Jen and I were at the MOMA “Picasso” opening this week to look at all the magnificent works … plus, of course, the art.
“Now that’s an attractive men!” Jen exclaimed as a dark-clothed hipster walked by.
“He’s OK,” I said, although I would never have noticed him if she hadn’t pointed him out.
In fact, Jen and I rarely agree on good-looking men (we do, however, on Johnny Depp, but … duh!). In fact, I don’t “get” most of the men she’s gone out with lately. But as the French say, viva l’difference, because they’d be trouble right here in River City if we all fell for the same “look.”
I don’t really have a “look” that attracts me, although many of the men I’ve gone out with have been “pretty boys.” I never gave it much thought, but researchers at the University of Michigan's School of Public Health have (http://www.stuff.co.nz/3944160a4560.html), finding that “men with more ‘feminine features,’ such as rounder faces and fuller lips, were viewed as better long-term partners by female participants who would likely make better parents and husbands."
Well, I’m not looking to find a husband, but I sure do love kissing those fuller lips.
And they’re usually fit (although a few have had a “few extra pounds”), tall (although one of the most erotic moments I’ve ever had was with a man an inch shorter than I) and have hair (but bald on the right man, say Sean Connery, would be lovely).
I know the stereotype is that most men prefer petite blondes and for women it’s tall, dark and handsome, I suppose. But handsome is a very subjective thing.
Recently, I pointed out to Sean (the single dad I see from time to time) my Lust Object, a local guy who makes me think deliciously nasty thoughts whenever he’s near.
“Him? Are you kidding? How could you be attracted to him and me? I don’t get it.”
That was OK — most of my girlfriends don’t, either, including Jen — but, damn, there went my fantasy of the perfect threesome!
Looks alone don’t make for a great relationship, obviously, but let’s be honest here — they’re pretty much the first draw. Do you have a particular look? Has that look ever been challenged, much to your own surprise and delight? And do you think that a charming personality can eventually transform an OK-looking man/woman into a hottie?
Monday, February 26, 2007
Stuffed and mugged to death
As my girlfriends and I have one by one gotten divorced, I've been called in as moving support as we've transitioned from our marriage homes to our divorcee pads.
Because of that, I've been privy to a lot of personal stuff, and since I’m a thinker and an observer — oh all right, a busybody — I’ve noticed something: We have waaaay too much junk. Most specifically, mugs.As I began to wrap up what had to have been 20 mugs, I asked Sara, the latest to move, if she really ever intended to serve 20 people coffee or tea or hot cocoa at the same time. She had mugs proclaiming “I love you!” from men who obviously no longer did, mugs from clients who dumped her as ruthlessly as some of her former boyfriends and mugs from companies that went belly up back when you could get a cup of coffee for 50 cents.
I mean, who’d actually want to drink in all that bad mojo?
Of course, it goes beyond mugs. As a woman who rarely follows her own advice to her kid — “One new thing in, two old things out” — I shudder at the thought of what it would take to move me. A forklift, I suppose, for the shoes alone.
But I live in Marin, the land of excess, where the thinking is, too much stuff? Expand the house or buy a bigger one!
And then we go out and spend about $4 a month on an issue of Real Simple magazine, which tells us how to reduce clutter and simplify our lives.
I have an idea on how to do that, and it won't cost a dime: Stop buying stuff!
What’s cluttering your closets? And go count how many mugs you have, right now. (I've got five.)
Because of that, I've been privy to a lot of personal stuff, and since I’m a thinker and an observer — oh all right, a busybody — I’ve noticed something: We have waaaay too much junk. Most specifically, mugs.As I began to wrap up what had to have been 20 mugs, I asked Sara, the latest to move, if she really ever intended to serve 20 people coffee or tea or hot cocoa at the same time. She had mugs proclaiming “I love you!” from men who obviously no longer did, mugs from clients who dumped her as ruthlessly as some of her former boyfriends and mugs from companies that went belly up back when you could get a cup of coffee for 50 cents.
I mean, who’d actually want to drink in all that bad mojo?
Of course, it goes beyond mugs. As a woman who rarely follows her own advice to her kid — “One new thing in, two old things out” — I shudder at the thought of what it would take to move me. A forklift, I suppose, for the shoes alone.
But I live in Marin, the land of excess, where the thinking is, too much stuff? Expand the house or buy a bigger one!
And then we go out and spend about $4 a month on an issue of Real Simple magazine, which tells us how to reduce clutter and simplify our lives.
I have an idea on how to do that, and it won't cost a dime: Stop buying stuff!
What’s cluttering your closets? And go count how many mugs you have, right now. (I've got five.)
Sunday, February 18, 2007
When midlife goes wild
Here’s what my life has been lately: cigarette smoking, drinking, freak dancing, boyfriends sneaking in through the window, sexually provocative outfits, nooners in the back seats of cars during lunch break, sex on the couch while the rest of the house is sleeping.
Of course I am the mother of a teen and these things are to be expected, but ... I’m not talking about him! I’m talking about my fortysomething girlfriends and me.
I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but all I know is this: The kids are acting like kids and the adults are acting, well, like kids, too. I’m thinking it must be hormones — puberty for the kids and perimenopause for us. Plus throw in the Seasoned Woman and MILF factors, and the fact that we boomers refuse to age the way our parents did, and you’ve got all the makings of a mini-sexual rebellion. And it’s all happening behind our kids’ backs.
Of course, there’s an established pattern of sneakiness. When I was a teenager, I told my parents just enough so that I didn’t arouse suspicion, that fine line between telling them enough to assure them that I was a normal teen getting into a little bit of trouble but not the kind they’d have to bail out of jail. Now that I’m on this side, I realize parents — well, at least my fortysomething divorced friends — do the same. I’ve always thought parenting was mostly honesty with a bit of deception, manipulation and bribery thrown in. I didn’t realize how amped up it gets when you’re a single parent.
The first among us to cross the line was Mia, who met a slightly younger hottie at the cheese section of Trader Joe’s. There were sparks from the beginning, but there was that matter of her teenager. Fortunately, his bedroom was upstairs and hers was downstairs — perfect for sneaking her lover in and out, which she did for months until she was ready to introduce the two of them.
And even though my kid knows Sean — the single dad I see from time to time — I’m pretty sure Trent doesn’t want to acknowledge that Sean and I might know each other in that way.
After a recent party at which we’d had a drink or two, the plan was that Sean would spend the night; Trent would be asleep by the time we got home, and Sean would sneak out of my room before Trent woke up. So I was more than a bit miffed when we arrived home and a bleary-eyed Trent was still up, mindlessly watching bad late-night TV. What could I do? I tried to conceal my scowl as I made a “bed” on the couch, sent Trent to his room and started to get myself ready for bed.
Of course, I slipped out later and spent the night on the couch (my bedroom being too close to Trent’s) and snuck back into my room in the morning.
“Was last night weird for you?” I asked Trent the next day after we’d all shared breakfast and Sean left, praying that Trent hadn’t heard or seen anything.
“Well, it would have been if he, like, slept in your room or something,” he said.
I felt a bit smug that I hadn’t been busted, and amused that it didn’t even occur to his 14-year-old brain that we could just as easily have wild sex on the couch as in my bed.
Score: Mom, 1; kid, 0.
But even with all this randiness, there’s always something that brings you back down to reality and into your middle-aged place. Like the time Mia, Cindi and I headed into San Francisco for a night of clubbing in the Mission. Vinyl was playing at the Elbo Room. We were ready to dance.
“What are you doing?” I asked in shock as Cindi took a suspicious-looking slim white thing and a lighter out from her purse as I parked.
“I’m lighting up. Wanna hit?”
“Um, is that a joint?”
“No, silly. It’s a Camel. Want one?”
This is Midlife Gone Wild, I suppose. A cigarette is about as edgy as we’re going to get. I only had a moment’s hesitation. “Sure.”
So there we were, the three of us, two cigarettes among us, in my aging Ford Astrovan parked on a Mission District side street. (“What in the world did you do in here?” Trent demanded when I drove him to school two days later. “It reeks!”)
I hadn’t smoked in decades, and ... I got a nicotine high.
We giddily walked in the club. Vinyl was already on stage, and the place was packed. So was the upstairs bar, and we were parched.
“I’ll get us some drinks downstairs,” I told them as I took their drink orders. There was a crowd there, too, but eventually, vodkas and gins in hand, I made my way back upstairs ... only to run into a frantic Cindi.
“Mia’s fainted! She hit her head. Come quick.”
And there was Mia (who hadn’t eaten since breakfast and suffers from low blood pressure) still sprawled on the floor but slowly coming to, a big bloody bruise over her brow — and dozens of twenty- and thirtysomethings hovering over her. Mia’s pain was real; mine was just the pain of embarrassment.
I put our untouched drinks down, and, grabbing her left side while Cindi took the right, we walked her down the stairs and out of the club past the stares of even more young hipsters, feeling very much like the out-of-place fortysomethings that we are.
It was enough to keep me out of clubs for a while.
But the truth is, although I embrace being a responsible adult and dedicated mother, I don’t really want to fully grow up yet, despite the numbers that rack up as my birthdays come and go. I want to stay spontaneous and randy, provocative and experimentive, sassy and sexy. And I want others to see me that way, too. I don’t think there has to be an age limit to that.
Call me what you want: a rejuvenile, kidult, adultescent, middlescent, a grup — all newish terms to describe adults who want to recapture the rebellion and free-spiritedness of their childhood. I’ll embrace it.
But I’m definitely going to stay away from those damn cigarettes!
Of course I am the mother of a teen and these things are to be expected, but ... I’m not talking about him! I’m talking about my fortysomething girlfriends and me.
I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but all I know is this: The kids are acting like kids and the adults are acting, well, like kids, too. I’m thinking it must be hormones — puberty for the kids and perimenopause for us. Plus throw in the Seasoned Woman and MILF factors, and the fact that we boomers refuse to age the way our parents did, and you’ve got all the makings of a mini-sexual rebellion. And it’s all happening behind our kids’ backs.
Of course, there’s an established pattern of sneakiness. When I was a teenager, I told my parents just enough so that I didn’t arouse suspicion, that fine line between telling them enough to assure them that I was a normal teen getting into a little bit of trouble but not the kind they’d have to bail out of jail. Now that I’m on this side, I realize parents — well, at least my fortysomething divorced friends — do the same. I’ve always thought parenting was mostly honesty with a bit of deception, manipulation and bribery thrown in. I didn’t realize how amped up it gets when you’re a single parent.
The first among us to cross the line was Mia, who met a slightly younger hottie at the cheese section of Trader Joe’s. There were sparks from the beginning, but there was that matter of her teenager. Fortunately, his bedroom was upstairs and hers was downstairs — perfect for sneaking her lover in and out, which she did for months until she was ready to introduce the two of them.
And even though my kid knows Sean — the single dad I see from time to time — I’m pretty sure Trent doesn’t want to acknowledge that Sean and I might know each other in that way.
After a recent party at which we’d had a drink or two, the plan was that Sean would spend the night; Trent would be asleep by the time we got home, and Sean would sneak out of my room before Trent woke up. So I was more than a bit miffed when we arrived home and a bleary-eyed Trent was still up, mindlessly watching bad late-night TV. What could I do? I tried to conceal my scowl as I made a “bed” on the couch, sent Trent to his room and started to get myself ready for bed.
Of course, I slipped out later and spent the night on the couch (my bedroom being too close to Trent’s) and snuck back into my room in the morning.
“Was last night weird for you?” I asked Trent the next day after we’d all shared breakfast and Sean left, praying that Trent hadn’t heard or seen anything.
“Well, it would have been if he, like, slept in your room or something,” he said.
I felt a bit smug that I hadn’t been busted, and amused that it didn’t even occur to his 14-year-old brain that we could just as easily have wild sex on the couch as in my bed.
Score: Mom, 1; kid, 0.
But even with all this randiness, there’s always something that brings you back down to reality and into your middle-aged place. Like the time Mia, Cindi and I headed into San Francisco for a night of clubbing in the Mission. Vinyl was playing at the Elbo Room. We were ready to dance.
“What are you doing?” I asked in shock as Cindi took a suspicious-looking slim white thing and a lighter out from her purse as I parked.
“I’m lighting up. Wanna hit?”
“Um, is that a joint?”
“No, silly. It’s a Camel. Want one?”
This is Midlife Gone Wild, I suppose. A cigarette is about as edgy as we’re going to get. I only had a moment’s hesitation. “Sure.”
So there we were, the three of us, two cigarettes among us, in my aging Ford Astrovan parked on a Mission District side street. (“What in the world did you do in here?” Trent demanded when I drove him to school two days later. “It reeks!”)
I hadn’t smoked in decades, and ... I got a nicotine high.
We giddily walked in the club. Vinyl was already on stage, and the place was packed. So was the upstairs bar, and we were parched.
“I’ll get us some drinks downstairs,” I told them as I took their drink orders. There was a crowd there, too, but eventually, vodkas and gins in hand, I made my way back upstairs ... only to run into a frantic Cindi.
“Mia’s fainted! She hit her head. Come quick.”
And there was Mia (who hadn’t eaten since breakfast and suffers from low blood pressure) still sprawled on the floor but slowly coming to, a big bloody bruise over her brow — and dozens of twenty- and thirtysomethings hovering over her. Mia’s pain was real; mine was just the pain of embarrassment.
I put our untouched drinks down, and, grabbing her left side while Cindi took the right, we walked her down the stairs and out of the club past the stares of even more young hipsters, feeling very much like the out-of-place fortysomethings that we are.
It was enough to keep me out of clubs for a while.
But the truth is, although I embrace being a responsible adult and dedicated mother, I don’t really want to fully grow up yet, despite the numbers that rack up as my birthdays come and go. I want to stay spontaneous and randy, provocative and experimentive, sassy and sexy. And I want others to see me that way, too. I don’t think there has to be an age limit to that.
Call me what you want: a rejuvenile, kidult, adultescent, middlescent, a grup — all newish terms to describe adults who want to recapture the rebellion and free-spiritedness of their childhood. I’ll embrace it.
But I’m definitely going to stay away from those damn cigarettes!
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The secret of the secret admirer
Imagine this: You’re a single woman, and you get an unmarked package in the mail. Inside is a lovely lacy something and an unsigned note: “Wear it to the Buckeye, 7:30 tonight.” And so you put it on, and head to the bar, which is packed. You don’t know who sent you that lingerie — but only you and he know what you have on underneath your dress. To quote Paris (sorry), that’s hot!
Well, that never happened to me, but it happened to a woman my friend knows. The lingerie wearer never found out who sent it to her, and that alone can fuel many a fantasy.
I love the idea of a secret admirer. There’s a certain romanticism in walking though life knowing that someone is attracted to you from afar. It’s probably why I love reading the Missed Connection section of Craigslist. So much hope! So much earnestness! So much drama!
I think I may have had a few secret admirers in grade school — you know, the unsigned Valentine in the days before you had to give a Valentine to all 32 kids in class — but none since. But then last year, the oddest thing happened.
I got a delivery of a beautiful flowering plant to my office. At first, I thought it was from a client needing me to hop-to a project. In my line of work, I often get goodies delivered so I can do my creative stuff to them. But there was no paperwork enclosed, no return address, no request for a design idea or a descriptive blurb or anything. Nothing. Just a beautiful plant in a beautiful pot in a box delivered to me.
“So,” my co-workers teased, “Who’s the Romeo?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
And I didn’t. I was seeing two guys casually then, and flirting with a few more online, but none of them hit me as the “I’ll-surprise-her-with-a-flower-just-because” kinda guy. And, of course, it’s not like I could ask them outright either (even though they all knew there was no exclusivity in any of the “relationships”), because it might be embarrassing.
What could I do? I took the plant home, placed it on my dining room table, and still get immense pleasure from it every time I walk past it or water it.
So, today, Valentine’s Day, I say, “Thank you” to my secret admirer. And believing in the pay-it-forward kind of thinking, I plan to send a little something to someone I admire (secretly, of course). How cool if we all do something like that!
Well, that never happened to me, but it happened to a woman my friend knows. The lingerie wearer never found out who sent it to her, and that alone can fuel many a fantasy.
I love the idea of a secret admirer. There’s a certain romanticism in walking though life knowing that someone is attracted to you from afar. It’s probably why I love reading the Missed Connection section of Craigslist. So much hope! So much earnestness! So much drama!
I think I may have had a few secret admirers in grade school — you know, the unsigned Valentine in the days before you had to give a Valentine to all 32 kids in class — but none since. But then last year, the oddest thing happened.
I got a delivery of a beautiful flowering plant to my office. At first, I thought it was from a client needing me to hop-to a project. In my line of work, I often get goodies delivered so I can do my creative stuff to them. But there was no paperwork enclosed, no return address, no request for a design idea or a descriptive blurb or anything. Nothing. Just a beautiful plant in a beautiful pot in a box delivered to me.
“So,” my co-workers teased, “Who’s the Romeo?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
And I didn’t. I was seeing two guys casually then, and flirting with a few more online, but none of them hit me as the “I’ll-surprise-her-with-a-flower-just-because” kinda guy. And, of course, it’s not like I could ask them outright either (even though they all knew there was no exclusivity in any of the “relationships”), because it might be embarrassing.
What could I do? I took the plant home, placed it on my dining room table, and still get immense pleasure from it every time I walk past it or water it.
So, today, Valentine’s Day, I say, “Thank you” to my secret admirer. And believing in the pay-it-forward kind of thinking, I plan to send a little something to someone I admire (secretly, of course). How cool if we all do something like that!
What to say "I do" to
It wasn’t until I became divorced that I learned how to be the perfect wife. Husbandless, true, but still the perfect wife.
And just like a reformed smoker — the most obnoxious advice-dispensers around with all those “You shoulds” and “You shouldn’ts (and I am a longtime reformed smoker, so I know) — I am full of advice for the married, about-to-be married, the about-to-be parents and the about-to-be divorced.
I know that it’s rude to dole out advice when it’s not asked for, but I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s like I’ve picked up a sixth sense on marital dysfunctions.
Like the time I was sitting at the bar at Poggio. I was waiting for a friend who was running late, so I started chatting up the cute young couple seated next to me. After several years of dating, they had recently tied the knot and were still in the glowy honeymoon phase.
We started talking about kids. I shared a few of my good-cocktail-banter horror stories about my son Trent, like the time he stuck a MicroMini Car up his nose and I spent Mother’s Day in the emergency room, and the time he tripped off the fire alarm in his elementary school because he wanted to know what happened when someone pulled that lever.
New hubby listened carefully, and then he said, “You know, I don’t think I really want kids.”
“Oh honey, of course you do,” new wife said confidently.
But as we continued to chat it was pretty evident to me that, no, he really didn’t. I heard that loud and clear, but she surely didn’t. I couldn’t help thinking — shouldn’t they have had this conversation a long time ago?
Or maybe they did, and she — like so many women — thought he’d eventually “come around.” Because having a baby is, you know, just another little decision like which color couch to buy or whether to honeymoon in Cabo or Kauai.
I think the joke goes: Men get married hoping she won’t change, and women get married hoping he will.
Sometimes when I’m at home, I hear the drama going on next door. The 3-year-old starts screaming, “No! No, mommy, NO!!!” which sets off the baby into a wail that sounds as if a pack of hyenas has moved in. I think of Cara, their pretty young mom, and I know just what’s going on in that house. It reminds me of Young Mom Kat and Trent, who was not an easy child, and how overwhelmed I often felt as I made the transition from career woman to housebound full-time mommy.
I remember how that played out when Rob, my then-hubby, came home from work. We were two tired young people, each with our own expectations of the night. In hindsight, I can see so clearly some of the mistakes we made in not keeping the couple part as alive and vibrant as the parent part.
Now, a few years out of divorce and with lots of self-help books, self-realization and therapy behind me, I’ve thought a lot about what keeps a marriage going. And I love to hear what others have to say.
So when I had dinner recently with a newlywed couple, the conversation naturally veered toward marriage.
The couple, however, were a well-known porn star and her new hubby, also in The Business. I couldn’t remember a single title of a movie she’d appeared in (can anyone ever remember those titles beyond “Debbie Does Dallas” and “Behind the Green Door”?), but I knew she was a champion of women’s rights and so we hit it off beautifully. But I didn’t really want to talk about insider gossip or size versus technique. What I really wanted to know — and not in a voyeuristic way — was, how do porn stars make marriage work? I mean, just think about it …
By the end of the evening, I had learned their secret: Let go of jealousy, make dates for sex and bring in a third partner every now and then. I’m not sure those are the right ingredients to keep everyone’s marriage intact, but I respect that it’s working for them.
And I’ve learned what would work for me, should I ever walk down the aisle again.
So, because I like to share, here are Kat Wilder’s Secrets to a Successful Marriage. Actually, it’s just one secret: Act like a single person, but a committed one.
Here’s what it looks like:
Remember what it was like when you were single and dating — or trying to date? You hit the gym, you made sure you looked good, you were active and interested and interesting. So what happens after people get into a long-term relationship? They often let themselves go. That’s why as soon as one spouse starts to lose weight and dress nicer, people think, “Uh-oh. Must be cheating.” Why wait until after the divorce? Start doing that. Now. So Rule No. 1 is: Take care of yourself, for yourself.
Here’s one of the best parts of dating, I think — planning something special because you know he loves it, and then making it happen. Dancing at Rancho? A hike and picnic atop Mount Tam to watch the sunset? Snuggling on the couch with a DVD? It’s so nice to think of ways to give someone you care about pleasure. And the anticipation can be pretty intoxicating, depending on what you’re planning. Well, you have to “date” your spouse, too. If your idea of being together is channel-surfing and sharing a bag of chips (even if they are stoneground, organic and blue) night after night, you’re in trouble. That’s OK every once and awhile, but why should the wooing end after you’re tied the knot? Rule No. 2: Date your spouse.
When I was married, I often felt guilty if I spent time apart from my family. I think I probably ended up being a worse wife and mom because of that. I see a lot of friends expecting their lover to be the emcee of all their fun. But no one person can be the one-stop shop for all her needs, nor should he be. He won’t see that chick flick? Go with your girlfriends. He’s got two feet and you like dancing? Take a dance class alone. He wants to spend Sunday watching football? Take your kid and go on a “date.” Rule No. 3 is: Give each other space.
Isn’t in weird how after you’re married awhile you stop talking about the most intimate things? Sex, money, parenting — the things that really need to be updated constantly. If you’ve ever told someone, “My wife doesn’t understand me,” please ask yourself when was the last time you actually told her something honest — spoken in a nonaccusatory, nonjudgmental, loving and caring way, of course — even (and especially) if it’s hard to say? Rule No. 4. Honesty really is the best policy.
Every few days, Trent makes the trek from our house to his dad’s. That means Rob has to cook, clean, plan, help with homework, take him to the doctor and dentist and generally take care of things he never had to do when we were married. Guess what? He’s a better dad than ever! Got an absentee hubby who doesn’t understand what you do all day, doesn’t lift a finger around the house and barely knows his kids? Put him in charge half of the time, and I mean really in charge — permanently. He’ll get it. Rule No. 5: Dads can do it all, too.
The funny thing about being single is that you are often thinking about sex — how long since you’ve had it, and how long it will be until you can get it again. Married people (and gals, you know that’s usually you) use any number of excuses to get out of it. I don’t care how tired, angry, resentful, disappointed, stressed out or generally pissed off you are. Get over it and get on it. With all that oxytocin and testosterone surging, there’s nothing that quite connects a couple like a good romp. Get back into discovering his taste, smell and touch, and start loving the person you promised to cherish forever. Rule No. 6. Have sex — lots of it.
That’s it. I could probably throw in a few more, but you can see what I’m getting at. Now I’m not guaranteeing that these will work, but they’re a really good start.
Worse comes to worse, you can always bring in a third partner …
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