After a few years doing the online dating thing, I've noticed something — I'm attracting the same kind of man, just in a different body and with a different name.
Since I've been through a few therapy sessions (hey, no more than anyone else!), I've been told over and over that I can't change anyone, only myself.
Obviously, the change is going to have to happen to me. As in, a new profile.
I'm not so sure most people are honest in their profiles. I mean, who hasn't agreed to meet a guy who looked kinda cute on Match and then thought he'd sent his bald, overweight father instead to the Starbucks you agreed to rendezvous at?
It's really easy to pretend online to be someone other than who and what you really are. Therapist-types call that "impression management," but we'll just call it lying, OK?
I have been honest, but clearly boring — here's what I like, here's what music I listen to, blah, blah, blah. So as I was sitting at my desk this week, perusing the profiles and quaffing my lovely glass of pinot noir, I got an epiphany — kinda like how Melanie Griffith (when she still was beautiful, not a plastic surgery freak) put that merger deal together in "Working Girl."
I've been learning a little about wine lately, a goal I set for myself ever since I met a writer for one of those wine rags a while back and embarrassed myself by asking how come they don't all get blotto when they're tasting dozens of wine at a sitting.
If you've into wine,you know that wine descriptions are so sensual, so evocative, I wondered why we humans aren't describing ourselves the same way? It's all about marketing, right?
So here are some actual descriptions of wine I've read, but, you know, they just might have been talking about any one of us, don't you think?:
"healthy dose of perceptible sweetness for those who like it that way ..."
"spry and lively and will hold for a good many years ..."
"well-balanced and absolutely delicious ..."
"so carefully put together that it invites early enjoyment ..."
"A great value, zesty and focused ...."
"has plenty of juicy charm ..."
"delicate, pleasant and food-friendly ..."
"brisk and friendly at the same time ..."
"very smooth texture, with a forceful ending ..."
"it comes with the clear promise of five or more years of improvement ..."
And, a personal favorite: "this one never lacks for personality from first sniff to bracing finish. It has a nice bit of fullness to its body and some evident richness on its side as well ..."
Bracing finish? Richness on its side? What guy is going to ignore a profile written like that?
So are you a "juicy charm" type or a "forceful ending"?
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Throwing caution to the wind
I'd like to say that the hikes I look forward to on the weekends are some sort of spiritual connection back to nature, a journey that awakes in me the most organic way.
Well, it's kinda like that — I mean, I do notice the wildflowers that are starting to pop up all over, I've heard the chipmunks and lizards rustling in the bushes, I've maneuvered myself just in time to save one banana slug or another from a certain messy death underfoot and on Sunday, an Anna's hummingbird hovered above long enough for me to marvel at its iridescent beauty. But mostly the trail is a sanctuary for me to think, think, think and then “process” what’s happening in my life and my friends'.
Some of us are faring better than others — the kids are doing well, the careers are moving along, the ex isn't giving us too much grief, we've met someone who's fun to hang with. For others, it's one struggle or another — or perhaps all of them at once.
I'm not so sure it's much easier for the married among us, either. If you're 15-plus years into a marriage, well, there's a lot of — how can I put this delicately? — stuff going on.
So I was deep in thought, trying to figure out a way to help a friend who is so wanting to find a partner and another who’s still hurting after being cruelly dumped. Plus, of course, my own woes — there are a few things I'm anxious about, a few I'm sad about, something I'm confused about and another I'm pissed off about. Sit next to me at a bar or the bus, and I'm not quite sure which emotional state you're going to get.
That's when I passed by an old bay laurel tree that had fallen over, its massive roots exposed. The tree took with it a huge portion of the trail — it would be impossible to miss the gaping hole that it left — but still, someone had cordoned the area around the tree with "caution" tape.
Where, I wonder, is the "caution" tape for us, especially when our "roots" are exposed, when we are left vulnerable to life? Not “caution” as in “watch out, stay away: needy, hormonally-challenged woman ahead,” but “be kind: she’s sorting out some tough things.”
Should we be wrapped in yellow tape announcing a (one hopes, temporary) frailty that demands and deserves a more gentle touch, or do we somehow project that anyway?
And, perhaps more important, would we find shoes to match?
Well, it's kinda like that — I mean, I do notice the wildflowers that are starting to pop up all over, I've heard the chipmunks and lizards rustling in the bushes, I've maneuvered myself just in time to save one banana slug or another from a certain messy death underfoot and on Sunday, an Anna's hummingbird hovered above long enough for me to marvel at its iridescent beauty. But mostly the trail is a sanctuary for me to think, think, think and then “process” what’s happening in my life and my friends'.
Some of us are faring better than others — the kids are doing well, the careers are moving along, the ex isn't giving us too much grief, we've met someone who's fun to hang with. For others, it's one struggle or another — or perhaps all of them at once.
I'm not so sure it's much easier for the married among us, either. If you're 15-plus years into a marriage, well, there's a lot of — how can I put this delicately? — stuff going on.
So I was deep in thought, trying to figure out a way to help a friend who is so wanting to find a partner and another who’s still hurting after being cruelly dumped. Plus, of course, my own woes — there are a few things I'm anxious about, a few I'm sad about, something I'm confused about and another I'm pissed off about. Sit next to me at a bar or the bus, and I'm not quite sure which emotional state you're going to get.
That's when I passed by an old bay laurel tree that had fallen over, its massive roots exposed. The tree took with it a huge portion of the trail — it would be impossible to miss the gaping hole that it left — but still, someone had cordoned the area around the tree with "caution" tape.
Where, I wonder, is the "caution" tape for us, especially when our "roots" are exposed, when we are left vulnerable to life? Not “caution” as in “watch out, stay away: needy, hormonally-challenged woman ahead,” but “be kind: she’s sorting out some tough things.”
Should we be wrapped in yellow tape announcing a (one hopes, temporary) frailty that demands and deserves a more gentle touch, or do we somehow project that anyway?
And, perhaps more important, would we find shoes to match?
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
I'll give, but what do I get?
I was at one of those swanky mill-and-swill fund-raising galas not too long ago — you know, the kind where you spend $400 on a ticket to support your cause, and $4,000 on the outfit, shoes, bag, jewelry, hairstyling, mani/pedi, waxing, glycolic peel and Botox touch-up.
Does this even make sense?
I was invited as a guest and it is a cause I believe in, so I said OK (although I don't really like going to these things). But as I looked around while munching on wasabi-crusted ahi-tempura shrimp wonton puffs and sipping my martini, I had to wonder — would anyone have whipped out his checkbook and written a big fat check to the nonprofit if there wasn't a party attached to it?
"Kat, you're so naive," my friend who works in nonprofits sighs. "Big fancy galas attract people who might not ever think to give to an organization, but they want to see and be seen. Sometimes, they donate a lot more than the ticket cost. Plus, if it's a political fund-raiser, it gives them a chance to schmooze with the candidate."
I get that, but I still have a problem with the type of thinking that says the only way you're going to support a cause is if you get something back from it — a night of gawking, munching and quaffing.
(And speaking of quaffing, there is more drinking at these kinds of events than at a spontaneous teenage get-together — and then they all get behind the wheel of their BMWs, Lexuses, Audis and Porsches and head home. This is scary ....)
Do you have to "get" something in order for you to donate to an organization you believe in? Do you have to "get" something from anything you care about (people, too) before you'll give of yourself?
And should the cops be hanging out at these soirees instead of the bars they usually watch?
Does this even make sense?
I was invited as a guest and it is a cause I believe in, so I said OK (although I don't really like going to these things). But as I looked around while munching on wasabi-crusted ahi-tempura shrimp wonton puffs and sipping my martini, I had to wonder — would anyone have whipped out his checkbook and written a big fat check to the nonprofit if there wasn't a party attached to it?
"Kat, you're so naive," my friend who works in nonprofits sighs. "Big fancy galas attract people who might not ever think to give to an organization, but they want to see and be seen. Sometimes, they donate a lot more than the ticket cost. Plus, if it's a political fund-raiser, it gives them a chance to schmooze with the candidate."
I get that, but I still have a problem with the type of thinking that says the only way you're going to support a cause is if you get something back from it — a night of gawking, munching and quaffing.
(And speaking of quaffing, there is more drinking at these kinds of events than at a spontaneous teenage get-together — and then they all get behind the wheel of their BMWs, Lexuses, Audis and Porsches and head home. This is scary ....)
Do you have to "get" something in order for you to donate to an organization you believe in? Do you have to "get" something from anything you care about (people, too) before you'll give of yourself?
And should the cops be hanging out at these soirees instead of the bars they usually watch?
Monday, March 26, 2007
Call me any, anytime
It's a scary world out there. Every day, it seems there are new things to worry about — E. coli outbreaks, avian bird flu, the HPV epidemic.
Lately I've been noticing a new affliction, one that could have just a devastating effect on our health — our emotional health.
The phone call made when the caller has only a few minutes to talk.
Ryan, a guy I dated a while back, used to do it all the time. About two minutes into a conversation with him, he'd say, "Well, I'm just pulling into my garage now so we're going to lose reception. Bye."
Sometimes Sara does it on her way to work. "Hey, Kat. I'm just about to walk into my office. We haven't spoken in soooo long. How are you?"
Well, not so good, actually, because I have a few tough things going on in my life right now. But with a minute or less to answer, I tell her something that's not quite the truth but easy to hear nonetheless: "Great!"
Even Sean, the single dad I see from time to time, does it. He often calls me as he's on his way to get his daughter from school. "Hi. I'm about to pick up Hanna. Oops, there she is. Hi sweetie! Oh, that's for her. OK, gotta go."
I know we all have busy lives, what with work and our attempts at a social life, along with managing our kids' overbooked calendars.
But with all the new technology to connect us instantaneously with others throughout the world whenever we want, it seems that we're connecting less and less.
I don't fully understand this. I mean, the only time I ever call someone when I know I only have a few minutes to talk is when it's someone who's really long-winded and with whom I have to have some sort of an excuse to get off the phone.
Oh ....
Lately I've been noticing a new affliction, one that could have just a devastating effect on our health — our emotional health.
The phone call made when the caller has only a few minutes to talk.
Ryan, a guy I dated a while back, used to do it all the time. About two minutes into a conversation with him, he'd say, "Well, I'm just pulling into my garage now so we're going to lose reception. Bye."
Sometimes Sara does it on her way to work. "Hey, Kat. I'm just about to walk into my office. We haven't spoken in soooo long. How are you?"
Well, not so good, actually, because I have a few tough things going on in my life right now. But with a minute or less to answer, I tell her something that's not quite the truth but easy to hear nonetheless: "Great!"
Even Sean, the single dad I see from time to time, does it. He often calls me as he's on his way to get his daughter from school. "Hi. I'm about to pick up Hanna. Oops, there she is. Hi sweetie! Oh, that's for her. OK, gotta go."
I know we all have busy lives, what with work and our attempts at a social life, along with managing our kids' overbooked calendars.
But with all the new technology to connect us instantaneously with others throughout the world whenever we want, it seems that we're connecting less and less.
I don't fully understand this. I mean, the only time I ever call someone when I know I only have a few minutes to talk is when it's someone who's really long-winded and with whom I have to have some sort of an excuse to get off the phone.
Oh ....
Saturday, March 24, 2007
I don't feel bad about my neck. Really
Not only am I starting to feel bad about my neck, but I'm beginning to feel bad about feeling bad about my neck.
It's not that I want to feel bad about anything. And my neck was never something I even paid much attention to. It's just that everywhere I look, I'm getting bombared with feel-good-you-go-girl messages aimed at midlife women.
And now I'm worrying that I actually have something to feel bad about.
It all started when I ordered Nora Ephron's funny book "I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts About Being a Woman" from Amazon for a girlfriend's birthday a while back.
Then, the recommendations started coming in about as fast as my mother can dole out advice — and let me tell you, that's fast.
"Hey Kat!" Amazon alerts me in a way that strikes me as way-too-familiar. "Customers who ordered "I Feel Bad About My Neck" also bought. .." and then there are five or six books with titles like "Slap on a Little Lipstick ... You'll Be Fine" and "The Bitch, the Crone, And the Harlot: Reclaiming the Magical Feminine in Midlife " — all with snarky titles but whose message seems to be, you're old and there's nothing you can do it about it but if you're not trying to do something about it then something must be very wrong with you.
I know I'm getting older!! And none of the affirmations, get-with-it sister humor or here's-how-others-turned-this-into-the-best-time-ever messages will change that. But the blitz of books on how to be single, perimenopausal and fortysomething isn't making me feel better about it. It just keeps drawing attention to something I'd rather not notice ... and that I hope others don't, either! "I Feel Bad About My Neck" is a cute book, a light read, a good laugh. It's not a life-altering manifesto.
Plus, I don't like it when any inanimate anything anticipates what I may like. I'm the adult here, I do the thinking and I'll decide for myself, thank you very much. And when a title like "Martha Stewart's Keepsake Wedding Planner" pops up out of some universe other than the one I think I'm living in, I can't help but think, "Amazon, you don't really know me all that well, now do you?" Kinda like the man I married ...
I'm OK with who and what I am, fortysomething, divorced and all. I don't need Amazon helping me out with how I should be living my life, even if I get 20 percent off and free shipping.
I mean, I'm worth so much more than that!
Anyone else have enough of these life-affirming midlife single women books?
It's not that I want to feel bad about anything. And my neck was never something I even paid much attention to. It's just that everywhere I look, I'm getting bombared with feel-good-you-go-girl messages aimed at midlife women.
And now I'm worrying that I actually have something to feel bad about.
It all started when I ordered Nora Ephron's funny book "I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts About Being a Woman" from Amazon for a girlfriend's birthday a while back.
Then, the recommendations started coming in about as fast as my mother can dole out advice — and let me tell you, that's fast.
"Hey Kat!" Amazon alerts me in a way that strikes me as way-too-familiar. "Customers who ordered "I Feel Bad About My Neck" also bought. .." and then there are five or six books with titles like "Slap on a Little Lipstick ... You'll Be Fine" and "The Bitch, the Crone, And the Harlot: Reclaiming the Magical Feminine in Midlife " — all with snarky titles but whose message seems to be, you're old and there's nothing you can do it about it but if you're not trying to do something about it then something must be very wrong with you.
I know I'm getting older!! And none of the affirmations, get-with-it sister humor or here's-how-others-turned-this-into-the-best-time-ever messages will change that. But the blitz of books on how to be single, perimenopausal and fortysomething isn't making me feel better about it. It just keeps drawing attention to something I'd rather not notice ... and that I hope others don't, either! "I Feel Bad About My Neck" is a cute book, a light read, a good laugh. It's not a life-altering manifesto.
Plus, I don't like it when any inanimate anything anticipates what I may like. I'm the adult here, I do the thinking and I'll decide for myself, thank you very much. And when a title like "Martha Stewart's Keepsake Wedding Planner" pops up out of some universe other than the one I think I'm living in, I can't help but think, "Amazon, you don't really know me all that well, now do you?" Kinda like the man I married ...
I'm OK with who and what I am, fortysomething, divorced and all. I don't need Amazon helping me out with how I should be living my life, even if I get 20 percent off and free shipping.
I mean, I'm worth so much more than that!
Anyone else have enough of these life-affirming midlife single women books?
Friday, March 23, 2007
Keep it real
You can blame your parents for lots of things — the nagging, the spanking, the bad behaviors and the "I can't" messages we internalize — but can you point the finger at them for passing on bad genes, specifically those that would not only send you out to buy artificial flowers but actually display them proudly in your home?
Actually, I'm OK with most of what I got out of the gene pool. I have my mom's butt (this is good), I have my dad's blue-green eyes (ditto), I have the thick hair of both (cumbersome at times, but, generally no complaints) as well as their artistic sensibility (meaning I, too, am drawn to those professions that give me great joy but no income).
Now I am fearful there's some recessive gene that is going to pop up as I age and make me toss out all my green plants and orchids and replace them with the fake stuff — as I recently discovered my Mom did.
I'm not sure when it happened. I hadn't been home in around a year, and even though I speak to my parents weekly, we're usually not talking about the state of her houseplants.
And she was a prolific grower, too. She had plants in the kitchen, in the living room, on the book shelves in the den, in the guest room, in their bedroom and all over the patio. She even tried to grow them in the windowless bathroom. And she was always taking cuttings from one or the other to create even more — they grew exponentially, like bunnies!
The shock came, however, when I went back home recently. At first glance, nothing looked different. But as I got closer, I uncovered the deception. Everywhere I looked — fake flowers, fake plants, fake orchids, fake cacti of all ridiculous things. Plastic, silk and dried, she has them all.
"Why, Mom?" I beseeched her. "What happened?"
"They took so much time to water and there was always dirt everywhere," she said in defense of her rash (well, in my mind) decision. "I got tired of them. The fake ones are so much easier to handle."
"But I thought you loved them."
"Love goes away sometimes."
I thought about that for a while. Love does go away sometimes — I know this from experience. And it's often messy, too. I also acknowledge that it's verrry tempting to want something easier.
But there's just no way that anything fake, no matter how realistic it may look and feel, can truly replace the real thing — plants or love.
When you look closely at either, it's not too hard to figure out which is which.
Actually, I'm OK with most of what I got out of the gene pool. I have my mom's butt (this is good), I have my dad's blue-green eyes (ditto), I have the thick hair of both (cumbersome at times, but, generally no complaints) as well as their artistic sensibility (meaning I, too, am drawn to those professions that give me great joy but no income).
Now I am fearful there's some recessive gene that is going to pop up as I age and make me toss out all my green plants and orchids and replace them with the fake stuff — as I recently discovered my Mom did.
I'm not sure when it happened. I hadn't been home in around a year, and even though I speak to my parents weekly, we're usually not talking about the state of her houseplants.
And she was a prolific grower, too. She had plants in the kitchen, in the living room, on the book shelves in the den, in the guest room, in their bedroom and all over the patio. She even tried to grow them in the windowless bathroom. And she was always taking cuttings from one or the other to create even more — they grew exponentially, like bunnies!
The shock came, however, when I went back home recently. At first glance, nothing looked different. But as I got closer, I uncovered the deception. Everywhere I looked — fake flowers, fake plants, fake orchids, fake cacti of all ridiculous things. Plastic, silk and dried, she has them all.
"Why, Mom?" I beseeched her. "What happened?"
"They took so much time to water and there was always dirt everywhere," she said in defense of her rash (well, in my mind) decision. "I got tired of them. The fake ones are so much easier to handle."
"But I thought you loved them."
"Love goes away sometimes."
I thought about that for a while. Love does go away sometimes — I know this from experience. And it's often messy, too. I also acknowledge that it's verrry tempting to want something easier.
But there's just no way that anything fake, no matter how realistic it may look and feel, can truly replace the real thing — plants or love.
When you look closely at either, it's not too hard to figure out which is which.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Girls, get your flirt on
I ran into my co-worker as he was heading back to the office and I was heading out for lunch the other day. We started into our usual suggestive banter thing when Ali called me on my cell and caught a snippet of our conversation.
"Excuse me, there, Ms. Tease. Exactly who were you talking to just then?"
"Oh, that's Scott. He's about 41 or 42, cute as can be and with a bod that just oozes sex."
"Single?"
"Uh-huh."
"And so ...?
"Oh no, forget that. I never would date anyone from work. That's a disaster. And anyway, he's my flirt."
I heard Ali sigh, a really big, long, deep sigh. "I miss my flirts. Ever since I left work, the only flirt I get is from the Starbucks barista. It's not enough!"
It's true. A single gal just can't function properly in the world if she doesn't have "flirts" — men who give her praise, attention and just the hint of something naughty even though everyone knows nothing will ever come of it, nor should it. It's just validation of us being sexy, hot, desirable women who can still turn a head or two and get a pulse racing, no matter how old we are.
And you can't have just one. I mean, what if Scott quits or gets fired? You have to have a slew of them, scattered all over.
I've got one at the Peet's not too far from my downtown SF office. He's about twentysomething with piercings up and down his ears and most likely in places I'm not sure I want to know about, but he sure knows how I like my cappuccino. And my sense of style. "Are those Choos?"
"Silly, you know I can't afford Jimmy Choo. Discount rack at Macy's, last year."
"If I were your boyfriend, you'd be wearing Choos — with nothing else. When are you going to let me take you out?"
Then there's the deli counter guy who serves up my Caesar salad with "sweetie" and a wink. ""I'm going to put a few extra croutons and cheese on it, sweetie, OK, because you're looking so skinny you're going to blow away one day. You're never gonna find a man if you don't give him something to hold on to, OK, sweetie?"
Back in my 'hood, there's the bartender who tops off my pinot and buys me some munchies every once and a while.
And I think I might be acquiring a new one. Just recently, I noticed my garbage man is being especially friendly. Sure, it was extra pick-up week, but he didn't have to take all those rusty paint cans.
Are these guys working me? Oh yeah. Do they flirt with every women? Probably. Do I care? Oh, please! Because you know, I give it right back to them. Who doesn't want to have a little tease throughout the day?
Girls, do you have your flirt on?
"Excuse me, there, Ms. Tease. Exactly who were you talking to just then?"
"Oh, that's Scott. He's about 41 or 42, cute as can be and with a bod that just oozes sex."
"Single?"
"Uh-huh."
"And so ...?
"Oh no, forget that. I never would date anyone from work. That's a disaster. And anyway, he's my flirt."
I heard Ali sigh, a really big, long, deep sigh. "I miss my flirts. Ever since I left work, the only flirt I get is from the Starbucks barista. It's not enough!"
It's true. A single gal just can't function properly in the world if she doesn't have "flirts" — men who give her praise, attention and just the hint of something naughty even though everyone knows nothing will ever come of it, nor should it. It's just validation of us being sexy, hot, desirable women who can still turn a head or two and get a pulse racing, no matter how old we are.
And you can't have just one. I mean, what if Scott quits or gets fired? You have to have a slew of them, scattered all over.
I've got one at the Peet's not too far from my downtown SF office. He's about twentysomething with piercings up and down his ears and most likely in places I'm not sure I want to know about, but he sure knows how I like my cappuccino. And my sense of style. "Are those Choos?"
"Silly, you know I can't afford Jimmy Choo. Discount rack at Macy's, last year."
"If I were your boyfriend, you'd be wearing Choos — with nothing else. When are you going to let me take you out?"
Then there's the deli counter guy who serves up my Caesar salad with "sweetie" and a wink. ""I'm going to put a few extra croutons and cheese on it, sweetie, OK, because you're looking so skinny you're going to blow away one day. You're never gonna find a man if you don't give him something to hold on to, OK, sweetie?"
Back in my 'hood, there's the bartender who tops off my pinot and buys me some munchies every once and a while.
And I think I might be acquiring a new one. Just recently, I noticed my garbage man is being especially friendly. Sure, it was extra pick-up week, but he didn't have to take all those rusty paint cans.
Are these guys working me? Oh yeah. Do they flirt with every women? Probably. Do I care? Oh, please! Because you know, I give it right back to them. Who doesn't want to have a little tease throughout the day?
Girls, do you have your flirt on?
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Eat, Shop, Man, Woman
I don't even pretend to understand the male-female divide, but I do know this: there are certain things that women do that men will not only never do, but can't even comprehend — like going to the bathroom en masse, like complimenting the way each other's ass looks in a certain pair of jeans and like driving two hours one way and two hours back to go shopping.
Yeah, that's right. Shopping.
"You drove to Santa Cruz to shop?" Sean asked me with that incredulous tone of voice and raised eyebrow that can only lead to more uncomfortable questioning that I won't be able to justify with any basis in reality.
But I'm so hip to that. "Yes, and worse yet," I said, thinking I'd beat him to his own game with self-deprecating honesty, "we went all the way down there to shop at one store."
"One store?"
I tried to fight the feeling that he was Dr. Phil trying to get me to acknowledge that something was inherently wrong with my way of thinking and being. So I got a little cocky. "Yep. The Annieglass seconds store. And then we did lunch. Notice I said did lunch, not had lunch. There's a difference."
"Whatever."
He says that a lot, I've noticed.
OK, men are from Mars, women are from Venus and ... I'm OK with that. I don't want men to be on my planet all the time — just visit and then go — and I certainly don't want to be My Favorite Martian. I like that we're different. It makes for lots of interesting conversations and situations (not to mention those other delights). In fact, if men and women were alike, I'm not so sure my friends and I would have much to talk about except our kids. As joyous and complicated as those conversations can be, men-women talk has a sexual edge, and when you get right down to it, who doesn’t love talking about that, right?
I'm not a big shopper. In fact, I hate malls, and some plain depress me— not unlike how I feel when I'm in a South Lake Tahoe or Reno casino. But the Santa Cruz trip wasn't really about the shopping. It was about being together, sharing, experiencing the wonderful connection known as sisterhood.
Guys do that, too — golf, fishing and sporting events are the obvious male-bonding experiences. But if you pay attention, you can get glimpses into the male mind that are much more subtle, more intimate.
I realized that recently when, after a great sushi dinner, Sean said, "I want some ice cream. Let's go to Baskin-Robbins."
"Ice cream? It's freezing out! No one eats ice cream in winter except kids!"
"I do. Come on."
"OK," I said, trying to sound dispassionate despite the visions of Red No. 2, diglycerides and BGH-tainted cream that clouded my head. But, if that's what the man wants, so be it. "I'll treat," I said.
He knew just what he wanted: Two scoops of Quarterback Crunch in a waffle cone.
"That's mumble dollar 90," the cashier said.
"$1.90?"
"No, $4.90."
"4.90???!!!!" I thought to myself as I handed over my money. Sean was munching away — he was so happy, like a kid — when I looked around the store. At the corner table were kids, all boys, happily munching away, too.
"You do realize that the only other people eating ice cream here are teenage boys," I said to Sean.
"And your point is ...?"
There is no point, just as there's no point to driving four hours to buy discounted slightly defective glassware. Sometimes, we shouldn’t question. We should accept
Yeah, that's right. Shopping.
"You drove to Santa Cruz to shop?" Sean asked me with that incredulous tone of voice and raised eyebrow that can only lead to more uncomfortable questioning that I won't be able to justify with any basis in reality.
But I'm so hip to that. "Yes, and worse yet," I said, thinking I'd beat him to his own game with self-deprecating honesty, "we went all the way down there to shop at one store."
"One store?"
I tried to fight the feeling that he was Dr. Phil trying to get me to acknowledge that something was inherently wrong with my way of thinking and being. So I got a little cocky. "Yep. The Annieglass seconds store. And then we did lunch. Notice I said did lunch, not had lunch. There's a difference."
"Whatever."
He says that a lot, I've noticed.
OK, men are from Mars, women are from Venus and ... I'm OK with that. I don't want men to be on my planet all the time — just visit and then go — and I certainly don't want to be My Favorite Martian. I like that we're different. It makes for lots of interesting conversations and situations (not to mention those other delights). In fact, if men and women were alike, I'm not so sure my friends and I would have much to talk about except our kids. As joyous and complicated as those conversations can be, men-women talk has a sexual edge, and when you get right down to it, who doesn’t love talking about that, right?
I'm not a big shopper. In fact, I hate malls, and some plain depress me— not unlike how I feel when I'm in a South Lake Tahoe or Reno casino. But the Santa Cruz trip wasn't really about the shopping. It was about being together, sharing, experiencing the wonderful connection known as sisterhood.
Guys do that, too — golf, fishing and sporting events are the obvious male-bonding experiences. But if you pay attention, you can get glimpses into the male mind that are much more subtle, more intimate.
I realized that recently when, after a great sushi dinner, Sean said, "I want some ice cream. Let's go to Baskin-Robbins."
"Ice cream? It's freezing out! No one eats ice cream in winter except kids!"
"I do. Come on."
"OK," I said, trying to sound dispassionate despite the visions of Red No. 2, diglycerides and BGH-tainted cream that clouded my head. But, if that's what the man wants, so be it. "I'll treat," I said.
He knew just what he wanted: Two scoops of Quarterback Crunch in a waffle cone.
"That's mumble dollar 90," the cashier said.
"$1.90?"
"No, $4.90."
"4.90???!!!!" I thought to myself as I handed over my money. Sean was munching away — he was so happy, like a kid — when I looked around the store. At the corner table were kids, all boys, happily munching away, too.
"You do realize that the only other people eating ice cream here are teenage boys," I said to Sean.
"And your point is ...?"
There is no point, just as there's no point to driving four hours to buy discounted slightly defective glassware. Sometimes, we shouldn’t question. We should accept
Monday, March 19, 2007
Whose youthful indiscretions?
For many years, the only pot my girlfriends and I have dealt with was the one in our Calphalon sets.
Then two things happened. We became mothers of teenagers, and some of us got divorced.
Take a bunch of aging former hippie and stoner baby boomers and strip them of marriage, and what you have is an entire population of single 420-friendly men primed to date. And it seems a lot of them live here in Marin.
No matter how you feel about drugs and booze, it does present some interesting dilemmas in our search for a new partner.
One girlfriend was head-over-heels and planning a future with a guy who was more than 420-friendly — he was having a long-term full-blown affair.
I know I have been just as foolish when it comes to love as the next gal, but I have to wonder: After the painful divorces we’ve all gone through, would these be the smartest life-partners to choose?
Are these the kind of men we want to stepdad our kids?
I don’t know how others would handle it, but I would have a tough time telling Trent, my 14-year-old, to stay away from pot while his new stepdad was lighting up in the next room.
Sometimes I feel pretty alone in this. Or maybe, like my parents and their “When I was your age ...” speeches, old.
But something is happening here that wasn’t happening when I was growing up.
Used to be that we hid whatever we were doing, whether we inhaled or not, from our parents; now, Marin parents think it’s better that they supply the pot and booze because “the kids are going to do it anyway, so why not have them do it here, in the safety of our home, where I can watch them?”
While I can appreciate the perhaps-genuine-if-convoluted concern behind that thinking, it is so wrong — even if it weren’t illegal. Want to serve booze to your kid? Want to smoke pot with your kid? OK, but I reserve the right to decide if you serve it to and smoke it with mine. And the answer is no, you can’t.
I see it as just another way Marin parents have micromanaged their children’s lives. Marin kids can’t even experience their own “youthful indiscretions” without having their parents sticking their fingers in it!
It’s the same way parents have taken over kids’ sports. They’ve taken a game that only required a ball, gloves and some bats or a soccer ball and feet and turned it into a managed and coached sport that requires dossiers on each player (and their parents) and player drafts and restraining orders against those parents who can’t respect the rules of the game and personal coaches and way too many parties at Round Table Pizza to hand out gigantic trophies — at the end of a losing season.
I know that this viewpoint doesn’t always make me popular, especially given my own youthful indiscretions.
“You’re a hypocrite,” scolds one friend who occasionally lights up with her older kids.
That may be so, but I don’t care. It was one thing to be on the teenage side of drinking and drugs; it’s another thing to be on the parental side of it. This side isn’t having nearly as much fun with it as the kids are.
And recent studies here (http://10.1.187.19/archives/archive/search/_1168386218/?search[view]=detail&search[focus]=1) show that more Marin ninth-graders are drinking alcohol, getting stoned on pot and binge drinking than in previous years (and Marin kids consistently report higher pot use than the rest of the state). That’s what Trent will be facing next year in high school ... or, as I learned recently, even sooner.
I was about to drop Trent off at a get-together at the home of one of his friends. Everyone was happy about this; he’d be hanging with his buds, and I had a plan to hang with mine. But as we approached the house, I saw a handful of really big boys carrying something that could only be a case of beer.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Mom, chill. It’s OK.”
“Oh really? I don’t think so. The only chill thing going on in this scenario is the case those boys are carrying,” I said as I parked the van. “I’m going to go talk to Dylan’s parents.”
I’m not so sure Trent heard me from the spot on the floor he had scrunched his body into so no one could identify him as the one with the crazy mother.
But as it turns out, I’m not so sure I was the crazy mother. A few minutes into my chat with Dylan’s mom, I could see that a little beer among friends wasn’t too much of a problem to her (although some of the boys had driven themselves to the party — and isn’t that interesting?).
A few minutes before, a few minutes after, and I would not have seen the beer. I would have dropped Trent off, said, “I love you,” and gone off to create my own fun. Timing, as they say, is everything.
I got back into the van, turned around and we headed home.
If you are not a person who believes in hell, trust me, it exists, because that’s what I was in, stuck in a house with a kid filled with so much hatred for a mother who had ruined his evening, his fun, his friendships and most probably, his life. I don’t think I’d ever suffered so much, even during the divorce. There was an oppressiveness in my house that was about as gloomy as the Mordor battle scenes in “The Lord of the Rings.”
It was one of the few times I really missed having a husband around because I was desperate to have someone hold me tight and tell me it was all going to be OK, that I was doing the right thing, that this wasn’t going to be the turning point in Trent’s life, changing a relatively decent and polite boy into a pierced and tattooed addict strung-out on the Tenderloin’s mean streets.
The next morning, we had somehow made it from hell back to Earth, albeit a bit bedraggled.
Then, of course, it was time for The Talk.
He listened, with a mere smattering of eye-rolls, as I tried hard not to turn The Talk into The Lecture.
“But Mom,” Trent protested, “didn’t you ever drink beer as a kid?”
Not much, actually, although I was thankful he didn’t ask me about tequila, gin or Boone’s Farm.
The truth is, I had done a lot of really stupid things as a teenager despite being a “good” kid and an A student. Sometimes, I think it was just plain luck that I survived. A lot of my friends feel the same way about their own teen years.
I know Trent’s going to experiment. I know he’s going to stumble, fall, push the limits, rebel, mess up and struggle. I want Trent to know that I’m going to be there to love and support him.
I’m just not going to supply him.
Then two things happened. We became mothers of teenagers, and some of us got divorced.
Take a bunch of aging former hippie and stoner baby boomers and strip them of marriage, and what you have is an entire population of single 420-friendly men primed to date. And it seems a lot of them live here in Marin.
No matter how you feel about drugs and booze, it does present some interesting dilemmas in our search for a new partner.
One girlfriend was head-over-heels and planning a future with a guy who was more than 420-friendly — he was having a long-term full-blown affair.
I know I have been just as foolish when it comes to love as the next gal, but I have to wonder: After the painful divorces we’ve all gone through, would these be the smartest life-partners to choose?
Are these the kind of men we want to stepdad our kids?
I don’t know how others would handle it, but I would have a tough time telling Trent, my 14-year-old, to stay away from pot while his new stepdad was lighting up in the next room.
Sometimes I feel pretty alone in this. Or maybe, like my parents and their “When I was your age ...” speeches, old.
But something is happening here that wasn’t happening when I was growing up.
Used to be that we hid whatever we were doing, whether we inhaled or not, from our parents; now, Marin parents think it’s better that they supply the pot and booze because “the kids are going to do it anyway, so why not have them do it here, in the safety of our home, where I can watch them?”
While I can appreciate the perhaps-genuine-if-convoluted concern behind that thinking, it is so wrong — even if it weren’t illegal. Want to serve booze to your kid? Want to smoke pot with your kid? OK, but I reserve the right to decide if you serve it to and smoke it with mine. And the answer is no, you can’t.
I see it as just another way Marin parents have micromanaged their children’s lives. Marin kids can’t even experience their own “youthful indiscretions” without having their parents sticking their fingers in it!
It’s the same way parents have taken over kids’ sports. They’ve taken a game that only required a ball, gloves and some bats or a soccer ball and feet and turned it into a managed and coached sport that requires dossiers on each player (and their parents) and player drafts and restraining orders against those parents who can’t respect the rules of the game and personal coaches and way too many parties at Round Table Pizza to hand out gigantic trophies — at the end of a losing season.
I know that this viewpoint doesn’t always make me popular, especially given my own youthful indiscretions.
“You’re a hypocrite,” scolds one friend who occasionally lights up with her older kids.
That may be so, but I don’t care. It was one thing to be on the teenage side of drinking and drugs; it’s another thing to be on the parental side of it. This side isn’t having nearly as much fun with it as the kids are.
And recent studies here (http://10.1.187.19/archives/archive/search/_1168386218/?search[view]=detail&search[focus]=1) show that more Marin ninth-graders are drinking alcohol, getting stoned on pot and binge drinking than in previous years (and Marin kids consistently report higher pot use than the rest of the state). That’s what Trent will be facing next year in high school ... or, as I learned recently, even sooner.
I was about to drop Trent off at a get-together at the home of one of his friends. Everyone was happy about this; he’d be hanging with his buds, and I had a plan to hang with mine. But as we approached the house, I saw a handful of really big boys carrying something that could only be a case of beer.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Mom, chill. It’s OK.”
“Oh really? I don’t think so. The only chill thing going on in this scenario is the case those boys are carrying,” I said as I parked the van. “I’m going to go talk to Dylan’s parents.”
I’m not so sure Trent heard me from the spot on the floor he had scrunched his body into so no one could identify him as the one with the crazy mother.
But as it turns out, I’m not so sure I was the crazy mother. A few minutes into my chat with Dylan’s mom, I could see that a little beer among friends wasn’t too much of a problem to her (although some of the boys had driven themselves to the party — and isn’t that interesting?).
A few minutes before, a few minutes after, and I would not have seen the beer. I would have dropped Trent off, said, “I love you,” and gone off to create my own fun. Timing, as they say, is everything.
I got back into the van, turned around and we headed home.
If you are not a person who believes in hell, trust me, it exists, because that’s what I was in, stuck in a house with a kid filled with so much hatred for a mother who had ruined his evening, his fun, his friendships and most probably, his life. I don’t think I’d ever suffered so much, even during the divorce. There was an oppressiveness in my house that was about as gloomy as the Mordor battle scenes in “The Lord of the Rings.”
It was one of the few times I really missed having a husband around because I was desperate to have someone hold me tight and tell me it was all going to be OK, that I was doing the right thing, that this wasn’t going to be the turning point in Trent’s life, changing a relatively decent and polite boy into a pierced and tattooed addict strung-out on the Tenderloin’s mean streets.
The next morning, we had somehow made it from hell back to Earth, albeit a bit bedraggled.
Then, of course, it was time for The Talk.
He listened, with a mere smattering of eye-rolls, as I tried hard not to turn The Talk into The Lecture.
“But Mom,” Trent protested, “didn’t you ever drink beer as a kid?”
Not much, actually, although I was thankful he didn’t ask me about tequila, gin or Boone’s Farm.
The truth is, I had done a lot of really stupid things as a teenager despite being a “good” kid and an A student. Sometimes, I think it was just plain luck that I survived. A lot of my friends feel the same way about their own teen years.
I know Trent’s going to experiment. I know he’s going to stumble, fall, push the limits, rebel, mess up and struggle. I want Trent to know that I’m going to be there to love and support him.
I’m just not going to supply him.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
How true is too good?
"He's too good to be true!"
I've heard that a few times; once I even felt that — until I realized he really wasn't. So I'm wondering if "too good to be true" is true, can it really be good?
I was listening to my girlfriend gush over her new lover, a early-50ish divorced dad (from a 20-plus-year marriage — longevity!), with a laundry list of all his finer points. Handsome, sexy, tall, filthy rich (oh be quiet: for some that's important, and who are we to judge?), kind, erudite, nature-lover, foodie, great lover ... shoot, even I was beginning to get gushy.
"And, he's taken his profile off, and I took mine off, and he's asked me what I want my future to look like ..."
My first thought was, hey, does he have a brother?
"... he even offered to support me so I don't have to work full time!"
Whoa, Nelly! Red flag radar rising!
"So, how long have you known him?"
"We've gone on our fifth date. About two weeks."
Fifth date????
Two weeks???
I told her how happy I am for her, and that is very genuine: I am, because I think she deserves a man who will love, treasure and respect her.
Yet — and maybe I'm a cynical and suspicious broad — I have hard time hearing — and believing — that a guy could get a sense of a woman so quickly that he'd offer all that, especially the supporting her part.
Now, switch the genders, and have a woman talk like that and ... that guy is outta there. Just watch him run!
And, really — how much can you know about a person in five dates and numerous phone calls? Yes, you can get a sorta good sense of a person, but ...
I think it's cool that they agreed to take their profiles off (actually, it's too soon, but perhaps that's just me). I think it's fantastic that they talked about the realities of what they want in the future —who doesn't want a partner who shares a similar vision? — and since both still have teens at home and live 45 minutes apart, no one's going to be moving closer or in together anytime soon. But I have a real problem with the offer of supporting her, not that there's anything wrong with it if that's truly how it plays out but ... a wealthy man should be careful about throwing that kind of offer around, don't you think?
So, are we women gullible? Could a man really fall in love at first sight and decide she's The One in two weeks? If a man can do it, can a woman do it, too, and have the man feel the same way? Is it a good thing if someone is "too good to be true"?
I've heard that a few times; once I even felt that — until I realized he really wasn't. So I'm wondering if "too good to be true" is true, can it really be good?
I was listening to my girlfriend gush over her new lover, a early-50ish divorced dad (from a 20-plus-year marriage — longevity!), with a laundry list of all his finer points. Handsome, sexy, tall, filthy rich (oh be quiet: for some that's important, and who are we to judge?), kind, erudite, nature-lover, foodie, great lover ... shoot, even I was beginning to get gushy.
"And, he's taken his profile off, and I took mine off, and he's asked me what I want my future to look like ..."
My first thought was, hey, does he have a brother?
"... he even offered to support me so I don't have to work full time!"
Whoa, Nelly! Red flag radar rising!
"So, how long have you known him?"
"We've gone on our fifth date. About two weeks."
Fifth date????
Two weeks???
I told her how happy I am for her, and that is very genuine: I am, because I think she deserves a man who will love, treasure and respect her.
Yet — and maybe I'm a cynical and suspicious broad — I have hard time hearing — and believing — that a guy could get a sense of a woman so quickly that he'd offer all that, especially the supporting her part.
Now, switch the genders, and have a woman talk like that and ... that guy is outta there. Just watch him run!
And, really — how much can you know about a person in five dates and numerous phone calls? Yes, you can get a sorta good sense of a person, but ...
I think it's cool that they agreed to take their profiles off (actually, it's too soon, but perhaps that's just me). I think it's fantastic that they talked about the realities of what they want in the future —who doesn't want a partner who shares a similar vision? — and since both still have teens at home and live 45 minutes apart, no one's going to be moving closer or in together anytime soon. But I have a real problem with the offer of supporting her, not that there's anything wrong with it if that's truly how it plays out but ... a wealthy man should be careful about throwing that kind of offer around, don't you think?
So, are we women gullible? Could a man really fall in love at first sight and decide she's The One in two weeks? If a man can do it, can a woman do it, too, and have the man feel the same way? Is it a good thing if someone is "too good to be true"?
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Haunted by the past
It was late last night, almost this morning, and Sean and I were catching up on the phone. We hadn't spoken in a while, and it was so wonderful to be lying on my cozy bed after my rough week, listening to his melodic voice, when ...
"Hello? HELLOOOO?"
I feel asleep on him! — dooming myself to forever be known as "The Not-Quite Girlfriend Who Fell Asleep on Me."
My bad.
I apologized, of course. But I don't know if this will be the end of it. I don't really know if Sean (the single dad I see from time to time) is the kind of guy who is keeping a mental ledger of all my misdeeds only to one day throw them in my face when we have a tiff that has nothing to do with my "sleep issue" or any other past mistake. We've never gone there, and I don't want to go there with him ... or anyone.
But I know a lot of people who do bring up past wrong-doings over and over and over. I don't understand that type of thinking. I guess it has something to do with power and control, or needing to be right, or maybe even contempt — I don't understand any of those, either, in a relationship with someone you say you love — or maybe an issue with forgiveness (or the lack of it), and the ability to move on.
Reminding someone of his mistakes every time you fight just pushes him away. Then perhaps one day he'll be exercising his ability to move on.
Hey, it's called the "past" because it's over. Put it to rest already.
Do you keep track of all the wrong-doings of a lover and dredge them up during a fight?
And if someone fell asleep on you while you were talking — deal-breaker or what?
"Hello? HELLOOOO?"
I feel asleep on him! — dooming myself to forever be known as "The Not-Quite Girlfriend Who Fell Asleep on Me."
My bad.
I apologized, of course. But I don't know if this will be the end of it. I don't really know if Sean (the single dad I see from time to time) is the kind of guy who is keeping a mental ledger of all my misdeeds only to one day throw them in my face when we have a tiff that has nothing to do with my "sleep issue" or any other past mistake. We've never gone there, and I don't want to go there with him ... or anyone.
But I know a lot of people who do bring up past wrong-doings over and over and over. I don't understand that type of thinking. I guess it has something to do with power and control, or needing to be right, or maybe even contempt — I don't understand any of those, either, in a relationship with someone you say you love — or maybe an issue with forgiveness (or the lack of it), and the ability to move on.
Reminding someone of his mistakes every time you fight just pushes him away. Then perhaps one day he'll be exercising his ability to move on.
Hey, it's called the "past" because it's over. Put it to rest already.
Do you keep track of all the wrong-doings of a lover and dredge them up during a fight?
And if someone fell asleep on you while you were talking — deal-breaker or what?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
I'm too sexy for my... slippers
"What in the world are those?"
Sean is looking at my feet, well, not my feet but what's on them.
"They're my sex kitten slippers. I just got them. Do you like them?"
"They're ridiculous!"
"They are not ridiculous. They're sexy!" I say, a bit miffed, about my black marabou-topped satin slip-on pumps. You know, the kind the Vargas' pin-up women wore, and they sure looked sexy. "What do you want me to wear — Isotoners?"
"Whatever."
Hmm, not quite the desired reaction.
I like my slippers, and it doesn't really bother me if Sean — the single dad I see from time to time — doesn't. But I do want his version of what sexy is and mine to jibe because I want him to view me that way.
But when you come down to it, what is sexy?
It certainly isn't the skanky outfits so many high-school girls are wearing nowadays. That just looks cheap — even The Kid thinks so, and I'm proud of him for thinking that way. But that doesn't mean it doesn't get the desired reaction, "Look at me," from him and others. It certainly announces, "I'm a sexual being," but is that the same as looking sexy?
My fortysomething friend Jen, who has what can only be described as kick-ass cleavage, often wears tight, low-cut shirts that put that cleavage really out there. But then she gets all tweaked when men react to it. Can you have it both ways?
I don't share that same feature (sadly, I might add. I've been robbed of a bustline!) but I definitely dress to accentuate my best feature, which is far, far away from the chest — like in another galaxy.
I also like to wear fishnet stockings, and I guess those have a certain connotation. Sometimes I wear them exactly because of that, but not always — like when I wear them to work.
And I don't get weirded out if men put a sexual spin on what I wear — I'm a sexual being, for goodness sake! I think I've finally learned how to respond to that without getting angry, flustered or just plain overreacting. If it's lewd, well, I'll have some sort of snarky response. If it's innocent, I'll make a joke. If he's attractive and single, someone better end up with someone's phone number ...
Anyway, it isn't really what a women wears that determines what's sexy and what isn't; it's how she wears it — with confidence — don't you think?
Sean prefers me naked, anyway. Guess I'll have to leave the slippers off, too.
So what's sexy for you?
And, honestly: black marabou-topped satin slip-on pumps or Isotoners? I mean, really!
Sean is looking at my feet, well, not my feet but what's on them.
"They're my sex kitten slippers. I just got them. Do you like them?"
"They're ridiculous!"
"They are not ridiculous. They're sexy!" I say, a bit miffed, about my black marabou-topped satin slip-on pumps. You know, the kind the Vargas' pin-up women wore, and they sure looked sexy. "What do you want me to wear — Isotoners?"
"Whatever."
Hmm, not quite the desired reaction.
I like my slippers, and it doesn't really bother me if Sean — the single dad I see from time to time — doesn't. But I do want his version of what sexy is and mine to jibe because I want him to view me that way.
But when you come down to it, what is sexy?
It certainly isn't the skanky outfits so many high-school girls are wearing nowadays. That just looks cheap — even The Kid thinks so, and I'm proud of him for thinking that way. But that doesn't mean it doesn't get the desired reaction, "Look at me," from him and others. It certainly announces, "I'm a sexual being," but is that the same as looking sexy?
My fortysomething friend Jen, who has what can only be described as kick-ass cleavage, often wears tight, low-cut shirts that put that cleavage really out there. But then she gets all tweaked when men react to it. Can you have it both ways?
I don't share that same feature (sadly, I might add. I've been robbed of a bustline!) but I definitely dress to accentuate my best feature, which is far, far away from the chest — like in another galaxy.
I also like to wear fishnet stockings, and I guess those have a certain connotation. Sometimes I wear them exactly because of that, but not always — like when I wear them to work.
And I don't get weirded out if men put a sexual spin on what I wear — I'm a sexual being, for goodness sake! I think I've finally learned how to respond to that without getting angry, flustered or just plain overreacting. If it's lewd, well, I'll have some sort of snarky response. If it's innocent, I'll make a joke. If he's attractive and single, someone better end up with someone's phone number ...
Anyway, it isn't really what a women wears that determines what's sexy and what isn't; it's how she wears it — with confidence — don't you think?
Sean prefers me naked, anyway. Guess I'll have to leave the slippers off, too.
So what's sexy for you?
And, honestly: black marabou-topped satin slip-on pumps or Isotoners? I mean, really!
Monday, March 12, 2007
Lie back and relax, OK?
It's March, and that means a few things — St. Paddy's Day, spring's a coming, Daylight Savings Time (earlier than ever), March Madness (whatever that is, but please don't explain it to me, OK?) and it's time for me to once again spread my legs and open wide for the only man I don't call Sweetie or Honey-Baby but who still knows my nether regions intimately.
My gyno.
Is it weird to strip naked, get on your back, spread your legs and have a man get up close and person with your privates? Yes ... but I don't have a problem with it. I love my gyno; he's kind, funny, gentle and listens to my concerns. It never feels awkward with him because I trust him.
I know many women feel more comfortable with a female gynecologist. Only a woman would know another woman so well, the thinking goes, because she likely has experienced or still is experiencing the same things — PMS, infections, birth-control choices, hot flashes, etc. Women have a lot of anxiety over sharing intimate things with "strangers" — having a male gyno makes it even worse. (http://womenshealth.about.com/cs/gynexam/a/gynfear.htm). Plus some women don't want a man poking around down there unless it's for, you know ... pleasure ... and I can't say a gyno visit is pleasurable, even under the best circumstances.
Not me, though. I want a man because I'm thinking he's probably spent a whole lot more time trying to figure how a woman works precisely because he doesn't know what it's like and never will. So he's paying extra-special attention and there's no way he can be smug — "I know just how you're feeling, honey."
Even if women prefer a female gyno, choices still are limited — male gynecologists outnumber females about 25,000 to 16,000, according to the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists's most recent data). Yet whenever a gyno is chatting up health issues in magazines like Cosmopolitan, Fitness, Glamour, Good Housekeeping, Ladies Home Journal and Redbook, the female docs get a lot more ink than the males — they get quoted 47 percent to 80 percent of the time, according to a recent study. (http://www.greenjournal.org/cgi/content/full/104/5/1089)
So? Well, the study says that "gender bias against male obstetrician–gynecologists as well as male physicians in general ... may serve to undermine the physician–patient relationship and be detrimental to women's health care."
Sweden evidently has heard that loud and clear. Clinics there won't even allow women to ask for female gynecologists anymore (except for women who have been sexually assaulted or come from a culture that won't allow it) because they fear it discriminates against the males.
(http://www.earthtimes.org/articles/show/24977.html).
To make things even more interesting (a word that always makes me a little nervous), Dr. Nelson Soucasaux, a Brazilian gynecologist, writes a fascinating article that delves into why people choose to become gynecologists in the first place on a most unusual Web site — the Museum of Menstruation and Women's Health. (http://www.mum.org/sopsygyn.htm). (Can you imagine taking the kids to visit THAT on your summer vacation? You can't because it's just a Web museum, but, still .... there's a comedy routine in there somewhere.) Part of what he writes: "it is also possible that some male gynecologists make use of the speciality as a way of feeling themselves exerting some 'power' over the female sex."
Geez, it's getting so hard just to have someone have a look, feel around for "things," take a swab and tell us we'll be fine (well, we hope ...) for another year.
Why must being a woman be so friggin' complicated?
My gyno.
Is it weird to strip naked, get on your back, spread your legs and have a man get up close and person with your privates? Yes ... but I don't have a problem with it. I love my gyno; he's kind, funny, gentle and listens to my concerns. It never feels awkward with him because I trust him.
I know many women feel more comfortable with a female gynecologist. Only a woman would know another woman so well, the thinking goes, because she likely has experienced or still is experiencing the same things — PMS, infections, birth-control choices, hot flashes, etc. Women have a lot of anxiety over sharing intimate things with "strangers" — having a male gyno makes it even worse. (http://womenshealth.about.com/cs/gynexam/a/gynfear.htm). Plus some women don't want a man poking around down there unless it's for, you know ... pleasure ... and I can't say a gyno visit is pleasurable, even under the best circumstances.
Not me, though. I want a man because I'm thinking he's probably spent a whole lot more time trying to figure how a woman works precisely because he doesn't know what it's like and never will. So he's paying extra-special attention and there's no way he can be smug — "I know just how you're feeling, honey."
Even if women prefer a female gyno, choices still are limited — male gynecologists outnumber females about 25,000 to 16,000, according to the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists's most recent data). Yet whenever a gyno is chatting up health issues in magazines like Cosmopolitan, Fitness, Glamour, Good Housekeeping, Ladies Home Journal and Redbook, the female docs get a lot more ink than the males — they get quoted 47 percent to 80 percent of the time, according to a recent study. (http://www.greenjournal.org/cgi/content/full/104/5/1089)
So? Well, the study says that "gender bias against male obstetrician–gynecologists as well as male physicians in general ... may serve to undermine the physician–patient relationship and be detrimental to women's health care."
Sweden evidently has heard that loud and clear. Clinics there won't even allow women to ask for female gynecologists anymore (except for women who have been sexually assaulted or come from a culture that won't allow it) because they fear it discriminates against the males.
(http://www.earthtimes.org/articles/show/24977.html).
To make things even more interesting (a word that always makes me a little nervous), Dr. Nelson Soucasaux, a Brazilian gynecologist, writes a fascinating article that delves into why people choose to become gynecologists in the first place on a most unusual Web site — the Museum of Menstruation and Women's Health. (http://www.mum.org/sopsygyn.htm). (Can you imagine taking the kids to visit THAT on your summer vacation? You can't because it's just a Web museum, but, still .... there's a comedy routine in there somewhere.) Part of what he writes: "it is also possible that some male gynecologists make use of the speciality as a way of feeling themselves exerting some 'power' over the female sex."
Geez, it's getting so hard just to have someone have a look, feel around for "things," take a swab and tell us we'll be fine (well, we hope ...) for another year.
Why must being a woman be so friggin' complicated?
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
My space, my way
"Oh, Kat.”
It was Mia on the phone, sounding stressed in a way I hadn’t heard since her rough-and-tumble divorce.
That was five years ago, and although she had her ups and down in dating and love, Mia — a smart, sassy blonde — had been seeing Rex, a good guy who adored her, for a year. He’d hung in there through her insecurities, and her through his. They approached tough things — that she made more money than he, the pains from past loves, whether they have the same goals for the future — with honesty and respect. They were each willing to look into their “baggage,” and see how it would be to place those side by side in a relationship.
It’s no wonder that all my fortysomething divorced friends and I see their relationship as a success story. It’s proof of a hope for each of us, despite the odds, of perhaps finding a life partner in midlife.
But by the way she sounded, I was fearing the worst.
“Mia, what’s wrong?’
“It’s Rex,” she sighed. I thought I detected a stuffy nose, no doubt from crying.
“Oh, no, sweetie. Please don’t tell me you guys broke up.”
“Broke up? Oh good heavens, no!” she laughed. “He wants us to live together.”
“And ….?”
“Well, that’s it!”
I almost burst out laughing. I mean, the guy you’re in love with wants to live with you, wants to take the first steps toward committing to a life together, and you’re in tears?
Am I missing something?
But the stress I was hearing in her voice was very, very real.
And, oddly enough, I know exactly why.
When our generation fell in love and married in our 20s and 30s, we were looking for someone and something much different than we are now in our 40s. We had visions of starting a family, of “playing house,” of settling down into a community. It was full of romantic, perhaps even naïve, notions, such as happily-ever-after.
There’s no way you can go through a divorce, especially in midlife, and feel the same way, no matter how much of a romantic you are — and I certainly am one.
My divorced friends and I are like lab rats that somehow survived the tests. We know that living together creates incredible intimacies and magically loving moments — like when you look at your hubby next to you in bed on a lazy Sunday morning, newspapers spread all over the covers, a few toast crumbs stuck to his lips, and he catches your glance and breaks out into that face-lighting smile that brings you back to the first time he smiled at you like that. No matter how many years you’ve been together, it’s those tiny moments that keep the connection — and, one hopes, lust — alive.
But we also know that the day-in-day-out grind can take the mystery of love and your lover away and often replace it with some really ugly behaviors. Resentments. Frustrations. Put-downs. Contempt. Anger. Competition. Deception. And I’m probably forgetting a few.
But perhaps the biggest transformation is the loss of freedom. It happened so gradually that I almost didn’t get it as I went about my daily life as the Good Wife and Mother for 15 years. But when the divorce came and I suddenly found myself with a lot of time on my hands when Trent is with his dad, it was as if someone handed me a gift, a gift I never quite allowed myself to have in my marriage. I could fill that time with anything and in any way I wanted. COM classes? Sure. Dancing at Sweetwater? Why not? Scrambled eggs for dinner? Fine. Putting on my cozy pants and curling up with a cup of green tea and my novel on my bed at 8 p.m.? Absolutely.
There was no one to tell me I couldn’t or, worse yet, shouldn’t.
I was beginning to understand why so many of the middle-aged Marin men I’ve met who never married or lived with someone probably never would: They were just so comfortable being Their Way there didn’t seem to be a reason to invite a woman in (and perhaps her kids) to turn that into Our Way, even if they said and truly believed that they were searching for a life partner.
People who are single at midlife — and of the nearly 82 million baby boomers in America, a third are — often have their own homes, career and life successes and perhaps families, and they don’t need another person for any of that. They want companionship, sex and love (or in many cases, just the sex), and they want it on their own terms.
And I realize I do, too.
Recently, Sean, the single dad I see from time to time, and his 12-year-old daughter joined Trent and me for dinner. It almost felt like the homey togetherness of life when I was married. About midnight, after a wonderful meal we all prepared together while singing sappy ’70s love songs, after an outrageous game of Monopoly in which all sorts of side deals were made, they got ready to head home.
Sean came up from behind me and, slipping his arms around my waist, whispered, “I wish the kids would go off somewhere and we could curl up in bed and I could ravish you.”
“Me, too. Wednesday?” I said, the day Trent went back to his dad.
“That’s an eternity.”
“That’s a reality.”
As much as the idea of ravishing and being ravished right then sounded delicious, so is delaying something that you want so much — and then reveling in the anticipation. That’s what helps keeps the mystery and desire alive.
It’s hard to keep that up when you live together, although I want so strongly to believe it’s not impossible.
And that, of course, was Mia’s struggle. As much as she loves Rex, she wants to keep the mystery alive as well as her freedom intact. Except her “freedom” is already kept in check by her 15-year-old son, the last of three still at home before he heads off to college.
So for now, Mia considers that her “out” — no one’s moving in with anyone as long as there’s a kid at home.
Funny how our kids once turned a couple into a family, and now they can keep us from creating a new one.
Who says kids are good for nothing nowadays?
It was Mia on the phone, sounding stressed in a way I hadn’t heard since her rough-and-tumble divorce.
That was five years ago, and although she had her ups and down in dating and love, Mia — a smart, sassy blonde — had been seeing Rex, a good guy who adored her, for a year. He’d hung in there through her insecurities, and her through his. They approached tough things — that she made more money than he, the pains from past loves, whether they have the same goals for the future — with honesty and respect. They were each willing to look into their “baggage,” and see how it would be to place those side by side in a relationship.
It’s no wonder that all my fortysomething divorced friends and I see their relationship as a success story. It’s proof of a hope for each of us, despite the odds, of perhaps finding a life partner in midlife.
But by the way she sounded, I was fearing the worst.
“Mia, what’s wrong?’
“It’s Rex,” she sighed. I thought I detected a stuffy nose, no doubt from crying.
“Oh, no, sweetie. Please don’t tell me you guys broke up.”
“Broke up? Oh good heavens, no!” she laughed. “He wants us to live together.”
“And ….?”
“Well, that’s it!”
I almost burst out laughing. I mean, the guy you’re in love with wants to live with you, wants to take the first steps toward committing to a life together, and you’re in tears?
Am I missing something?
But the stress I was hearing in her voice was very, very real.
And, oddly enough, I know exactly why.
When our generation fell in love and married in our 20s and 30s, we were looking for someone and something much different than we are now in our 40s. We had visions of starting a family, of “playing house,” of settling down into a community. It was full of romantic, perhaps even naïve, notions, such as happily-ever-after.
There’s no way you can go through a divorce, especially in midlife, and feel the same way, no matter how much of a romantic you are — and I certainly am one.
My divorced friends and I are like lab rats that somehow survived the tests. We know that living together creates incredible intimacies and magically loving moments — like when you look at your hubby next to you in bed on a lazy Sunday morning, newspapers spread all over the covers, a few toast crumbs stuck to his lips, and he catches your glance and breaks out into that face-lighting smile that brings you back to the first time he smiled at you like that. No matter how many years you’ve been together, it’s those tiny moments that keep the connection — and, one hopes, lust — alive.
But we also know that the day-in-day-out grind can take the mystery of love and your lover away and often replace it with some really ugly behaviors. Resentments. Frustrations. Put-downs. Contempt. Anger. Competition. Deception. And I’m probably forgetting a few.
But perhaps the biggest transformation is the loss of freedom. It happened so gradually that I almost didn’t get it as I went about my daily life as the Good Wife and Mother for 15 years. But when the divorce came and I suddenly found myself with a lot of time on my hands when Trent is with his dad, it was as if someone handed me a gift, a gift I never quite allowed myself to have in my marriage. I could fill that time with anything and in any way I wanted. COM classes? Sure. Dancing at Sweetwater? Why not? Scrambled eggs for dinner? Fine. Putting on my cozy pants and curling up with a cup of green tea and my novel on my bed at 8 p.m.? Absolutely.
There was no one to tell me I couldn’t or, worse yet, shouldn’t.
I was beginning to understand why so many of the middle-aged Marin men I’ve met who never married or lived with someone probably never would: They were just so comfortable being Their Way there didn’t seem to be a reason to invite a woman in (and perhaps her kids) to turn that into Our Way, even if they said and truly believed that they were searching for a life partner.
People who are single at midlife — and of the nearly 82 million baby boomers in America, a third are — often have their own homes, career and life successes and perhaps families, and they don’t need another person for any of that. They want companionship, sex and love (or in many cases, just the sex), and they want it on their own terms.
And I realize I do, too.
Recently, Sean, the single dad I see from time to time, and his 12-year-old daughter joined Trent and me for dinner. It almost felt like the homey togetherness of life when I was married. About midnight, after a wonderful meal we all prepared together while singing sappy ’70s love songs, after an outrageous game of Monopoly in which all sorts of side deals were made, they got ready to head home.
Sean came up from behind me and, slipping his arms around my waist, whispered, “I wish the kids would go off somewhere and we could curl up in bed and I could ravish you.”
“Me, too. Wednesday?” I said, the day Trent went back to his dad.
“That’s an eternity.”
“That’s a reality.”
As much as the idea of ravishing and being ravished right then sounded delicious, so is delaying something that you want so much — and then reveling in the anticipation. That’s what helps keeps the mystery and desire alive.
It’s hard to keep that up when you live together, although I want so strongly to believe it’s not impossible.
And that, of course, was Mia’s struggle. As much as she loves Rex, she wants to keep the mystery alive as well as her freedom intact. Except her “freedom” is already kept in check by her 15-year-old son, the last of three still at home before he heads off to college.
So for now, Mia considers that her “out” — no one’s moving in with anyone as long as there’s a kid at home.
Funny how our kids once turned a couple into a family, and now they can keep us from creating a new one.
Who says kids are good for nothing nowadays?
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Someone's 'cooking,' but something's rotten
It's amazing how watching something so seemingly benign as the Academy Awards could lead to enlightenment.
But for the kid, it certainly did — well, at least a McDonald's ad.
I missed it, of course, because whenever an ad comes on, I'm gone — bathroom, e-mail check, quickie phone call. I hate watching the tube, but Trent likes it (movies, usually), so we spend some of our time together on the couch in front of the TV.
When I came back to the Oscars from whatever, he said, "Well, you just missed something sexist."
"I did? Did Ellen say something ... off?"
"No, it was a McDonald's ad. Kids all over the world were crazy-happy because dad was 'making dinner,' but all he was doing was bringing home McDonald's."
"Hmm, what do you think of that?"
"It's saying that dads can't cook like moms do,"
Touché for the kid.
When I checked it out on YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsEBzCA6liU), it does seem kinda cute — on the surface.
But I get what Trent was saying — it's just another stereotypical way of presenting men and women, the message here being that dads can't or don't cook, and take the easy way out.
I was, of course, the kind of mom who gave Trent a wide range of toys to play with, wanting to raise a nonsexist child. But when he gravitated toward Tonka trucks, Ninja Turtles, Power Rangers and Legos, I gave in. Other options were always there, but so were all the typical "boy" toys.
Now that he's a teen, however, we can talk about things like what is a man's/woman's role, and does it have to be like that? And although his dad isn't a great cook, he manages a pasta or shrimp dish every now and then. But Trent likes to cook, and he's always asking me if he can help prepare something. I love that he's interested in that, and I love that it's something we can share, too.
But an ad like McDonald's shows me once again how the media continues to spoon-fed the same stereotypical images of men and women. Sure, there have been some changes, but if you're a parent trying to raise consciousness in your kid, hoping to help them create a world that breaks free of the models our parents and grandparents were brought up with (and issues married men and woman right now are still arguing over), well, it ain't as easy as it should be.
There was a bit of blogging about the ad. Here's what one father writes on
http://daddytypes.com:
"(T)his commercial has been stuck in my craw since last night. So I'm happy to see that I'm not loosing (sic) my mind when I found it so offensive. Not only did it portray fathers as having the inability, lack of skill or unwillingness to take responsiblity (sic) for dinner, but that when we do our choice would (be) an unhealthy alternative like McDonalds."
I can hear some of you say, "Lighten up, Kat." Yeah, yeah, yeah, but I'm not on my feminist high horse, here. I just hate it when anyone gets dissed, and this ad, cute as it might appear to be, puts dads right back in the 1950s, and that can only mean women are being dragged along with them.
Too bad it's 2007.
But for the kid, it certainly did — well, at least a McDonald's ad.
I missed it, of course, because whenever an ad comes on, I'm gone — bathroom, e-mail check, quickie phone call. I hate watching the tube, but Trent likes it (movies, usually), so we spend some of our time together on the couch in front of the TV.
When I came back to the Oscars from whatever, he said, "Well, you just missed something sexist."
"I did? Did Ellen say something ... off?"
"No, it was a McDonald's ad. Kids all over the world were crazy-happy because dad was 'making dinner,' but all he was doing was bringing home McDonald's."
"Hmm, what do you think of that?"
"It's saying that dads can't cook like moms do,"
Touché for the kid.
When I checked it out on YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsEBzCA6liU), it does seem kinda cute — on the surface.
But I get what Trent was saying — it's just another stereotypical way of presenting men and women, the message here being that dads can't or don't cook, and take the easy way out.
I was, of course, the kind of mom who gave Trent a wide range of toys to play with, wanting to raise a nonsexist child. But when he gravitated toward Tonka trucks, Ninja Turtles, Power Rangers and Legos, I gave in. Other options were always there, but so were all the typical "boy" toys.
Now that he's a teen, however, we can talk about things like what is a man's/woman's role, and does it have to be like that? And although his dad isn't a great cook, he manages a pasta or shrimp dish every now and then. But Trent likes to cook, and he's always asking me if he can help prepare something. I love that he's interested in that, and I love that it's something we can share, too.
But an ad like McDonald's shows me once again how the media continues to spoon-fed the same stereotypical images of men and women. Sure, there have been some changes, but if you're a parent trying to raise consciousness in your kid, hoping to help them create a world that breaks free of the models our parents and grandparents were brought up with (and issues married men and woman right now are still arguing over), well, it ain't as easy as it should be.
There was a bit of blogging about the ad. Here's what one father writes on
http://daddytypes.com:
"(T)his commercial has been stuck in my craw since last night. So I'm happy to see that I'm not loosing (sic) my mind when I found it so offensive. Not only did it portray fathers as having the inability, lack of skill or unwillingness to take responsiblity (sic) for dinner, but that when we do our choice would (be) an unhealthy alternative like McDonalds."
I can hear some of you say, "Lighten up, Kat." Yeah, yeah, yeah, but I'm not on my feminist high horse, here. I just hate it when anyone gets dissed, and this ad, cute as it might appear to be, puts dads right back in the 1950s, and that can only mean women are being dragged along with them.
Too bad it's 2007.
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