in the past. Mortgage companies, brokers and banks simply have not wanted to talk to me after I tell them a) I'm single and b) my salary. A few years ago a rep at an allegedly generous mortgage company laughed at me. Literally laughed at me and told me to look into public housing. So I haven't been exactly eager to reinvestigate the possibility of home ownership. My self esteem has suffered enough and I really don't want to go looking for more rejection. But, my soon to be homeless status has made me do the things I think I cannot. Or at leas the things I don't want to do. "Desperation: Getting single women in therapy for generations." Getting approved for a mortgage is a lot like finding a date. You go in with big hopes, a positive attitude and an open mind and you come out disappointed, depressed and disillusioned.
First of all, you have to disclose everything - starting with your salary. My mortgage broker made an audible sigh when she heard my gory salary details, but then she took a determined deep breath and soldiered on. I knew right then if there was ever going to be a mortgage for me, this was the lone person who could help me get it. Instead of just saying no, instead of spending her time on more attractive clients with loads of potential money to exchange, she squared her shoulders and dug out memos and looked up loopholes and program specifications and made phone calls. She took me on and stuck with me, even though we both knew full well the amount of money involved wasn't really "worth" her time. I know I don't earn a lot of money, I know this. But. I thought I earned a "normal" salary.
I do not.
After I disclosed by salary my mortgage broker, who is kind but very matter of fact, has been referring to me as low income. "There are lot's of programs for low income buyers." "You qualify for a low interest such in such because you're low income." "Let me call down to the City office, I heard about a new program for low income women." She isn't trying to insult me, she's trying to help me. But. Um. Wow. That's not only a slap on the face but a straight to the heart dagger of insult. At least it was at first. Now I embrace it. I kind of knew it anyway, and hearing it over and over and over and over and over again has made me not only accept it, but forced me to deal with it. If you think you're not low income, you might want to check into the mortgage income brackets. You might be surprised to learn you, too, are low income. Because lemme tell ya, I know, even as low income as I am, a lot of people earn the same or less. The difference is that many of those people are married and so they have a combined income which just puts them over the "low income" range.
Finally, oh glory be, all the numbers were crunched, all the painful disclosures were made, all the sordid truth about where my money goes*, I got the golden ticket to give to a real estate agent. I got a pre-approval. Unbeswuttinglievable.
It's pretty much been downhill from there, but, the fact remains, I attained that elusive piece of paper.
I am on what seems like a never ending real estate tour of the city. I "interviewed" real estate agents, which, is a topic for another day. A day when I have a little more distance from the subject and a better sense of humor about it. I do not like real estate agents. Never have. Never will. And this experience has done nothing by solidify those feelings. However, after a painful process of elimination and a lot more rejection, many of the real estate agents didn't want to deal with me because my pre-approval amount is so low. They know they're not going to make much money on me, and worse, there's very little they can offer me, so it's a lose-lose situation for everyone and they simply do not want to deal with me. I finally stumbled upon my new best friend and real estate agent. He's not like the others, or, well, at least not quite as much like the others. He has some of the traits, to be sure, and one day he may be just like the others, but right now he's still got traces of a normal, decent personality. That will be beaten out of him, I'm sure, but I'm lucky enough to get in on the ground floor of his real estate career.
My first interview question is, "Have you seen Glengarry, Glen Ross?" Hey. Be quiet. I'm not mean, I'm just experienced. I've met one too many real estate agents to be nice about something as serious as spending a lot of money on real estate. I try to keep a jovial tone when I ask this, but, I most certainly am not joking. Most real estate agents who have seen it or heard about with either exaggeratedly wince in mock pain and say, "Oh, it's nothing like that, really. Really. I mean it, really, it's nothing like that at all. Seriously, believe me, trust me, really, it's nothing like that. I swear, really." Or they'll swallow hard and try to quickly change the subject by dismissing it with, "The Real Estate Association could have sued them for slander, you know." If they haven't seen it or heard enough about it to know they are probably very young, very inexperienced or very good at lying.
My new best friend and real estate agent responded completely differently than any real estate agent I've ever met. He smiled, let out a guffaw, and said, "Of course I've seen it. I love it. It's like a documentary of the office where I first worked. The only thing that kept me sane when I worked there was comparing my colleagues to the different characters in the movie." Okay. That might have been a line. But. It was a good line. Perhaps a very well rehearsed line. Because I know real estate agents get a lot of crap from normal people, and a lot of that crap involves citing Glengarry, Glen Ross as an example of why people hate real estate agents. But. At least, unlike the others I've met, he didn't get defensive and had a good comeback prepared. Or, possibly, he really is different from the others. After a few more questions and some small talk, I decided this was my guy in the field. I told him right up front that if I didn't find a place I deemed "worth it" I wasn't going to buy, because I'm right on the edge of being one of those people who is better of renting. He fully understands that. He isn't counting on my sale to pay for his island vacation or new BMW. He knows he'll be lucky if my sale buys him dinner. And he's still willing to help me. He's still nice to me. He still calls. He always calls when he says he will. He's always upbeat and always helpful. He never sighs, at least in front of me, and he isn't, well, you know, gross. He isn't real estate agent gross. He isn't smarmy or fake or slick and he doesn't wear jewelry or drive an expensive car or chew gum or talk in lingo. He's, you know, normal. I never in a million years in three lifetimes thought I would say this about a real estate agent, but, well, I'd date him. That's how un-real estate agenty he is. And no, I don't have a crush on him. I'm just saying, I refuse to date real estate agents, so much so that they are a written exclusion on 50 First Dates, so as a point of comparison, this guy is so much not like real estate agent that I would date him. If I were in fact interested in him in other capacities and he was interested in me. But I'm not and he doesn't seem to be, so, no. It's nothing more than a point of comparison.
I keep thinking I've either hit on an unprecedented "lucky" streak, first a helpful mortgage broker, now a real estate agent unlike all the other real estate agents, or, this is all just a big wind up for really bad disappointment. You know, like everything else in my life. "Here's a great guy! Love him! He loves you! You're getting married! PSYCH!! No you're not! Sucker!" "Here's a high IQ and perception! Here's a great education! You'll have a great rewarding and lucrative career! PSYCH!! No you won't! Sucker!" "Here's a great mortgage broker! Here's a nice real estate agent! You'll have a nice home you can afford! PSYCH!! No you won't! Sucker!"
And that's actually how it's looking. Because of those 7 condos in my price range in viable neighborhoods, three of them have more than one room and a bathroom. Of those three, only one doesn't require a major investment of time and more money to make it "worth" anything, and by "worth" anything, I mean, habitable.
So renting is seeming like the more viable option for me. Which means homelessness until I have money to move into a place. Sadly, you can't get loans for things like security deposits and moving expenses when you're renting. It's supremely ironic that I can get what seems like a huge amount of money loaned to me to buy a home, but I can't get a dime to help me move into an apartment, a new apartment I need because my current building is going condo. The irony in that triptych conundrum makes my head hurt.
The problem is that rental properties are not unlike real estate for sale: Lots of super fab expensive places, lots of icky scary places, and not a whole lot in the middle. And the few places in the middle are snapped up quickly. Every apartment I've looked at has had other people there looking at it, too. There's this competitive tension, a sort of cat and mouse thing - "is he going to take it? Does he like the pink bathroom?" - which colors the whole process. So far I've found two viable possibilities for June. Which leaves me homeless in April and May.
I have found a nice storage unit, so that's something. And a local re-sale charity shop came to our building last week and left flyers for all us tenants who are being displaced. They'll make weekly pick-ups and have a representative on site to give us receipts for large donated items. Hey, you know, a tax deduction is always helpful, and since it looks like I'll have to get rid of most of my remaining possessions I might as well get a tax deduction. Oh sure, kind of hard to put a price on sentimental items, a little painful to reduce Aunt Betty's crystal to bulk line item on an IRS form, but, it's just stuff, they're just things. Without a home it's kind of pointless to have stuff, much less stuff weighted with emotional attachments. Especially when you're low income. And a single zero. A soon to be homeless single zero.
* My money goes mainly to medical expenses for me and my cat, and if you think mortgage companies don't care about your health, guess again - excessive medical expenses ring warning bells about potentially too ill or terminally ill people who would be "too risky" to set up with a long term mortgage. I am so thankful my savior in this process is a woman because having to explain my recent female health issues to a man who will probably never have a cervical exam or mammogram (let alone three of them in a span of four months) would have added more insult to this process. I told you this was a full disclosure and my recent medical problems very nearly came between me and a pre-approval. 6:54 PM
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Oh boy! It's Valentine's Day! Woo hoo! Isn't that great?! Don't you just love Valentine's Day? It's the best. Really. It's just the best holiday. It's all about love and romance. What could be better than that? Nothing!
Unless of course you are the only single person in your office and you are forced to endure having your nose and ego rubbed in it with each delivery of roses and whatever else people dream up to have delivered to an office. I don't really care about Valentine's Day. It's not a big deal to me. Any tiny romantic tendencies I had were snuffed out by the men I've dated who "refuse to be forced into another commercialization of emotion." Which is another way of saying one or all of the following: Cheap, unromantic, not really into you, stubborn, selfish, thoughtless. Because even though most of us chicks truly, honestly, do not need or care about flowers, candy, cards or fancy restaurants on Valentine's Day, the fact is that some women do care about this stuff on this day, and they find men who oblige them (and yes, some men are really into it, which is sweet as long as they're into it for the right reasons and not the tacky uncomfortable lingerie reasons) Anyway, some people are really into it. Which means offices are thrown back in time to junior high school. Some girls, the popular ones, get loads of showy Valentine's, while others get, well, nothing. And even back then we didn't really care, but, the fact is, then, as now, once in a while it would be nice to have a man make a public gesture showing his affections toward us. It would be nice to have other people know someone cares enough to send the very best or at least a couple of carnations. Kind of like prom, no one really has a good time, and truth be told, no one really wants to go that badly. But. Not going, not having a date, is, well, it is what it is. It hurts. It causes self doubt. Some of us never get Valentine's, never go to prom, don't get to be bride and go through life completely unacknowledged regarding love and romance and some of the girlier things in life.
I've had a couple of memorable Valentine's Days, and that's cool. Whatever. The romances died and the end result is that I'm alone so, a few guys capable of making romantic gestures on cue doesn't really endear me to the spirit of Valentine's Day. Though I openly admit I was a little, well, I don't really know what the feeling is, but I felt something negative year after year when HWNMNBS completely ignored Valentine's Day as if it didn't exist and mocked and ridiculed me for giving him small tokens and gestures of romance on the day. He just didn't get it, or didn't want to get it, or whatever he was. I refused to let it get to me, because really, I didn't care and I don't care. But. Still. The absence of any kind of acknowledgment leaves this weird thing hanging out there. An, "Oh, okay then, just another day, no big deal, I don't mind, really, it's okay, it's a stupid day and you're right, flowers are a waste of money and cards are too manufactured, yep, yep, totally, it's a stupid day, g'night then" kind of thing.
So. Here we are. Us singles, we'll get through this together. Just another day. Think of the money we've saved. Think of the uncomfortable scratchy ugly lingerie we didn't have to endure, think of the bottle of wine we can have all to ourselves, think of the quality time we can spend with our cats. And hey, it's Wednesday, and that means LOST and that means enough eye candy packed into one hour to satisfy any craving and provide fodder for more than a few fantasies.
I was in a waiting room last week, forced to hear music apparently chosen by someone with more problems and more depressed than I am. In worse shape than me, actually, because they also have really bad taste in music. And no, this is not a matter of personal taste and music being subjective. We're talking Lite Adult Contemporary. We're talking Babs, Kenny G., PhilCollinsEltonJohnRandyNewman Disney, Neil Diamond circa 1979, Jewel, Celine Dion (seriously, just typing her name triggers my gag reflex and if she doesn't have this affect on you you might want to see a doctor) and a bunch of other generic pabulum lacking any redeeming musical, lyrical or so bad it's good quality "artists." (It pains me to dignify them with the term artist because it cheapens and takes so much away from actual music artists.)
I sat there thinking, "Well, this is it, the war's over, Simon Cowell has won. Churning out prettily packaged, safe, tried and true crap every week has finally taken a toll on the American public’s musical psyche. The disposable, insert the new Idol here over pre-recorded all-sounds-the-same-because-it-is-the-same background filler music genre has seeped into the subconscious of America like Agent Orange oozing into pores, lurking silently, undetected, and slowly killing. No cure, no hope, not covered by medical insurance plans, so just roll over and get used to it."
Yeah, well, okay, I'm in a bit of a mood. But still. You know what I mean. There's no denying we've got a problem on our hands in the form of a heck of a lot of really, really, boring music being hurled at us. What scares me is that someone's buying this stuff, or at least pirating it and listening to it. If there weren't money to be made it wouldn't be produced and we wouldn't be tortured with it. Someone, someone, a lot of someones like this stuff. Tragic.
Anyway.
I was forced to listen to this maudlin adult contemporary fare for almost an hour while I waited. A hit parade of some of the most morose songs ever recorded. The kicker in this was that I was in a hospital waiting room, a waiting room where people wait for confirmation of bad news, clinging to a last hope that the results will be good, knowing full well statistically it will be bad.
After the second Jewel song it occurred to me that it's not just that these songs are lyrically depressing and musically simple, it's that they don't even tug at an overly melodramatic so-bad-it's-good guilty pleasure tear.
Seasons in the Sun, Shannon, Honey, Don't Walk Away Renée, you know, songs we love to hate, someone's dead or dying, forgiveness and letting go are all that matter now kinds of songs.
And of course the unrequited love self indulgent just give me a bullet to the head dittes like All By Myself (the Eric Carmen version), Alone Again, Naturally, Can We Still Be Friends, Mandy (oh Mandy, you came and you gave without taking).
Notice a pattern here? All the really, truly morose good ones are from the mid-'70s. My theory? Not on the Dark Side of the Moon, not yet on The Wall. While I'm not blaming Pink Floyd for the maudlin pop crap of the mid-'70s, history does clearly indicate a trend sandwiched between the release of those albums. Pop music was confused and floundering in Pink Floyd's late adolescence like Britney Spears dating Justin Timberlake.
I could not wait to get home and cleanse my aural nerves with some really depressing stuff. After all, it is Valentine's Day, and for me that's all about depression and loneliness so what better way to get into the spirit than by putting on a few timeless holiday classics?
And I’m not talking about the obvious and easy quick fixes. There are plenty of choices if you just need a super quick and easy fix, obvious choices, Nick Cave, Staind, His Infernal Majesty, Johnny Cash...of course any Cure song will instantly blend in with any lonely Valentine environment. Even comparitively perky Friday I’m in Love has strong “something’s not quite right with Bobby” overtones. The Cure is to Valentine's Day as roses are to uninspired men. An easy, available and obvious quick fix to problem. Ditto any Evanescence song. Or.Well.At least any Evanescence song I’ve heard, and to be fair I haven’t heard all of them. I don’t have the emotional fortitude to attempt that. But somehow I doubt there are any happy-go-lucky tunes lurking in the catalog. The Smiths can provide a few good cathartic moments, but Morrissey’s omnipresent wordplay takes some of the edge off some of the obvious choices and forces a knowing smile to crack even the most jaded single. Opt for Unloveable, How Soon is Now? or I Know It’s Over where young Steven’s despair is deep and the sneer is still cynical. Lyrics like, “Mother I can feel the soil falling over my head...and if I climb into an empty bed, oh well, enough said...” is a sure fire trip to despair. (if you prefer Sardonic Sneer Morrissey opt for solo works like Trouble Loves Me or Satan Rejected My Soul (you can’t miss with lyrics like “Satan rejected my soul/As low as he goes/He never quite goes this low” Yep, that’s ol’ Moz in full sardonically sneering regalia.)
What I’m talking about are post-mid -’70s-buzzkill-classics songs by bands who do not necessarily specialize in buzzkill which will provide a symbiotic soundtrack for those of us just trying to find solace in the saddest, loneliest season. A sympathetic place to escape the forced romance of the holiday which, rather than feeling all hopeful makes us feel a bazillion times worse. These are songs by people, probably a bit like “us” who are normally fairly well adjusted but and emotionally stable, but have moments, days, of despair and loneliness. They haven’t built careers around being morose or self indulgent poets, but give into once in a while, because, well, that’s life. Most of us don’t rebound out of a break-up like Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson, or Brad Pitt, for that matter, though, I mean, rebounding into the arms of Angelina Jolie probably takes off the edge off the sting of depression. Most of us feel like absolute crap, crap’s crap, in fact, and dealing with something like Valentine's Day is tough.
Want to share in the depression of the season?! Read on and get that downloading software revved up and ready!
Every Day is Like Sunday, Chrissie Hynde cover. Morrissey lyrics, Chrissie’s sad breathy voice nearly breaking into tears in a few places, begging for armegeddon, I mean, this is just a Holiday Hellers classic. Morrissey’s version is good, but for full bloody Valentine effect go for Chrissie. I mean, you know, when in doubt, always go with Chrissie. While you’re digging for her Everyday is like Sunday, also try to find her cover of Radiohead’s Creep “What the Hell am I doing here?” has never been sung with more honesty, confusion and pain than Chrissie gives in this cover. We are not worthy, but we are nonetheless blessed to live in the time of Chrissie.
Monday Morning Pulp I like Pulp. Mostly. Some Pulp more than others. But generally I like Pulp. I wasn't a big fan at first, I had to warm up to them. I blame Disco 2000. Fortunately Disco 2000 hasn't been around much since, well, December 31, 1999. So I've been free to enjoy the other (and better) songs with reckless abandon. I like how Jarvis Cocker's cynicism and sarcasm are whipped at us, the listeners, through an audible sardonic sneer often cloaked as a smarmy lounge act. This is a love child borne of Morrissey and Wayne Newton. You have to get it to get it, it takes a little work sometimes, but once you get it, you get it good. Different Class offers some great disaffected social commentary delivered via fake pop “sensibility” which is in fact insensible and therefore supremely ironic. A la Wayne Newton's evil and cleverer clone. But Monday Morning never fails to fill me with despair and despondency for not only my future, but the future of the entire human race. By the end of this faux perky number I’m so full of despondency that I do as he suggests and go to bed because there’s no real point to, well, anything when you spend most of your life struggling through the work week and spending your free time alone trying to make the best of being alone but ultimately going home alone and wishing you weren’t alone and arguing with yourself about the point of any of it.
There's nothing to do so you just stay in bed, (Open with despair and depression, off to a rollicking festive start) oh poor thing, why live in the world when you can live in your head? (Insanity in the third line, way to go, Jarvis)
When you can go out late from Monday, till Saturday turns into Sunday, and now you're back here at Monday, so we can do it all over again. And you go aah ah ah I want a refund, I want a light, I want a reason, to make it through the night, alright.
And so you finally left school, so now what are you going to do? Now you're so grown up, yeah you're oh oh oh oh oh so mature oh. Going out late from Monday, chuck up in the street on Sunday, you don't want to live till Monday, and have to do it all again. and you go aah ah ah I want a refund, I want a light, I want a reason for all this night after night after night after night. Oh I know that it's stupid but, I just can't seem to spend a night at home, cos my friends left town, and I'm here all alone ow.
Oh yeah they say the past must die for the future to be born, in that case die little mother, die - ooh. Stomach in, chest out, on your marks, get set, go. Now, now that you're free, what are you going to be? And who are you going to see? And where, where will you go? And how will you know, You didn't get it all wrong? Is this the light of a new day dawning? A future bright that you can walk in? No it's just another Monday morning. Do it all over again, oh baby. La la la la la la Do do do do do do
Superstar Sonic Youth Cover of the Carpenters’ depressing mega hit whine about a woman being stupid enough to believe it when he said he loved her and clinging to the false hope he’ll come back to her. It has to be the Sonic Youth version, though. The Carpenter’s version is too Carpentersy to achieve full holiday depressoin climax. No matter what the song I always expect Karen to burst into “I’m on the top of the world, looking down on creation...” This problem is eliminated altogether withThurston Moore’s breathy borderline psychokiller treatment. I always get the feeling he’s singing this song in preparation for a night of stalking an innocent victim. Or o-d-ing on sleeping pills and Drain-o. I listened to this song a few after The Break-up. I nearly killed myself. Twice. Yes, it made me feel bad and I still went back for more. Then I decided in order to save myself I had to ban this from my apartment. I can listen to it now and quite enjoy wallowing in the pain, feeling proud of myself for making it to the end alive. But if you’re facing the holiday fresh from a painful break-up or harboring a crush on a musician people tell you (in their overly gentle trying to be tactful voice) is a little fanatic, you should avoid listening to this.
Um. We all know the lyrics, right? So I won’t dissect the creepy/sad/pathetic/weird/lonely/despondent lines. If it’s been a while since you’ve heard this (or if you’ve never heard it) it’s totally worth a listen, even if you’re not looking for Valentine's Buzzkill.
I think we can sum it up thusly: don't you remember you told me you love me baby (No.S/He doesn’t remember. Because s/he tells this to all the people s/he has sex with while on tour. Like every other musician who ever took the act on the road. Duh.) you said you'd be coming back this way again baby (Well, yeah, technically not a lie, s/he’ll be back, and s/he might even call, a booty call, that is.) baby baby baby baby oh baby (this is just classic, the best “oh baby” treatment ever recorded. For my money it tops even any Robert Plant oooo baby, even the Whole Lotta Love oooo babies.) I love you, I really do (And you think I’ve got unrequited love issues?! There have been some bad days, worse nights and a heck of a lot of tears and despair, but I’ve never been stupid enough to not know a one night stand when I see it, and only once did I allow myself to trust and believe obvious lies. This is part of the beauty of the song. You can listen to it, feel the pain and if you manage to make it to the end without killing yourself you can walk away smugly superior that a) You survived Superstar and b) You’re in a bad way, but you’re not that bad. Bonus deeper cuts idea: If you can unearth it, there’s a Joe Cocker version recorded several years prior to the Carpenters’ version, and it’s, um, interesting. Soulful, better than the Carpenters’ version, but lacking the creepiness of the Sonic Youth version. I avoid the Bette Midler version at all cost.)
Porcelain, Moby. I have a love/hate relationship with Moby. I generally respect him for at the very least daring to push a boundary or two once every 10 years. The guy’s got talent. Sometimes misappropriated talent, but he can compose a mean bit of (albeit synthesized) orchestration when he puts his mind to it. I've seen him live a few times (free shows, which indicates my level of interest: I'll see him if it's free, but I won't pay actual money to see him) I like his attitude about "selling out" to advertising. He’s got a good handle on marketing and marketing himself. He seems like a pretty okay guy. The Real Slim Shady disses him and that makes me like him even more. So. Yeah. But the hate part of the relationship. Well, it's songs like Porcelain which make me hate him. A lot. Pompous, self indulgent (often self-righteous) guilt cliché cloaked as deep yet humble poetry lyrics over dirge-like electronica. Makes me scream, "Ohfercryingoutloud, dude, no one is that fey, not even Sting, and especially not even you you by the fourth line. Not so much a bullet to the head ditty as a slow, dull serrated knife to the wrist. I love the irony that this one song, this anthem to immature, cliché spewing jerkface lying, cheating men everywhere was churned out by Moby, the guy who's supposed to be to sensitive and enlightened. But during this season of good sneer, it's an all time classic.) In my dreams I'm dying all the time (Death right there in the opening line, way to go, Moby, rock on, somewhere in a cold damp dark room in England Robert Smith is hating himself and having a good pout because there was never a Cure song with death, dying all the time, no less, right in the first line.) As I wake its kaleidoscopic mind (Here he’s trying to be all metaphoric and visual. Oooo, ahhhhh, we’re all so impressed.) I never meant to hurt you I never meant to lie ("I never meant to lie." Huh? If you're lying, you know you're lying. It takes conscious effort to lie. It's impossible to unintentionally lie. read: "It's not you, it's me." And since you know you’re lying, you know it’s going to hurt this person, clearly you meant to hurt them. Otherwise you never would have lied in the first place. This is one of my all time most hated lines used by a lying/cheating partner. By virtue of it's impossibility you're lying about lying which makes the lies worse. Liar, liar pants on fire. You've taken me for a ride, don't further insult me by taking me for an idiot. What are you supposed to think or say when someone says, "I never meant to lie." "Oh, of course not dear, of course you didn't mean to lie, it's not you, it's me, I pushed you to it, it's all my fault?" Pfft. This is pissing me off already and I'm only four lines into it. It's the hap-happiest time of the year.) So this is goodbye (Kinda harsh coming from a guy who claims to have never meant to hurt this person, never meant to lie to them. read: "It's not me, it's you, and it's you in a big way. This is definitely good-bye. We can't be friends because I don't want to be friends. I never, ever want to see you again.) This is goodbye (Once again for reinforcement, looking deeply in eyes, "This is good-bye. Really. This is good-bye. I've got a box of your stuff out in the car. This is good-bye.") Tell the truth you never wanted me (Seriously, Moby, this line always surprises me coming from you. Two serious offenses in one sentence. “Tell the truth,” ugh. Well. We’ve established he’s a liar and he lies about lying, so nice of him to inform us when he’s being honest. Nice to have a little warning, a disclaimer, “Assume I’m lying all the time unless I begin a sentence with “to tell the truth” or “honestly.” Urgggggggggggh that bothers me in a big way. The presumption I make is that people who say, “to tell the truth” or “honestly” go around lying all the time. Big pet peeve. And then, then he stoops to an all time human low and insinuates he knows what another person wants. Telepathic are we now, Moby? How dare you stoop to telling anyone what they wanted? How dare you? You're supposed to be all enlightened and really sensitive and yet you put this line in a song? Dude, no wonder you're always writing break-up songs, somehow you manage to get laid but with lines like this no one's going to stick around very long, and no, we can't still be friends. ) Tell me In my dreams I'm jealous all the time (Ah, okay, so this is either projecting guilt with a passive aggressive dig. "I wouldn't feel jealous if you didn't give me a reason to feel jealous" or you're doing the whole, "I know they're going to break up with me so I'm going to manufacture a reason for a break up with them first ploy." Either way, ick.) As I wake I'm going out of my mind (Insanity. And there you have it, the guilty pleasure maudlin song trifecta. Death, deception and insanity. Nice work, Moby, happy Valentine's Day.) Going out of my mind
If you can't bear to put yourself through that kind of torture, here are some "lighter" numbers I find to be helpful around February 14. Queen, Somebody to Love. There's a lot of potential catharsis in singing along with Freddie on this one. Chris Isaak is always good for lending a ditty to the lonely, I like Heart Shaped World and Lonely with a Broken Heart. Detroit Cobras, sweet, swwet, gutsy, fabulous Rachel and Cry On will resonate with anyone who's got a hole in their heart. An oldie but goodie that always gets me is The Left Banke's Walk Away Renee. This is my vote for the saddest song ever. And if you're feeling like you need a little empowerment, a little boost to the determination sector, try Beck's Go it Alone.
Okay. Right. So. Another year, another Valentine's Day X-ed off the calendar.
For those of you who do have special someone, here are a few evening soundtrack possibilities which should get things moving along nicely. If you've been having a rough patch in your relationship and are hoping to use Valentine's Day as a way to reignite the spark, I suggest starting with the Detroit Cobras' Let's Forget about the Past. Sing it, Rachel, sing it. From there, or, if there are no past issues, start with Reigning Sounds Pretty Girl. This will help establish exactly where things stand. Guys, if you play this and the girl doesn't go all gooey eyed, you can still save face - it's uptempo enough and not obvious enough that it will look like you were trying to set some sort of player soundstage. If she does go gooey eyed, it's the all clear to proceed with the hard stuff. Move along to Roxy Music's Take a Chance with Me. This is a better option than the ever popular More than This. Good song, too overdone. Go with a deeper cut and a) impress your intended with your musical depth, and b) avoid looking like a cliché player wannabe. From here, move to Shugie Otis' Strawberry Letter 23. Just trust me on this. The Brother's Johnston version will do, but Shugie will take into a whole new playing field and will cement your cred as someone who knows their way around a music store and around the magical seductive power of music. Move into John Lennon's #9 Dream Okay, okay, we all know how I feel about that band. But. I've recently rediscovered this and have come to the conclusion that this is a great song, especially if you haven't heard it for a while and there's no denying the woozy sexiness to it. Okay. Now. This next suggestion is a little more advanced. You should be over the age of 27 and have established some sure fire moves and have a supply of "provisions," including contingency "provisions" ready, because in the right hands, this song is like a lethal weapon. Entire countries could be reduced to bleary eyed piles of mush with this. Bob Welch, Hypnotized. You're welcome. Hey. Just because I don't have a romantic life doesn't mean I would selfishly hoard this knowledge. I'm lonely, not mean and bitter.
Monday, February 12, 2007
It’s raining, it’s pouring...
From the, you have to laugh or you’d kill yourself department...
I was mugged while apartment hunting.
I’m okay, sort of, due to huge bruise and cuts on my knee I look like Nancy Kerrigan after the Tonya Harding attack, and another blow to my diminishing faith in humanity, but okay.
She, yes, she didn’t get anything other than my license, $7, a lipstick, a pen and a few scraps of paper with phone numbers and addresses of potential apartments.
The details of the whole thing are so stupid it’s not worth the effort to discuss. It was 1:00 on a Sunday afternoon in a busy and “nice” part of town. Well. I know it’s not as nice as the real estate and retail establishment in the area would like everyone to believe. I know it’s not as “nice” as it appears because I used to live there.
Yes. Yes. Okay? Yes. I was considering moving back to the old ‘hood. I’m desperate and there was a moderately priced apartment available.
I don’t believe in signs from the Universe. I don’t believe in luck, good or bad. But. Even I cannot deny the loud and clear message in this. I moved out of the neighborhood because I was attacked, beaten and mugged. Two years later I’m forced to move so I go back to the old ‘hood to look at an apartment and I got mugged. Okay, Universe, okay, I hear you, loud and clear. Don’t move back there.
What really surprised me about this one (cracks me up the way I say that so casually, “this one” as opposed to all the other ones) is that there was a woman involved. Someone tripped me from behind as I exited a store. I fell. A woman who was talking on her cell phone saw me fall and came over to “help” me as I tried to stand up and figure out what the heck happened, and who tripped me. “I saw him! I saw him!” She yelled as the (apparent) attacker ran away. “Are you okay?” she asked as she came toward me.
Before I could answer, and as I was just getting back on my feet, she shoved her gloved hand in my face, grabbed my bag and ran.
Now, I’m not saying I don’t think women are capable of crime, violent crime or thievery. However, the fact that a woman would stoop so low as to employ the sisterhood “are you okay?” and then use it for bad purposes really, really bothers me. Us chicks understand how sacred our purses are. Most of us look out for each other’s purses, even if we don’t know each other. It’s just a thing we do, imprinted in our DNA is the sacred bond of the purse. Any woman, even a friend or sister, will steal, I mean “borrow” your boyfriend, your new top, your best shoes...but very few women would break the trust and bond of the purse.
What I find interesting is that out of all the other women coming in and out of that store and walking around that neighborhood, I was probably the most lowbrow in terms of value of my purse and looking like I might have a lot of money and high limit credit cards in that purse. I was also among the tallest and surely had the most, “don’t mess with me” attitude. Even the cops who appeared in seconds said I certainly wasn’t asking for it. One motioned to a woman dressed very expensively, wearing an iPod walking along with a cell phone in one hand and barely clutching her designer purse between two shopping bags in the other. “She’s asking for it,” the cop said. And I agree. And I don’t trounce around like that because I am street smart. But apparently not street smart enough to avoid this altogether.
Fortunately, street smart enough to not carry credit cards, checks or more than a few dollars in cash in my purse - my purse I paid all of $6 for three years ago. Smart enough to carry my keys, cell phone and transit pass in zipped coat pockets. Smart enough to get every detail about this woman’s appearance. But not smart enough to avoid the whole thing altogether.
The cops said this couple has been doing this all over the neighborhood for a few months. They strike on weekends during prime shopping times, mid-afternoon.
As he was explaining this to me, my phone rang. It was the landlord of the apartment I was on my way to view before I was so rudely interrupted.
I said, “Sorry, I’m running late, I got mugged on my way there...”
The guy didn’t skip a beat, just very matter of factly said, “You still wanna see the place?”
No, “Gosh, I’m sorry.” No, “Really? That’s horrible!” No, “OMG, where were you?” No, “Are you okay?” None of that from this obviously neighborhood wise landlord. Just, “you still wanna see the place?”
No. I told him no.
I don’t believe in signs or fate or any of that. But. The “great” neighborhood is still having the same problems it’s had for since before I moved from there. Gentrification makes everyone who isn’t a thug, drug dealer or prostitute a target of crime perpetrated by thugs, drug addicts and pimps.
So, bruised, battered, $7 poorer and one police report richer, my quest for a home I can afford continues.
1:51 PM
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Well, this is a new page in the downward spiral of my life: I am officially homeless as of April 1.
My building going condo has consumed much of my life and mail for the past few weeks. Almost every day there's a notice or addendum sent by my building management, the leasing office or the management company. Most of these notices and addendums involve fees and additional rent increases for those of us who are contemplating opting to stay another year while the building transitions to condo. Along with the already insanely high rent increase, there are to be additional monthly fees to those of us who cannot or don't want to buy a condo in the building. Us low life renters are being price gouged out of our homes and displaced onto the streets. There's an elderly woman who lives down the hall from me. She can't afford to stay and certainly has no interest in buying a condo. It's like -1258 degrees in Chicago right now. Not exactly the sort of weather elderly people should be out enduring. But, she, like the rest of us, has to find a new place to live. Now. So, out she goes in the cold and ice to find a home.
Because our building's going condo.
But hey, our benevolent management company is telling us this before we renew our leases for another year so we know what we're getting into by signing for another year. They're so nice. So considerate. The building manager reminded me that I do have a choice, I don't have to stay, they told me the building is going condo, they gave us all plenty of warning and time to make arrangements, they're keeping us informed of all the updates and fees and increases, they're being very "fair."
Yes. Yes. Of course they are.
So.
I have until March 31 to find a place to live. And pay the affiliated moving expenses.
I have no idea how I’m going to do this.
It’s February 8. I have 51 days to find a place to live and come up with the money to move and pay the deposits etc. involved with moving. That’s four paychecks. Four paychecks which are already spent on rent for my compartment until the 31st and the rest of my growing medical expenses.
So, I’m looking at storage units to stash the few possessions I feel I can afford to hang onto and surveying friends about the feasibility of the Furry Creature and I roosting on a couch or in a spare bedroom.
Homeless. Wow. I didn’t see that one coming.
10:23 AM
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Men. Weird. The saga continues… More weirdness...last night I got an email from a man who apparently (I hope) lives 6,000 miles away from me. He's also considerably younger. My profile clearly states I do not want a man that young or that far away from me. And yet he wrote me starting out with, I know I'm not what you're looking for (so why then, are you taking up space in my in box? I always wonder when men do this) but I am sure if you give me a chance we can overcome the distance and age barriers. (ah, that's why: ego) He went on to tell me how successful he is, how much money he has, where he's traveled, how many and what kinds of cars/motorcycles/jetskis he owns (yes, he's apparently quite accomplished for such young years) and that because of these things I should put aside my age and distance parameters and consider him the object of my affections.
Why I didn't just hit delete I do not know. I usually just delete these emails without a second thought. But this time I was apparently feeling more patient and congenial about this issue so I wrote a polite, short, "Thanks but no thanks" response. And this morning I was greeted with two lenghty emails berating me, calling me a "typical selfish stupid ugly American bitch" and telling me I should have died in 9/11.
Okaaaaaaay. Gosh, buddy, rejection hurts, I know, it's really painful, but you knew it was a very, very long shot that I'd be even remotely interested in you and I was decent and polite enough to tell you I wasn't interested instead of doing what any other woman would do: Ignore you. I don't think that calls for a death wish. You apparently didn't think I was an ugly selfish American bitch when you saw and read my profile and were moved to writing me...
I continued to read the emails because I was contemplating forwarding them to the site administrator as abuse. Get this: After the scathing criticism of me and all Americans (mind you, he approached me knowing full well I live in Chicago and didn't seem to have a problem with Americans when he sent that first email) after long, long winded criticism and judgment filled taunts clearly fueled by immaturity and rejection, he had the stupidity or nerve to make yet another play for my affections.
His closing statement was, I am certain we can reach an understanding. We should talk and then you can see what a great catch I am and how much you need me in your life. One night with me will melt away all your uptight tensions.
I'm not kidding. The man called me ugly, told me I should have died in 9/11 and then propositioned me. What was he thinking? Did he honestly think I'd respond with, "Ooooooh, baby, death wish talk and insults really turn me on...?"
I forwarded the emails to the site administrator as abuse. I received this response, "We suggest you block this member from further contacting you. However because his emails do not specifically make a threat to you we will not be terminating his account."
So I terminated mine. Any site which allows behavior like this to continue, allows men "like him" to subscribe after they've been reported as being threatening, volatile and violent, is not a site on which I want to mingle. I don't go to scary biker bars to mingle and meet men, so why would I go to a dating site where men "like him" are allowed to hurl that sort of crap at women?
See what I mean? One bad apple can ruin the whole orchard, or even the entire type of fruit. What was I saying about bananas?
Okay guys, maybe some of you read the case studies and think, “whoa, I’m not like that, I’d never do that, those guys are weird. Trill’s meeting some bad ones. There are plenty of us who aren’t that way. Sure, I like sex, but I want a real relationship, too. And I don’t make a habit of trying to pick up women by insulting them or puking on them. That is weird and I’m not that way and neither are my friends. Well. Most of them.”
And I fully agree. And those of you who want a relationship have probably taken the time and made the efforts to find a real relationship. And are in one with a very appreciative woman. Yay you.
Or maybe, like me, you just can’t find the right woman, the one with that special “chemistry” and all the other attributes on your checklist.
There are a lot of lonely people. There are a lot of people who are alone, not necessarily lonely, but, alone and not by choice.
Life can really suck and nothing epitomizes and emphasizes that more than being single for long stretches of time. You make a full life for yourself, work hard at your career, spend time with family and friends, volunteer, pursue interests and hobbies, take classes, and don’t sit around dwelling on your singleness. Except, well, when you go home, alone, to an empty place, an empty living room, and an empty bed. Then your singleness forces itself on you, makes you notice it. And yes, sometimes, usually between midnight and 3 AM, your singleness makes you dwell on this “situation” and what you can do to change it. And that causes you to review and evaluate people you’ve met, dated, wanted to date, or the type of person you’d like to meet and date. And you think: “What I’m looking for in a date and relationship isn’t so wacky, I’m not demanding or too picky or even weird. How can it be possible that I can’t meet someone who likes me and is looking for the same things? I’m not terribly unique or special, there must be millions of people who would like me and I would like in return. How can I be single, alone and unable to meet just one of these people?”
Or. Well. Maybe I am the only one whose thoughts go along those lines at 1:30 AM.
But I kind of doubt it.
The proliferation of dating sites and the money being made in the dating industry (including: websites, books, talk shows, singles bars, movies and therapists) indicates there are a lot of lonely people trying to find just one person to share their life, share laughs and have shoulders to cry on, not necessarily Hallmark quality romance, just a good, solid, caring, respectful, trusting relationship with someone.
I often think, “There’s something really wrong with me,” or, “I must be more particular than I think I am,” or, “Maybe I’ve been dealt a hand of solitaire instead of Hearts and I should just assume my game is Solitaire.”
I’m guessing it’s a combination of all three. I never used to try to “figure it out.” I just thought, “hey, when the timing’s right, I’ll meet someone, the right sort of person for me.” And then, without much effort or thought, I met a couple good guys and even almost married one of them.
And then: Nothing. Zip. Nadda. And, you know, no big deal, I needed time to mourn, time to heal, time to get my head around what the heck happened and how I would recover from it, time to learn how to function without the man I trusted to always be there for me. I worked hard on all that. It was/is a process, not an event. But still, I’m alone. Still nothing, zip, nadda.
I have a friend who got divorced last year. The last few years of their marriage were quite difficult. The divorce was unpleasant. But necessary. She said she took a lot of comfort in knowing that I was there for her and she wasn’t alone and that we could be single together. She didn’t want to date or even think about men. You think I’m jaded, cynical, pessimistic and at times morbid regarding love? Lemme tell ya, I was swutting Mary Sunshine compared to this woman. She just wanted time to mourn the death of her marriage and heal some of the wounds. No one understands that better than me, so, you know, I’m here for you pal. And I admit, there was a selfish appeal to that idea. If the marriage had to fail, then, after accepting and dealing with that, the upside is that I would have a single friend with whom I could pal around. We went out exactly twice in four weeks. The second time we went out she met a guy. He just walked right up to us and started talking to her. Just like that. They spent about an hour talking. He asked her out on a date. She accepted. They started dating. She never had time for me because of her new guy, yadda yadda yadda they’re getting married. Huh? What? That was a heck of a mourning and healing process. And no, I don’t think it’s a rebound thing or a desperation thing. They really like and love each other. They have a lot of fun together and seem to have the sort of relationship most of us would hold up as, well, good.
I’m really, really happy for her, of course I am. I haven’t seen her this happy, this content, this confident and enthusiastic in, well, ever. And that’s a really, really good thing.
But here’s the question: Why her and not me? She’s pretty, yes, side by side she’s absolutely way more attractive than I am. Okay, sure, there’s that. We’ve covered that territory. Looks do matter. A lot. And in this side by side comparison of course that is the difference between us. But. Still. Assuming there are millions of us single people “out there” sooner or later someone, anyone, is bound to find me, well, not attractive, but at least not repulsive, and interesting and nice enough to not only talk to me but also ask me out, and then ask me out again, and again and form a relationship. Yes?
No.
Apparently not.
And apparently a lot of other people are like me in this respect. The dating industry would not be a mega million dollar cash cow if everyone except me were happily coupled up.
But that mega million dollar industry isn’t working. At least not for those of us trying to meet someone. Which makes it work great for the industry, the more of us there are, and the longer we’re single, the more profit they make from us.
Dating sites can work. I’ve seen it happen right before my eyes. I personally, in real life, know people who met their spouses/affianced via an online dating site. I’ve had loads of email from people encouraging me to keep at it because it worked for them. These are normal, well adjusted people who have friends and family and jobs and activities which do not involve a computer. They wrote good profiles, targeted their searches to people well suited to them, didn’t offend anyone, didn’t accept offers from people who were clearly not “right” for them and voila! they found their “perfect match.”
And then there’s me. And all the others like me. The rest of us. We do exactly what they do, we keep a positive and optimistic attitude, we get loads of winks and emails from loads of people, some of them even “normal” people, but nothing develops. Except a headache and more insecurities about ourselves because the overwhelming majority of people who contact us fall into the “weird” or “creepy” or “out on parole in a few months” categories. The people we’re interested in are not interested in us.
I saw that dilemma and vowed I would change my “standards.” I thought maybe I was aiming too high. Maybe the men I was interested in would never be interested in me so I needed to develop interests in different types of men. Which, for me, was a little difficult because in all honesty I’ve never been that picky. If a guy is within a few years of my age, expresses an interest in something other than sex, is able to communicate via written and spoken word, isn’t selling real estate (or a pyramid scheme) and lives within 40 miles of me, I’m game for meeting him. But still, something wasn’t working, so, I soldiered on and vowed to go out with anyone who asked. Well. You know, within reason. I’m lonely but I’m not stupid. Or gullible. I want a relationship, but not so much that I’ll accept a bad relationship. I’m not that desperate.
But maybe I should be. Maybe desperation is the key. My divorced and now engaged friend wasn’t “desperate” for a man or relationship. Yet. There was an air of desperation about her. She’d been through a bad couple of years. She was defiantly, head held high, presenting herself to the world as someone “not looking.” But in spite of that there was a vulnerability to her. She’d been worn down to raw nerves during the demise of her marriage. It showed in her cynicism and “bitchy” attitude. But there was also a pleading to be understood. She’d been misunderstood for a long time. She was desperate for validation in a lot of aspects. She was lacking confidence. This was not a cognitive realization on her part, but, you know, it’s just, well, true. And then a guy walks into a bar, yadda yadda yadda, she’s getting married to a great guy.
Most of us single people staunchly deny that we’re desperate. We deny it because we honestly do not think we are desperate. Desperate sounds so negative, so, desperate. We’re intelligent, professional, well-adjusted, normal, nice, confident people. We’re not desperate.
Or are we?
Why would I, me, resort not only to online dating, but vow to go out with any viable man who asks me? I’m a well educated, intelligent, creative, professional, charming in my own special way, kind, considerate, giving, thoughtful, polite, well traveled woman with a very full, active, rich life. I live in a major urban area where statistically there are plenty of similar single people. Why on earth would I need to even consider online dating or self-help books or drugs to help me sleep because the loneliness catches up with me at night and makes it impossible for me to sleep?
Well, for starters I don’t come wrapped in an attractive package.
Still, plenty of unattractive people find partners. And heck, once you get past the ugly exterior the rest is pretty darned, well, you know, decent. For the moment let’s put that issue to the side.
Given the above factors there is simply no rational reason as to why I am single. Men claim they want exactly the factors and traits I posses. And yet: Nothing. Zip. Nadda.
And it’s not just me. A lot of women, many of them very attractive, too, are in my exact situation.
Why? There are simply more women than there are men.
So the strong message, by sheer statistics, that men get is: "Women are at a statistical disadvantage. Go ahead, be weird, be a jerk, be shallow, callous, rude, and picky. There are way more of them than there are of you so the odds are stacked strongly in your favor." Many men know these stats and use them. They feel that if a woman wants to date a man she’s going to have to accept his weirdness. If she doesn’t, there’s another woman (lots of women, actually) who’s just a little more lonely and eager to accept the weirdness. Basically, the message “out there” is that eventually women will get worn down and desperate enough to tolerate less than admirable behavior. And so: The weirdness continues, thrives and grows.
There are simply not enough men to go around for every woman to have one. (I’m of course excluding the factor of the non-heterosexual male and female population, that’s a whole other bunch of statistics aiding and abetting the dating and loneliness issues. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it is a factor in the dating game.)
So yes, by virtue of population statistics, women, as a gender, are desperate.
And my theory is that this is contributing to the weird behavior in men.
“Don’t like me puking on you, insulting you, groping you, arguing with you or treating you badly? Fine. No big deal to me. I have statistics on my side, I’ll find a woman who will tolerate me just the way I am and you will be alone. Don’t you watch Dr. Phil or Maury? Loads of women are perfectly willing to put up with complete crap and weirdness for the sake of having a man. Deal with it or die alone.”
The sad fact is that extreme attitude is not an exaggeration or the cynical ranting of a jaded spinster. It’s true. Stats don’t lie. Many of us women are simply not going to have men. Period. Evolution, baby.
What I find sad and disturbing is that the women who are getting left behind in the process of evolution are the intelligent, creative, professional, well-adjusted women, the very women we, as a species, should want in the gene pool to pave the way down the path of forward evolution.
If you’re one of a handful of people who saw Idiocracy you know what I mean.
Why would men, with statistics on their side, willingly choose women who do not posses the qualities needed for advancement of the species? That’s a conundrum I find supremely interesting.
Over and over, men choose the comely but IQ challenged Daphnes over the less attractive but supremely more capable Velmas. Sure, biology propels men to spread their seed, and their seeds are not exactly working in concert with their brains so they go for the first women they see, and those are the attractive women. The women who stand out in sea of women.
But why don’t their brains play a factor in this? Why aren’t men more selective in terms of qualities beyond physical appearance? Why don't they react the same way to a woman solving a difficult brain challenging problem as they do to a Playboy centerfold? It can’t be good for evolution to design one gender of a species to be so heavily reliant on physical beauty of the opposite gender. Men say they want intelligent women, and I think most of them truly do. But, heh heh, as I so often hear, “hey, there has to be physical attraction, too.” As long as that brain is packed behind a pretty face and smokin’ body, then yes, intelligence is sexy. But IQ alone won’t get a girl a man.
After being likened to an Autistic person, I decided to get to the bottom of this. I asked everyone, people I know, people I don’t know, lots of people, if they thought it was possible for me to find a man or if I should just throw in the towel and get used to the idea that I am not one of the women who will be getting a man. For the most part my friends rallied to my side and said the entire male population is crazy and weird if they aren’t beating my door down to date me. Yeah, well, I have some really good friends. And many of them tend to be on the romantic side who want to hang onto the notion that there’s someone for everyone. And I also got lots of advice.
I am still in shock over the huge, HUGE disparity between the sexes. Almost straight down the line the advice given was split into issues of appearance and issues of personality. Guess which gender gave out the most advice on appearance? You might think girl to girl talk would leave me with a lot of women letting me in on their beauty secrets. Wrong. Dead wrong. Guys doled out more beauty and fashion advice than an entire year subscription to Allure. Most of it was contradictory from guy to guy, but almost all of it was appearance or sex related.
Don’t cut your hair short.
Cut your hair short and sassy.
Dye your hair blond.
Dye your hair brown.
Wear high heels.
(This subject came up several times. Heels have an almost universal appeal.)
Wear short skirts.
Wear flattering jeans.
(I’m not sure if this guy meant that a lot of women with nice figures wear unflattering jeans, or if he is mistakenly blaming jeans for the physical shortcomings of women.)
Wear stylish clothes AND NO PONY TAILS! Men like grown-up stylish women. Kelly Clarkson looked like a skanky hag and now she’s hot. Style, style, style. (Money, money, money. I always wonder if men have any clue how much “stylish” clothes cost. And then I wonder if they’re willing to bank roll a shopping trip for those “stylish” clothes. And then I assume the answer is “no.” And then I think, “once again, Barbie’s to blame: She comes packaged with a stylish wardrobe and accessories. Apparently men think that’s just how women are: We come pre-packaged with stylish clothes and accessories ready for them to play with us and take us out and show us off in our ‘stylish’ clothes.” Interesting to note that apparently all one needs to do to transform from “skanky hag” to “hot” is to throw a lot of money and a team of trained professionals at the situation. Note to self: Find thousands of dollars. Spend those dollars on “stylish” clothes and hair and makeup. Get man.)
Have a great, white, straight, toothpaste commercial smile.
Wear lip gloss.
Don’t wear lip gloss.
(Some guys apparently love the look but hate kissing gooey mouths.)
Wear sexy lingerie.
Wear low cut and tight tops.
Wear make up.
Don’t wear make up.
Wear perfume.
Don’t wear cheap perfume that stinks and tastes bad on your neck.
Don’t wear fake nails.
Go to the gym every day.
Get liposuction.
If you don’t have boobs, get implants.
Don’t get fake boobs.
Wax your snatch but don't tell us about it. We know it hurts but we like the way it looks and we don't want to feel guilty about liking it. Go to a good spa once a month and get the works so your skin and body are soft and wrinkle free without acne and hair.
(Okay, um, are you footing the bill for that? Oh wait, that’s right, we’re supposed to find thousands of dollars to spend on Kelly Clarkson-esque transformations which would include monthly or even weekly trips to the spa and salon. Of course we’ll need to fit this in between gym time and oh yeah, our jobs.)
Talk dirty.
Don’t talk about sex unless it’s naughty or flirty talk. We don’t care about your ovaries. We’d prefer to not even know they exist.
(That’s an actual quote from a very surprising source. I had no idea this guy was so, um, well, you know, that way. He’s always seemed kind of metrosexual sensitive to me. Shows you what I know.)
Put out on the first date. (Interestingly, no one, not even one woman, said, “Don’t put out on a first date.” Either they think I should grab whatever I can get or this is just a universally accepted truism)
Let him make the first first move so you know he’s into you, but after the first first move initiate sex. A lot. (Apparently us womenfolk are supposed to wait for a guy to give us the green light by coming onto us and establishing domination and hierarchy, after that we’re supposed to anticipate and attend to his every need.)
Learn how to give good blow jobs and give them often. (Dude, we all know this, it really doesn’t need to be stated, but thanks.)
Get in really good shape so you can do a lot of positions.
Thanks guys! Sarcastic notes aside, really, thank you for sharing.
Now let’s hear from the ladies.
Eye contact. If he won’t look you in the eyes you don’t want him.
Smile at him. Works every time. If he’s not interested he won’t smile back at you. If he’s interested this lets him know you’re open to his advances and he’ll smile back and probably talk to you.
Get a dog. Guys love dogs.
Flirt, just straight up flirt, even if it seems obnoxious and stupid, guys want sex and if you don’t flirt they don’t think of you that way. It’s hard to do this without playing dumb, but if you really want a man…
Go to sporting events or sports bars. That’s where the boys are.
Find out what he likes to do and where he goes on weekends and then go there so you “coincidentally” run into him.
(Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwww. I can’t believe I know someone who ascribes to this juvenile behavior.)
Talk to him. If he ignores you or answers with one word or picks a fight, he’s not interested. If he starts telling you about his boss and the football match he’s into you.
Talk to him about his work.
Be happy, even if you don’t feel happy. Smile, smile, smile. Take medication, drugs, booze, whatever it takes to make you appear to be happy and not full of complications and drama or sorrow. Men just do not want to deal with anything negative when they’re not at work.That’s why big smile rah rah bimbos are so attractive to men. Those girls give the appearance of being fun and uncomplicated and men are drawn to them like moths to a flame.
Laugh at his jokes or at least acknowledge that he has a sense of humor.
Don't talk baby talk unless you really are stupid, easy and gorgeous and wearing lingerie accentuating your gorgeousness.
Do or say whatever you have to say to make him feel special and different and worthy. If you’re in line at the grocery ask him about something he’s buying, let him be an authority even if it’s an authority on Doritos. Compliment his coat or shoes. Single guys usually buy those things themselves and your compliment will validate his taste and confidence. Tread carefully complimenting ties, shirts, sweaters, watches, socks and underwear. There’s a high likelihood another woman, including his mother, bought these items for him. If it was a girlfriend you’ll be reminding him of her, if it was his mother you’ll embarrass him.
(Ooooooh, good advice. I’ve definitely learned this lesson the hard way.)
Talk about your parents and your cat. If he listens and doesn’t get that blank out of body expression on his face and offers real feedback then you know he’s truly interested in you.
Listen to him. Look for clues about his personality in how he says what he says and make sure he listens to you. Really listens to you and really understands you.
Get interested in his interests. Show him you care about what he cares about. Make sure he knows you have interests and activities. He can then think about participating in these activities with you or will be relieved to know you have a life outside work and your relationships and that he’ll have some free time to do whatever he likes to do with his mates without you nagging him to spend every free moment with you.
See how he treats everyone – especially people like waitresses and clerks. If he acts superior and bothered by them, stay away. If he’s way too nice to them, he’s trying too hard to make a good impression and could be overcompensating for his actual bad people skills. Or he might be interested in them instead of you.
If he’s frequently defensive and argumentative and has to dominate the conversation stay away from him.
Make sure he likes your friends and family and is respectful to your parents. Find out everything you can about his dating history and past relationships. See how he talks about his ex girlfriends. If he says mean or spiteful things about them, stay away.
Unless it’s a quick one or two night no holds barred fling, save the freaky bedroom stuff for later. It’ll intimidate and scare them if you throw this at them right away.
Just be yourself. If that’s not good enough for him he’s not good enough for you.
(That bit of age-old platitude wisdom from my best friend, by the way, so maybe not the best advice in terms of developing an action plan. Just being myself has always been good enough for her, she likes me for me. Finding a man, a dating kind of man, who feels the same way is obviously the challenge here. If just being myself was all I needed to do I wouldn’t be in this situation. I’m good at being myself, but being myself has left me by myself. My friend agrees that while this is good advice it comes off trite and condescending to most of us in my situation.)
Well, there you have it. I assumed there would be general themes among men and women, but I certainly didn’t expect it to be this blazingly obvious and this blazingly divided by gender.
What I find interesting is not just what they said, but how they expressed it. The men wrote short, almost abrupt, quick, definitive, straight to the point, command responses telling me exactly what to do to attract a man. Very few wrote more than one sentence. The women wrote more involved, sprawling conceptual ideas with more words and more sentences about how to hang onto a man once you’ve attracted him. Sentences containing not only advice on actions regarding feelings, but also on how to react or respond after following that advice.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Men are weird. There. I said it. I hate that I said it. I hate that I think it. I hate that this is even a topic of consideration. But. Men. Are. Weird. Yes. Women are weird, too. For every example of weird male behavior I know there is a female counterpart.
So really, I guess I should rephrase the statement: Women think men are weird. And not just this woman. Lots of women think men are weird. I’ve been a holdout among my gender. I refused to pin a label on an entire gender of people simply because a few of them behave oddly. But I’ve met a lot of men in the past few years. Apart from a few who somehow slipped through the weird brewing process, they’re weird. And no, my focus group did not consist solely of men met on online dating sites. I’m talking about the whole big bunch of men I’ve met online and in real life. Including men I haven’t personally met but either observed in action or heard about via other women.
I've got a few case studies to present. A few not-so-good men, specific men who represent types of men I've met online and in real life. In many cases the real weirdness asserts itself in the form of sex. Which almost overwhelmingly makes me conclude the pursuit of sex makes men do weird things. And I do not mean endearingly cute weird things. Or rash and cold sweats weird things. I mean just really odd, illogical, stupid, weird behavior. Take sex out of the equation and many of these guys are probably capable of being decent men, or at least less weird men. But unfortunately men and sex go together like brain and dead.
Nothing new or insightful there, the fact that men are ruled by their sexual organs was established a long time ago. It's just, well, you know, we, most of us, at least us womenfolk, have been trying to give men the benefit of the doubt. We don't really want you to all be ultra sensitive to the point of annoying metro-asexuals, but, we've been hoping you've evolved and become enlightened enough to at least be aware of our capacities beyond sex.
We, ha ha, silly us, we've been under the apparently misguided impression that some of you actually want us to possess, and respect us for, qualities other than our looks and abilities in bed. I know, I know, who's weirder? Men, or women who think crazy thoughts like that?
And therein lies the root cause of womens' perceived weirdness among men. Basically, we're operating on two completely incompatible platforms. We all know successful relationships consist of give and take. Acceptance and respect. Support and understanding. Love and trust.
What finally dawned on me is that while both sexes understand these fundamental relationship principles, we're using the same words and ideas to describe very different things.
How did I hit upon this insightful theory? Ancient Chinese secret... I was with a guy in a Chinese restaurant. We had a very odd conversation. We were both trying really hard to get along, we wanted things to go well and we'd been polite, but, not exactly hitting it off, either. It was odd. We shared a lot of interests and outlooks, but somehow we just weren't in sync. The transcript of the conversation would read as if we had a lot in common and were getting along great, but the reality is that something just wasn't right. The fortune cookies arrived. I got the usual pithy nonfortune cookie doling out some stupid platitude soon to be a Successories poster. I scoffed, "Aw, c'mon, fortune cookie people, quit slacking on the job and tell me something useful." The guy quickly jumped in with the "in bed" trick. Okay, yes, tee hee, that old stand-by usually brings at least a smile to my lips.
And then, suddenly it dawned on me: Even though we'd been talking about the same concepts and outlooks, we had very different motivations and desired outcomes. One fortune cookie, two people. One wants insight and advice, the other wants an easy laugh and sex.
Eureka. All this time, all these years...all the disappointments and confusion, and it all comes down to semantics. I say I need acceptance in a relationship and I mean nonjudgmental understanding of who I am, as a person, and acceptance of that being. Men say they need acceptance in a relationship and they mean nonjudgmental approval of their fetish, kinks or hasty release in bed. I say I need time to establish trust to feel comfortable in the relationship and I mean he needs to prove that he wants me for something other than sex and that he'll be there for me through thick and thin. He says he needs time to establish trust to feel comfortable in the relationship and he means he needs proof that I'll acknowledge the safety word and stop whipping him when he mumbles it through the ball gag and that I won't post the photos of him in women's undergarments online. Or tell his friends that he cried at the end of Charlotte's Web. Or that he even saw Charlotte's Web.
When women think and wax philosophical about relationships and their components - give, take, acceptance, respect, support, understanding, love, trust - we're thinking in terms of emotions, intellect and soul. Men think about the exact same components, but in terms of sex. So there's this huge misunderstanding right from the get go.
A couple has a conversation about what they want in a relationship. They use the same words so they think they're a good match. Turns out they're talking about two very different things. And yes, of course this is a generalization. I know lots of enlightened men who are capable of thinking about things other than sex. But. Put them in front of a woman they're attracted to and, while they may like and respect her for her intellect, quick wit or charm, he's still thinking/hoping/wondering if he's going to get some from her. Meanwhile the woman is sitting there thinking/hoping/wondering if he likes foreign films and cats.
Okay, maybe nothing terribly new or anything that will change the course of nature and history. But if you’ve been having communication issues and can’t get to the bottom of the problem because you both say you want the same things, you might want to investigate to see if this is the problem.
Looking back over some of the men I’ve met I can see where this may have been an issue. Which caused me to review many of the men I’ve met and realize: Sex was an issue, but not quite in the misunderstood capacity as outlined above. No, the sex issues here were more confusing and contradictory and add fuel to my: Men are Weird fire.
Case #1 Larry, Larry Quite Contrary I hated this guy. At the time I was trying really hard to like him. Why? Because he is intelligent and at times very funny. But that constant contrary attitude, the argument for the sake of arguing, the need to be “different” just for the sake of being “different” just wore me out and got on my nerves. In a big way. He wasn’t different at all. He’s just a contrary, rabble rousing jerk. The guy picked fights with me, literally picked fights, over everything. Yes. Everything. Especially insignificant stuff. And I’m not labeling him a jerk just because he didn’t agree with me, I’m labeling him a jerk because he is a jerk. When I finally played his own game and rescinded and earlier comment I made to him, over which he vehemently argued with me, he then switched “opinions” and started fighting for the view I had earlier presented. Jerk. Fighting for the sake of an argument. It’s apparently his communication style. I’m getting a headache just thinking about him. He’s a bully.
Basically, he disagreed with everything I said. Yes, literally, everything. And yet, he kept calling. He wanted to get together for dinner and drinks. He said he really liked me. I cannot even imagine what it would have been like to go out with this guy. “Where would you like to have dinner?” he’d ask. I’d say, “How about that Thai place in your neighborhood?” He’d bark at me, “Are you crazy? That place sucks!” “oh. Okay. Well, you choose a place then.” And so it would go. Yeh. That would be a fun date. That would be a great relationship.
But get this: The guy called several times after I refused to see him and had the nerve to suggest a weekend away, a fling at his brother’s cabin in the remote Wisconsin woods. I’m not kidding. Some of you may be saying, “Can’t blame the guy for trying…” I’m guessing those of you saying that are men. Take the creepy “fling” and “remote” location out the equation and it’s still weird. In all our conversations all he ever did was argue with me and try to demean and belittle me – bully me – by taking an opposite point of view just for the sake of playing argumentative pundit. And he thinks I’m going to in any way find this attractive? That I would want to have sex with him? Can you even imagine what that would be like? There would literally be no pleasing the guy.
But that’s not the point – why in the world would he even want to have sex with me? He argues every word I say, he can’t possibly like me, and he flat out told me he wasn’t that attracted to me, so why? Why repeatedly call? Why send email after email offering to help me “release some stress?” What the…? Eliminating the stress having a conversation with this guy causes would require a lot more that a roll in the sack. Yet he somehow completely misses the point that he’s an arrogant, bullying, argumentative jerk and thinks a) sex will make everything okay and b) that I would want to have sex with him. Am I the only one who finds this weird?
One of my friends actually tried to come to his defense by giving him credit of doubt. Theorizing that he only knows how to argue, that he can only communicate by debating, that he’s clearly insecure, and maybe after some therapy he might be a great guy.
I’m guessing right now sympathetic women are thinking in terms of emotional growth and maturity. And men are thinking, “in bed” at the end of my friend’s optimistic appraisal. To me it’s just weird. Contradictory (which in his case is a way of life so not exactly weird) and weird.
Case #2 We met via a friend. He wasn’t that into me. Okay, he was totally not into me. He wouldn’t let it go at that. He insulted and berated me and threw out a long list of criticisms and ways “women like me” need to change. Among other things, he called me a waste of time and a waste of air and suggested I consider the options the Catholic church has for “women like me.” I never got a definition of “women like me” but I did find consolation that by his broad generalizations there must be a lot of “women like me.” Hey, I’m alone but not alone in my plight. That’s always good for some reassurance on the therapist’s couch or in the quiet lonely dark hours between midnight and dawn.
Right. So. Clearly that date wasn’t going to go anywhere good. Whatever, dude, good luck trying to find that perfect woman. Don’t trip over those unrealistic ideals of yours, as high and mighty as you are that fall will be long and it will hurt a lot when you land. Yadda yadda yadda, a few weeks ago he told our mutual friend that he’d like to see me again.
Okay, some of you are thinking, “awwwwww, he’s learned his lesson and wants to see you again. That’s cute. He’s still a jerk, but that’s kind of cute.” I’m guessing that response is coming from the female audience. While the male population is probably thinking, “in bed.” And guys, you’re right.
My friend set up an ambush “date” of sorts, wherein several of us met for drinks after work. And what do you know, he just happened to be there. And what do you know, there was an empty seat right next to him. And what do you know, he stared at my boobs and repeatedly put his hand in my crotch. Yes. Really. Just like that. He never apologized or even alluded to the time we went on a “date” and he insulted and hurt me. Badly. He just jumped right in and “went for it.”
Why? Why would a guy do this? Why would anyone not actually being filmed on a dating “reality” show do this?
Because he’s weird. Very, very weird. His sudden change of interest in me, especially an apparently sexual change of interest in me, does not automatically make me forget or forgive his behavior and comments to me on that “date.”
I finally switched seats with someone just to get out of his reach. And no, it doesn’t make me “feel better” knowing someone is willing and ready to have sex with me. No. It doesn’t. It offends and insults me. The weird aspect of this is not his sexual advances, but that they came after really mean and harsh uncalled for criticism.
And what’s even more weird is his presumption that I’m totally willing to just give in to his advances as if that date wherein he insulted and criticized me never happened. Lecherous jerk. Whatever. Weirdo.
Case #3 This one, well, this one left me contemplating the virtues of a life spent in a convent. Sure, there are a lot of drawbacks and oh yeah, you need to actually believe in God and devote your life to blind faith, but, you know, other than that, there are some positive aspects. I mean, at the very least you don’t go on a first date and have a guy barf on you.
Over the course of this dating push I’ve met a lot of men. A lot of them turned out to be immature in a lot of ways. A lot of them turned out to be shallow, arrogant jerks. A lot of them turned out to be pouty spoiled boys. A lot of them turned out to be cruel, callous, cads. I thought I’d seen, heard and experienced it all. And then I met Barf Boy. He is the embodiment of all those characteristics. Barf Boy and I emailed quite a bit and eventually made the leap to phone conversation. Which went really well. So well that we agreed to meet for drinks.
No. My expectations weren’t high, because, well, let’s face it, I’m skeptical by nature and the past few years have given me a very realistic (cynical) edge to my outlook. They say they’re great and that I’m everything they want in a woman. I say: Show me the money. You gotta do more than talk the talk with me. If you don’t walk the walk and put your money where your mouth is, I’m not playing that game. Anyone can say the right words. But very few people actually back them up with appropriate behavior. So, you know, I wasn’t thinking this guy would be The One or even a One. I was a little hopeful that we might have a nice time chatting because to this point we seemed to be on the same wavelength on a lot of levels which matter. Unfortunately we didn’t discuss puking on a first date. Now I know to broach that topic of conversation before agreeing to meet a man. “Have you ever puked on a woman? Have you done so on a first date? Even if you haven’t actually puked on a woman, do you condone and accept this behavior?” will now be in my lineup of questions I ask prospective dates.
Thanks to this guy I’ll also now ask prospective dates if they will be flying solo on the first date or will have a wingman in tow, or, perhaps, the entire squadron.
Yes. I show up at the designated meeting place at the appointed time. I see a large group of people at a table. One of them climbs over the group and approaches me. He looks vaguely familiar. Someone from work? A friend of a friend? Who is this person emerging from a large group and heading my way with a big smile of recognition? And further, how embarrassing, I’m here to meet a guy I met online, once I figure out who this person is I’m going to have to make polite excuses and then have them watch my date unfold. It’ll be awkward because my date might think I’ve brought all these people along to check him out.
Or. Perhaps my date has brought them along to check out me. Yep, the guy looked familiar because he was my date. My date who’d obviously been drinking for a while. With his friends. Who were all there as a pre-date party. Apparently this guy is very involved with his friends. They do everything together. Even go on first dates together. And apparently all their other dates. They travel as a group. They date as a group. I wouldn’t be even slightly surprised to learn they have sex as a group. Some of them are related by blood (brothers/sisters), others are old friends, and others are boyfriends/girlfriends/spouses of the core group who’ve now been sucked in by the group. Everyone in the group dresses similarly and wears the same hairstyles. (Sport team jerseys, jeans, urban hiking boots on both the men and women, hair cut short and styled “messy” for the guys, modified and highlighted “Rachels” for the girls) Okay. Well. You know. Hail hail, the gang’s all here, and if I’m going to date this guy apparently I better get used to all of these people being an integral part of our relationship. In fairness to them, they all seemed nice enough, these aren’t bad people, but, um, this is a first date. Is it too much to ask for a little privacy and space to get to know each other without being watched and judged by an entire squadron of wingmen?
Well. The group aspect doesn’t really matter. Because shortly after I joined the group a few more pitchers of beer were ordered. Judging by the staleness of the smell of beer clinging to my date, they’d already finished off several pitchers prior to my arrival.
And apparently several orders of cheddar fries. This is not a guess on my part. It’s not a guess because within exactly 15 minutes of my arrival, my date threw up on me. Well, his best friend was caught in the main line of fire and his best friend’s wife also caught some of the vomit, and to be fair it was just on a portion of my sleeve. But. Yes. He threw up on me.
One of his group mates followed me into the ladies room and insisted that he doesn’t “usually” do this and he’s a really nice guy and he really likes me and I shouldn’t judge him by that first impression. Oh. Okay. Sure. I’ll pretend he never puked on me. And I’ll try to pretend he didn’t bring an entire squadron of wingmen on a first date. But I’m going to have a hard time letting go of the fact that he’s clearly got a drinking “issue.” After I cleaned up in the ladies room I left. As I walked by the table I noticed my date had also been cleaned up and had returned to the table. He was propped up in the corner with that “I just puked cheddar fries all over everyone but I don’t care because I’m still so drunk I’m almost passed out” look on his face.
And no! None of that is what compelled me to think, “Men are weird!” Nope, at that point I just thought he was an immature jerk with socialization issues and a drinking problem.
I didn’t think he was weird until the next day when he called to enthuse about how much fun he had and how he couldn’t wait to go out again.
I’m not kidding.
No apology. No humility. No humbleness. No “I know this is a long shot but could you find it in your heart to give me another chance?” Nope, none of those pesky social conventions which manners dictate in this type of situation. Nope, just a complete lack of recognition that he was a drunk jerk who brought an entire crew of people on a first date and then puked on me.
He had a good time? All 15 minutes I was there were fun for him? How could he even remember I was there, distill me out of the sea of faces and conversation taking place at the table just before he barfed up his beer and cheddar fries? He had fun???!
Men = Presumptuous, arrogant jerks at this point.
He still wasn’t registering on the weird-o-meter.
But as he persisted and persisted and persisted in asking me out again, he had the nerve, the complete and utter nerve, to say, “We talked more than an hour on the phone last week so that counts as a date, we went out last night, so Friday will be our third date, and you know what that means! C’mon Trill, let’s have our “third date” (wink wink nudge nudge voice) as soon as possible. I had so much fun I can’t wait to see you again, especially since this will be our “third date.”"
Um, right. I don't think so.
Case #4 Compliments Will Get You Everywhere So, this guy seemed nice. Really nice. When we talked on the phone he had a sort of laid back intelligence about him. Easy going, easy conversationalist. Maybe a little too laid back in some respects, verging on lazy, but, you know, nice. Intelligent. What more could a girl want?
Well, for starters a girl could want a man who doesn’t compare her looks to that of a person with a serious mental illness. Unless of course the girl happens to have that mental illness, but even then stating the obvious or hinting at the less obvious, is not recommended on a first date. Or any date. No one wants to be reminded of their imperfections on a date. Most of us are acutely aware of our imperfections, the obvious and less obvious of our shortcomings plague us daily. We do not need anyone to call attention to them or remind us of them. We work hard to overcome our imperfections and we’d like to be recognized for the positive aspects of our personalities and looks instead of the negative qualities.
I’ve had a lot of insults hurled at me in my lifetime. A lot. I could write the Bible on being teased. I have thick skin. I can handle most of the insults and walk away with head held high, even though my heart and self esteem fall several notches with each blow. I learned early in life to accept the negative feelings and get past the hurt and subsequent doubt insults can cause. Accentuate the positive and all that.
But since HWNMNBS broke up me with solely because of my looks, and gave me detailed lists as to exactly what was wrong with my physicality and how that if he couldn’t “get past” my flaws certainly no one else could, I have had difficulty getting past the hurt. I'm more sensitive. And I don't mean by random insults or remarks. I mean there are some frayed nerves which won't heal and they're exposed. Every now and then the cumulative damage combined with zero positive reinforcement makes those nerves ache. And the doubts plague me daily. Especially when I don’t exactly have a trail of men vying for my affections. Especially when I have been further insulted on many dates by many men. This just proves HWNMNBS was right. If he couldn’t get past my looks, how can I expect anyone else to be able to overcome my imperfections? HWNMNBS tried, he tried because he wanted to focus on the positive aspects of me. But in the end the positive aspects weren’t enough. So. Yes, I have some baggage in this area. Baggage, or, a harsh mirror of truth? Tomato, tomahto. I learned a lot from that experience, I continue to learn from it. Overall I learned that being a good, honest, caring, intelligent, kind, supportive, loving person is not enough. Giving trust and respect doesn't frost the cake. If you lack in physical beauty you are simply not worthy of real affection, respect and love of men. And no, at first I didn't paint the whole gender with the HWNMNBS brush. But as time cruelly marches on, and I am increasingly rejected and alone, it becomes more obvious that he was right. If he couldn't do it, no one can.
One thing that has come from this is that once I was hurt so badly by someone I loved and trusted so completely that I pledged to spend my life as his wife, the insults and abuse from other men is meaningless and insignificant. For some reason they want to hurt me, insult me, embarrass me, shame me, mock me, something, anything to make them feel superior and make sure that I go home hating and doubting myself. But they don’t know, they have no idea how their insults pale in insignificance compared to what I’ve endured as a result of losing the man I loved so dearly because he didn’t find me attractive enough. Nothing, no one can hurt me that badly. so these Johnny-Come-Latelies with their stupid little remarks and jokes and insults mean nothing to me. I just add them to the pile. More kindling for the "good-bye cruel world" suicide note.
But. I have to give this new guy credit. He took a new and different approach and opened a new vein of untapped self esteem issues.
We agreed to meet for dinner. Because our conversations had gone so well, a full blown dinner date seemed like a great idea. We’d had such extensive conversations it seemed natural and even necessary to have a full dinner date for our first date. Pregnant or awkward pauses seemed impossible for us. We might not be right for each other, but we could talk. That’s nice. You know. That’s a good thing. A nice change of pace.
Twenty minutes into dinner he was leaning back comfortably in his chair and said, they way you might say, “your hair is long and brown,” “how severe is your Asperger Syndrome?" If you are unfamiliar with Asperger Syndrome the short explanation is that it’s a “high functioning” form of autism. Grant you, there are times, yes, that I feel like I have a mental illness, especially regarding words and their assault on me. But. Mr. Suave here was not alluding to my vocabulary or word traits. No, he said I looked either mildly autistic or full blow Asperger.
What do you say to a guy who says you look deformed and mentally disabled?
I mean, okay, maybe I do, maybe he’s right, okay, fine, but, um, we’re on a first date, here. The guy was all smiling all charming and pleasant as if he'd just bestowed me with a terrific compliment. The sort of compliment a guy gives when he's spreading it on real thick in hopes of getting laid.
I thought maybe, surely, he must be kidding. I giggled a very insecure and uncomfortable giggle. I don't like that sort of humor. There's nothing funny about mental illness.
I just went very quiet, let him do all the talking, kept my order to a side salad and got the heck out of there as soon as possible.
Okay, fine, got through that date. There’s one for the books. Geeze. I mean, I know I’m not pretty, I know I have more bad days than good ones these days, but c’mon, autistic? And no disrespect to Autistic people, really, of course not. In my past I've worked hands on at Special Olympics and I can personally attest to and vouch for the beauty to be found in not only the character but also the physical appearance of the mentally challenged. But I don’t happen to actually be, you know, Autistic. So even though I consider it an honor to be held among these incredible people, I'm actually, you know, not one of them. All pondering of experiments like Autistic, Like Me aside, this is both an insult to me and to the truly Asperger afflicted.
But the fact that he likened my appearance to an autistic person isn’t even the weird part of this guy.
The weird part is that he emailed me later that night and said what a great time he had.
The weirder part is that he called the next day and wanted to take me out again. He said he thought he just started scratching the surface and couldn’t wait to get deeper into my head. He said he wanted to help me. Yes. Help me.
Um. Thanks. But. I think you’ve “helped” enough already.
He persisted. “Trillian, we could be really good together. I can tell you need the right sort of man to release you from your head. You can trust me, let me release you from yourself. I’m different, Trill, I understand you, I know there’s a lot more to you than what shows on the surface. I’m not into looks. Different personalities turn me on.”
Click.
I hung up on him.
Mental disabilities can be overcome. In bed.
Cripes. Where do I find these guys?? Online? Well. Not this one. Nope, this one is a friend of a friend. Came highly recommended by my friend’s brother. A person I have heretofore found to have a great knowledge of history, good taste in music and a sincere kindness.
Weird. Just. Weird. The guy “compliments” a woman by telling her she looks autistic and then wants to “release her” from herself.
Still think men aren’t weird? Still think it’s unfair to make sweeping generalizations about an entire gender? Still think I just haven’t met “the right one?”
Yeah, maybe. But in the sea of weirdness and jerks I’m starting to doubt “the right one” exists.
Maybe I should just forget about establishing a real and meaningful relationship and just get as much sex as I can while I am still able to attract a few men. Mind you, not many men, not men I’m actually interested in, and most of them are weird jerks, but still, there are a few men who, with enough booze in them, are willing to have sex with me. So maybe I should just go that route. Other women have. I always wondered about “those” women. I always assumed it was self esteem or a hyper libido or drugs or alcohol or something else driving them into bed with these guys.
Now I think I’m starting to understand what these women learned: Men are all weird and all they really want is sex anyway, we’re never going to meet on any real plane of understanding, so cut to the chase, get yourself good and liquored up, it’ll numb the pain of your pride and self esteem shattering, give ‘em what they want and just do ‘em when you get the chance. One of them might bother to stick around and then you’ve got yourself a boyfriend.
And that’s so easy. So incredibly easy. Even for someone who looks like me. I get offers daily. Several offers. Here’s today’s offer. Who could resist this charming bit of flirtation? Whats up im good looking im looking for a friend not a girlfriend just somebody to sex me from time to time i'm pretty cool and if your up to it email me
I know it’s difficult to understand, but I haven’t yet jumped at this offer. I know, I know, no wonder I can’t find a man and think men are weird. What do I expect when I don’t leap at this kind of opportunity?
Well, for starters, my profile clearly, in bold, states that I am looking for a long term relationship. Secondly, in the text of my profile I clearly, in bold, so it’s easy for all men to see, even if they’re just skimming for key words, that I am not interested in one night stands, married men or players. I spell it right out that men who fall into those (and other) categories will not get a response from me.
And yet, they write. They wink. They persist and persist and start to get scary with their emails to the point that I have to block them.
Guys, the cool thing about online dating is that we can spell it all out for you. Read our profile and you can learn a lot about us. It’s a great way to cut through the preliminary cat and mouse question and answer period. Unless you’re set up by a friend or relative who knows a lot about the girl and what she’s looking for in a man it can take several dates to find out this kind of information. How many of you have met a great girl, gone out with her two or three times only to discover, after you’re already falling for this girl, that she isn’t looking for a serious relationship, doesn’t want children and has six cats and an ex-husband up for parole next year? Had you met her online, assuming she was honest in her profile, you would know: She has cats, she isn’t looking for anything serious and is divorced. Forewarned is forearmed my friends.
But unfortunately a lot of you guys are giving this process a bad name. You see a girl online whom you find attractive. Or you actually bother to read her profile and like one or two things about her. Never mind that she clearly states many qualities you don’t like, or is looking for many qualities you do not possess. You go right ahead and email her anyway. Sure, she’s looking for a long term relationship but, hey, who could resist a few hours in the sack with you? It’d be the best time she’ll find online, it’d be good for her and hey, you’re honest, you’re telling her you don’t want anything serious so no one’s getting hurt, right?
Wrong. By contacting a woman who is clearly not looking for the same things as you, you are wasting her time and energy and giving her a more reasons to add to her list of why she will stop using online dating sites before she meets a few good men, or even just one. Thanks for blowing it for the guy she could have met, the guy who was perfect for her and the guy she was hoping to meet. Nice work, asshole.
Yes, of course we “expect” some of this sort of attention when we post our profiles. Of course we do. But. We don’t expect a constant barrage of this sort of thing. And your email could be the one that breaks that camel’s back. Trust me and my years of experience with online dating: You are not the first guy to email her with a salacious request or offer. However, you may be the last, because she may say, “That’s it! I’ve had it with these egomaniacal jerks who don’t pay attention to what I wrote in my profile! I quit this whole thing, it’s a pointless waste of time because all the wrong men contact me for all the wrong reasons!” It’s not just the one email, it’s the steady drip which makes us grow to resent you as a group. One bad apple boys, can spoil the whole lot. An entire peck of bad apples makes us think the orchard is in need of serious pruning and will make us start contemplating entirely different types of fruit. Bananas are nice. And high in potassium. Who needs an orchard full of bad apples when you can have one healthy, firm banana and all that potassium?
The commonality, the tie that binds all these men together in weirdness, is that they say these things, and behave these ways...and yet, still, they fully expect to get laid. Weirder still, they expect to get laid not in spite of their words or behavior, but because of it.
Weird men. Very, very weird men. And the women who deal with them. Women who are lonely and just want one decent guy. Heck, forget decent, we just want one man. It's becoming clear the answer to the question of differences which cause so much anguish between genders may very well be: In bed.
3:23 PM
