December 01, 2005
It was lovely while it lasted, but it's now time to move on to other things. I wish all my compadres luck, happiness and loads of fun in their future endeavors.
You can find today's Divas essays at Villains Vanquished, Just Breathe, and Who Moved My Truth. For the Men's Club experience head on over to Jamesyboy, the Naked Villains, Puffy, and The Wizard's.
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November 17, 2005
Our topic today: What women/men say and what they really mean and why do men grunt instead of speaking?
Now, I don't know who threw in the "Why do men grunt when speaking" but that sounds like more like someone's beef with their significant other than an actual topic so I will address that one first because it sounds like someone needs my help demystifying a few things.
And we all know I'm about demystifying things for my devoted Cake Eater Readers.
Ahem.
Why do men grunt when speaking? Well, it's because they can. They can get away with making sounds like that, so they do it. Women, being the dainty little things that we are, can't get away with making sounds like that. It would be considered impolite if a woman made a sound like that, grunting going into the "not very ladylike" catgory of incorrect female behavior, which, let's face it, is the largest category of incorrect female behavior---by a long chalk. It's pretty simple.
Anyway, as far as the difference between what people say and what they mean, well, what exactly is new there, eh, kids? People---man or woman---always say one thing and mean another. That's just the way the world works.
However, it's how you a. suss out the difference between what's said and what's meant and b.handle the difference that matters. You could be a moonbat about it: you could whine on about lies, lies, more lies, the inequity of the lies, that the lies are loud and are told by bigger liars with the ever evil lying megaphone of the conspiracy to kill puppies for profit, ad nauseam, ad infinitum. In other words whining about the lying liars and the liars who love them being your only solution to the problem. Oh, and you'd light the occasional candle and sing "Give Peace a Chance" with Mother Sheehan every now and again, but really, all you care about is bitching about the lying. Or you could be like a Marine: you could recognize the problem, and then you could adapt and improvise to overcome the problem.
As the philosopher John McClane once said: If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. Stop being a part of the problem! So it shouldn't take a great leap of the imagination, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, to guess which option I would recommend you take in divining the truth of your significant other's words.
First, you must in fact realize that there will sometimes, indeed, be a disconnect between what someone says and what they mean. As pointed out above, that's just the way the world works. Second, you must realize that, generally speaking, there's no harm meant in the disconnect. In fact, I would venture a guess and say that when you spot a disconnect, it's that there is enough vulnerability going around to choke a horse. Case in point: when I ask the husband "Do I look fat in this?" He will correctly divine that, yes indeedy, I'm feeling a wee bit sensitive about my body at that point in time, and will---correctly, in my humble opinion---dodge like a mo'fo. He knows that lying isn't an option. That if he says, "no, darling, your ass is as small as a grain of rice," I'll know he's lying. He also knows that telling the truth isn't an option here, either. Because if my ass is, indeed, reminiscent of the rear end of a 1950's Buick, I don't want to hear about it---the brutal truth not always being the best option if you'd like to keep your head attached to your body. The husband, instead of lying or telling the truth, will dodge with a convenient, "You know there's no right answer to that question, so why do you bother asking?" See, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, is he not clever? He has, in one fell swoop, thrown that live grenade back to me, and I can guaran-frickin'-tee you that he's hoping and praying I'm going to stick the pin back in, in essence, leaving it at that. He has, indeed, adapted, improvised and overcome. At this stage of the game, he would be well within his rights to say, "Hoo-ah," in a manner reminiscent of Clint Eastwood, and shove a cigar in his mouth to celebrate the fact he's still alive.
But enough of my bloviating, go forth and read what the Sadie, Silk and Phoenix have written on the topic. Also make sure to check out one of our newest Divaesques, Miss Vile, yet another Kiwi, whom we're very glad to have with us on this adventure.
For the testosterone laden perspective, go and read StiggyPUFFY (Wait a minute. You've changed your blogging persona---again? What's this "Cloud" shit? Sorry, darling, but I'm not squeezing the Charmin this time round. It's getting confusing, so I'm going back to calling you PUFFY. Because, damnit, that's the one you started off with and it's the easiest. Even if you are no longer the world's first highly evolved blogging fish, I still like it.), Phin, The Naked Villains and Jamesyboy. Our guest XY'er this week is That 1 Guy from Drunken Wisdom.
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November 10, 2005
Oh, holy hell.
Well. since "sexy" has come to mean and encompass so many things over the years, I thought I'd get back to basics and go to the dictionary and see precisely what we're talking about here.
Ahem.
Courtesy of the Oxford Desk Dictionary and Thesaurus we have this definition...
Sexy: /seksee/ adj. (sexier, sexiest) 1.sexually attractive or stimulating. 2. sexually aroused
Ok, so basically we find out that I was wrong to go looking for an older, less relevant definition. Sexy is still about what gets you to think about getting your rocks off.
Now this, as you, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, have undoubtedly figured out is a tricky proposition. Because there is the sexy that zeroes in exclusively on your hormones, and there is sexy that brings your brain---and by way of the way your body works, your hormones---into it. These need not be mutually exclusive, but sometimes they just are. Because sometimes you just don't want to bring your brain into it.
Ahem.
Anyway, you people are probably wondering when I'm going to get around to letting you know what you, if you're a man, can do to attract me in the non-brainy sort of way. Of course we're talking hypothetically here, because the husband wouldn't enjoy that. But...if we're just speaking for the sake of hypotheticals, and I were to ruminate on the physical variant of sexy---the one that gets the hormones to humming---without getting too specific, I would have to refer you to an experience I had on 1-35 in K.C. during the summer of 1994. You'd be a beautiful man, probably around 6'4", ripped, but not overly beefy, in a pair of basketball shorts---and nothing else---driving a Jeep Wrangler through eighty-five m.p.h. traffic. You'd also be very sweaty. A basketball would be sitting in the passenger seat of the jeep, the seatbelt lovingly holding it in place and saving the windshields of other cars from its wrath. Did I mention that this jeep only had a bikini top on it? I didn't? Well, it did. Did I also mention you would be cruising through traffic, like you were in search of a cold breeze and that jeep was going to find it for you? I didn't? Well, you did. It was, hypothetically speaking, one of those moments where I, quite literally, STOPPED BREATHING. And then the hormones started throbbing, like someone had hooked me up to a subwoofer.
Oh, and hypothetically speaking, I can still remember how good your abs looked. It was like you were cast, rather than born.
{Insert hypothetical fanning of self here}
Anyway I should probably let you know that if you were, indeed, hypothetical basketball playing dude, I would be pretty surprised if you could walk, talk and chew gum at the same time. My standards for you would not be very high. No sirreee. You'd have to know how to do one thing very well.
And that's about it. Anything else would be gravy.
Now we move on to the brain aspect of sexy, because, really and truly there is nothing quite so sexy, in my humble opinion, than a man with a big brain. While I will be honest and say I cannot handle an Einstein, I do appreciate men who have large I.Q's---so long as they don't turn the logic sword on me, the girl who has very little of it. I appreciate the man who can use that knowledge for the good of themselves and other people. I also appreciate a man who can make me laugh. Wit is very sexy---and anyone who says differently has no idea what they're talking about. I should also note that holding a great deal of common sense is sexy as well.
No, for my money, while it's all very well and good to stare at basketball players, those abs aren't going to keep a girl interested for very long. I shall also add that if one has a really great brain that will get the hormones to pumping just as effectively as a half-naked, sweaty basketball player in a Jeep Wrangler would.
Anyhoo, now that I've thoroughly humiliated myself, scoot along and see what the other daring and darling divas find sexy. Then you can pop over to Sheila's place because I'm sure she's got something worthwhile to add to the mix. The Men's Club is, of course, up to bat this week as well. Stiggy, Phin, The Foreign Minister and Jamesyboy have, of course, thrown their two cents in, as has Nugget.
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November 03, 2005
While I generally loathe anything and everything to do with Seinfeld (it wasn't that funny, kids. It really wasn't.), one of the few episodes I actually remember watching was the "hand" episode. What they were discussing over their table at the coffee shop was having "the upper hand" in a situation, but it being kitschy little Seinfeld, they had to shorten it to "hand." Wherein it became something everyone chatted about over the water cooler on some random Friday morning in the mid-1990's. Furthermore, that's when it came to annoy me. (And I should just warn you now that I'm not going to tie this string up later with some clever little throwaway line. It's just not going to happen. The only reason I included this bit in the first place was to get warmed up. This warm-up, of course, had the added benefit of being able to bitch about Seinfeld: what's not to like?)
So, the question searing the gray matter this morning is who has "hand" during the various stages of a couple's relationship? Who's got hand during the dating portion, and who's got it after marriage?
Now, to be sure, this question presumes one thing: that men and women are not on equal footing throughout the course of their relationships. And I would think that's true. Unless the wants and needs are exactly the same, I don't think you'll ever have true equality, and men and women most definitely want different things. Men, when they're dating want sex with one woman. Then they'll want sex with another woman. Then they'll want to take a nap. Then they might scratch their crotch a bit and declare their desire to have sex with another woman, right after they've polished off that leftover pizza in the fridge, etc. Women, on the other hand, want a relationship; they want to settle down, get married, make a home and maybe have babies. But they only want to do this with one man. Inequality. Because many are greater than one, M>1, women do not have "hand" whilst dating.
But, invariably, something happens to the average man, somewhere along the way, and he wants to have sex with only one woman. This something is generally called "love." Or in the rare case of cynicism it's called "I'm tired of catting around." Either way, the man settles down with one woman and---presto change-o!---the power balance has switched. The woman now has "hand" because a man's libido doesn't change when he settles down; all that sex he was having with many women he now wants to have with one woman. And, because of that, that one woman holds the keys to the kingdom. The woman has acquired "hand."
So, you're undoubtedly thinking, But, Kath, it can't really come right down to sex and who's willing to put out? Well, no, it doesn't. Not entirely, but I think that sex makes up a goodly chunk of what's going on there, eh? The need to get laid and to reproduce is strong. You'd never underestimate The Force, would you? Well, don't underestimate the need to get laid, ya dig?
And therein lies my opinion on the matter. For other fabulous Diva-y takes go and visit Silk and Phoenix. Rumor has it that Sadie will be back next week. (Woohoo!) Our guest diva this week is one of the newest members of the fold, Paula of Ultrablog. Make sure you go over and bid her welcome. For the XY Chromosomed view, shuffle along and read what Phinny, Stiggy, Jamesy, and whichever one of the Naked Villains has chimed in this week. The guest men's club member this week is Tea Fizz, so hopscotch on over and read what he's written on the matter.
UPDATE: The Wiz has decided to grace us with his presence this week. Go and read.
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October 27, 2005
So you'll see that we've got a few doozies on our hands.
Now, it's time for the obligatory bloggy disclaimer. I'm normally one of those people who doesn't touch the topic of abortion with a ten foot cattle prod. I can't stand how this topic turns rational people into lathered idiots by the briefest mention of it. I have yet to see one reasoned debate about any aspect of abortion on any blog, and considering I've been reading blogs for, oh, a good four years or so, that should tell you something, blog years being similar to dog years. It is a topic that raises the passions, so you will perhaps understand that when the topic was raised in group discussion that I was leery of tackling it. I will also admit that I thought long and hard about bailing out and not touching it at all because I don't feel like getting screamed at by trolls. But I haven't bailed on a Divas topic yet, and I don't intend to start now, so all I would ask is that I don't want to have regrets about sticking with it. Don't make me have regrets, ya dig? Do you get what I am saying? You do? Excellent. DAMN THE TORPEDOS!
Ahem.
As to the first question, should the father of an unborn child have the right to block the abortion of said unborn child? Yes, absolutely, is my answer. It takes two to tango, after all. The father of the child should have precisely the same legal rights as the mother. But---and you knew there was a 'but' coming, didn't you?---it's not only one life he would be holding in his hands, but two, mother and child being something of a package deal. Does the father of said child---if we're working under the assumption that these presumptive parents aren't married, nor even committed---take care of both of them for nine months and then ditch the mother after she gives birth? Is he legally allowed to do that? To control her life because that's just the way the biology works? Under our system of laws---and by that I mean the US legal system---this is a moot point. I'm not an expert on these matters, but a woman over the age of majority doesn't need to notify anyone of what she intends to do. Furthermore, she is the sole authority over what happens to her body---and any child she's carrying. In which case the father of said child would be up shit creek.
I find this an interesting question because it seems like an odd, world-turned-on-its-ear, futurama question, even for someone who is as reasonably young as I am at age thirty-four. It sounds like a future where the sexes really are equal, whereas men, today, still, other than through court-ordered child support payments, aren't held responsible for their actions to the same degree that women are. Nor do I think there's been a sea change in attitudes toward single fatherhood since I was younger. The history of male-female relationships is there for all and sundry to see: given the male half of humanity's long history of dumping women they thought suitable for sleeping with, but not for marrying, this is a curious hypothetical situation. Don't get me wrong. I think it's good that some hypothetical man would want to block an abortion. I just find it unusual because the whole situation is set up specifically because men have neglected their duties in this arena. For millenia women were abandoned, vilified and treated like the scum of the earth because they'd had sexual relations out of the bonds of holy wedlock. God help the child born of such a union. It doesn't bear repeating, does it, what it would be like for such a child because it was generally awful? Yet, nothing ever happened to the man in such a circumstance, of course. They got off Scot-free; the system being, after all, rigged in their favor. They made the rules---and of course it was always their word against the woman's when it came to establishing parentage. Women worked around their rules and tried to create options for themselves. It would seem by this hypothetical question as if the men didn't appreciate being left out of it.
As to the second question, should a woman who has had an abortion and not told the biological father be liable for damages, I have no freakin' clue. I would lean toward saying "yes" but, as with all other legal questions I tend to think about the precedent this would set, and I cannot imagine what sort of precedent this would set because my mind just doesn't go that far. I have a feeling that screaming "tort reform" isn't going to help me out here, so I will simply say this: beware where you go and claim liabilty. I could easily see a woman countersuing and asking for damages for pain and suffering due to the abortion she thought she had to have because she didn't feel she could tell the father of child the truth because she feared for her life, etc. Tack on the "loss of consortium" charges and you've got yourself one heck of a countersuit.
One could make the assumption that the only purpose of such a lawsuit would be to punish the mother of the aborted child. In a situation such as this, where most rational people would be feeling pain from every angle conceivable, it doesn't make much sense to me to create more of it. This, of course, assumes certain emotional reactions of the respondents, but I can't see where it would be a great idea even if the bitch was richer than Croesus. Too much pain by attempting, once again, to attach a monetary sum to a human life.
All righty then, that's enough pontificating from moi. Go and see what the other divas, Silk and Phoenix, have to say on the matter. Sadie, I believe, is still on the break, but maybe if we're lucky Oklahoma's newest lawyer will chime in on this weighty subject. Ruth at Chaos Theory, this week's Guest Diva, has chimed in, so run along and read her opinion. For the male perspective Phin, Stiggy, our Maximum Leader and Jamesy are the usual token testosterone holders, hence you shall take their opinions seriously. Our guest Men's Club Member is That 1 Guy and he has chimed in as well.
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October 20, 2005
This, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, could be good fun, provided I actually get some answers.
And away we go...
1. Does it really offend you when a gay man shows an interest in you, or is a little part of you flattered at the attention, even if you're not interested in the offer and are exceedingly quick to say, "not that there's anything wrong with that!" ?
2. Even if they've settled down and have acquired the wife, the house and the mortgage, why do men feel the need to pretend, on occasion, as if they haven't committed themselves to all that? Women don't, for the most part, do that. Once we commit, we commit and that's that. Men, on the other hand, it seems to me, sometimes have second thoughts about all this committment and we're, as women, supposed to understand this notion and let them have their boy moments. You know the ones I'm talking about, right? The weekend trip to Vegas with the boys; the trip downtown to the titty bars; golf excursions where much flirting is done with the beer cart girl, etc. I can understand male bonding and all the rest, but do you really need to remind yourselves of all you're missing to be able to stay in a committed relationship? Because that's what it seems like to me. How, exactly, does that work? Does it actually help or does it actually make that mid-life crisis---replete with a red corvette and hair plugs--- inevitable?
3. What's the deal with duct tape and WD-40? Y'all wax exceedingly rhapsodic about these things---more so than is warranted, in my humble opinion. Yes, these two things are very handy to have around. I'm not denying that. Do cults need to be devoted to them? No. Hence, I would like to know why you think there should be cults devoted to the worship of duct tape and WD-40.
Okedokey, there are my three things. Now, run along and see what Silk, and Phoenix have to say. Madame Sadie is taking a wee bit of a break currently, so we shall fervently hope for her quick return. For the male perspective Phin, Stiggy, The Naked Villains, and Jamesy have chimed in. Nugget is our guest testosterone producer this week so run along and see what he has to say as well.
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October 13, 2005
As you can see, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, I have my work cut out for me.
As to the first question, do men always have good sex, I will refer you to the extensive research I conducted so I would be able to answer this question for you. Yes. That's right. I'm all about the demystifying. So I went and asked my usual source---the husband---and here's what he had to say. Ahem.
Sex is like pizza. When it's good, it's really good. When it's bad, well, it's still pretty good.
Deep, no?
This brings us to our second question: do women have good sex? Well, of course they do. Like, duh. It's just different for women. Men have good sex each and every time because they climax each and every time. Most women do not climax each and every time they have intercourse. We have different physiologies and I don't see where we're doing anyone any favors by pretending otherwise. One is a Fiat Panda and the other is a Volvo Estate Car. That is just the nature of the beast. And anyone who tries to tell you differently is ignoring the facts of life. Women are different from men, and THANK GOD for it. Vive la difference, I believe is what the cheese eating surrender monkeys call it, but we'll keep the French bashing to a minimum today. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, the differences between men and women. I believe we should glorify those differences. Furthermore, I think we should just learn to accept that things are different. To do otherwise is to miss a lot of the really good stuff that happens, with or without a climax in attendance.
Which, then brings us to our third question: who/what determines if the sex was, indeed, good? Tricky, no? I believe the difference is in how you measure what "good sex" is. Because men and women are going to have different bench marks as to what, precisely, is good sex. If one wanted to search for a ridiculous metaphor to describe this phenomenon without gettting too down and dirty, one could say that men used the metric system to measure good sex. It's a logical choice for men---who are overly fond of logic---to use: the metric system is a base ten system; there aren't any inconvenient conversions that need to be made; it's a safe, solid system that is used by the majority of the world's population to describe things. Why the heck shouldn't men use the metric system? By Golly, everyone should use it! is, I believe, what they would think.
Women, on the other hand, in this world of ridiculous metaphors, would use the English system of measurements. We like inches, feet, yards, and other obscure measurements that have come down through the ages. We like the tales that are told about these measurements. We enjoy all of the arcane historical data that comes with them. And we don't really understand, it seems, why other people would want it any other way.
The key to succcess in the sack is for each partner to learn the other's conversion charts. It's quite simple.
Now, if any of that makes ANY sense at all to you, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, well, you're two steps ahead of me. So I will now say "SHOOO!"in a big booming voice and direct you to Silk and Phoenix for their take on the matter at hand. Chrissy, in a curious change of pace, is posting on last week's topic. For the testosterone-laden take, run along and see what Phin, Stiggy, The Naked Villains, Jamesy and That 1 Guy have to say.
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have a good weekend trying that one out. )October 06, 2005
Hmmmm. That should be an easy one to answer, shouldn't it? Just look at the left hand of the object of your affection, if there is no ring there, rejoice, but you should nonetheless proceed with caution: they still might be attached. Buy them a drink, ask them some questions, get chummy and then ask them if they're attached. If they aren't, well, isn't life good for you, my child? If they are, well, you've just made yourself a new platonic friend. Conversely, if they came up to you and started hitting on you, well, you could make the reasonable assumption that they're single, and they would like to know if you are, too. You might want to put them out of their misery if the situation calls for it, just to be nice.
But that would be me. Other people might want to be sneakier less obvious about it. And in that case, gosh, I really don't know what to tell you other than to put on your deerstalker hat, load up a pipe and play Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock, in case you've been living under a rock for a good long time, was a master of observation and deduction. He would observe; he would then make a logical deduction based on what he had observed and the knowledge gained over a lifetime. Pretty simple stuff, no? All right, I shall describe an individual; you tell me if they are single or attached. You will find the answers below the fold.
A man is at a party at a house in an uber-hip section of the Hollywood Hills. He is about six-foot-one and has a lankiness to him that screams "athleticism." His hair is dark; his eyes are brown; his body is buff; he wears no jewelry other than a watch. His facial hair is trimmed, as is his hair. He's drinking a cosmopolitan and his eyes are wandering around the room, looking for someone interesting. Is this man single? you wonder. You double check his left hand. You don't see a ring. You move in for the kill.Have you met your match?
For our second example we have:
A middle-aged man is at a retro cocktail bar. A neon sign made in the shape of a martini glass hangs from the opposite wall, and the olive in the bottom of the glass winks at you in a shade of green reminiscent of a half-dead Christmas tree. There are few tables, a large bar and plenty of booths, designed for getting closer, and he is sitting in one. You notice that he is the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. You can tell he is comfortable in his own skin because he takes his time taking the situation in. He drinks a vodka tonic, and has made sure the lime has been disposed of properly, as well as the straw. He ensures his drink does not drip condensation onto his silk tie by fastidiously blanketing the base of the glass with his napkin. His suit is well tailored, but not flashy, and it covers any sins of middle-aged flesh rather well. His jewelry is limited to a tie bar and a watch. A freshly cracked pack of Marlboro Lights sits on the table, the cellophane wrapper lying uselessly in the ashtray, and he smokes one casually, blowing the smoke out at a leisurely pace. His eyes roam about the room, looking for something. They land on you and he smiles at you. You smile back while you surrpetitiously gaze at his left hand again. No ring. You move in.Have you met your match?
And what have you deduced from these two examples, my devoted Cake Eater Readers? Anything good? Anything worth your time? I shall leave it to you to take the jump to see if you were correct in your deductions, but, even if you weren't successful this time around, it's quite simple to become successful at this sort of thing in the future. All you need do is observe a person to see who they are because all the clues are laid out right before you. You just need to learn how to piece them together to give yourself the whole picture. The key is simply taking the time to observe.
So, enough bullshit from moi, it's time to see what the other demystifying divas have to say on the matter. As always, for the testosterone-y take, you can visit Phin, Nugget, Stiggy, Jamesy and the Naked Villains.
Due to a effort to show up the rest of us scheduling snafu , Sadie and Pammy have written their essays on next week's topic. So you can shuffle along, read their essays and get excited for next week's episode of As The Divas Turn.
more...
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)September 29, 2005
We're Baaaack. And by "we" I mean that the Demystifying Divas and the Marvy Men's Club are back from our hiatus two month tour of Europe, Scandinavia and the Subcontinent.* Did you miss us?
Let's keep the tears of gratitude and thankfulness to a minimum, ok? We know you missed us. There's no need to get all blubbery about our return, ok. Turn off the faucets already. We get the point... And there, my devoted Cake Eater readers, is my exceedingly clever segue into today's topic: just how emotional should a man be?
And the answer is... {insert drumroll here} it depends, and I believe it's a regional thing.
I'm sure if you were a woman and lived in, say, California, you would be much more used to guys who were in touch with their sensitive selves. Because everyone knows that California is where it's considered de rigeur for men to go out and hug redwoods and weep for all the times their fathers spent slurping martinis instead of playing catch on the front lawn with Junior. I'm sure the women out in Californiaaaay are used to this sort of thing and I daresay they appreciate the honesty. After all, it's what they're accustomed to. They, most likely, grew up in California. They were probably there at the beginning of the "me" movement so, undoubtedly, redwood hugging is nothing new in their book. They probably wonder why all men don't come out and commune with the redwoods to get in better touch with their feelings. I would assume they probably budget for therapy and the resulting anti-depressant prescriptions the way I budget for the electric bill.
I, however, live in the Midwest. I was born and raised here. This is where we repress our emotions until we melt into vast puddles of stressed-out goo. Because that's what our ancestors did and if it was good enough for them, well, damnit, it's good enough for us! They came out here and tamed this land and there was nary a blubberer amongst those brave pioneers. Yet, I will admit, Midwestern Man (tm) has evolved and has come into the twenty-first century. He is no longer the emotional troglodyte his ancestors were. He has become familiar with the ways of the kleenex, but for the love of GOD, he will never actually let anyone know about this familiarity, ya dig? That's just the way he is.
So, I will admit, I want a man who knows himself, who is in tune with what's going on in his head and his heart, but I do not want someone who is going to blubber about the state of fifth chakra every other day. I've got better things to deal with, thank you very much. Like the cuticle on my left thumb that needs trimming before it erupts into a hangnail.
Now run along and see what the other delightful demystifing divas have to say on the matter. Then, if you're hankering for a dose of testosterone, you can flip the coin and see what The Wiz, Stiggy, Phin and The Foreign Minister have to say on the topic. Jamesy has also joined up with the Men's Club this week, go and read what he has to say, as well.
*Bonus points to whomever gets the quote.
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September 21, 2005
Ahem.
The Divas Are Back
Yes, that's right, kids. The delightful demystifying divas, fresh from our two month hiatus tour of Europe, Scandinavia and the Subcontinent, will be returning to answer all the very important questions regarding men and women on Thursday, September 29th.
Since Madame Chrissy has departed the blogging world, we were forced to find someone to fill Chrissy's shoes. Phoenix of Villains Vanquished has graciously agreed to slip her feet into Chrissy's Manolos and will be joining Sadie, Silk and myself every Thursday. As usual The Marvy Men's Club, comprised of The Wiz, Stigmata, Phin and The Naked Villains will be providing the male point of view.
Mark your calendars.
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July 28, 2005
See, I'm at a complete and utter loss, so I shall make shit up. Work for you? Ok, good. It's not like you mind, right? Because if you're a devoted Cake Eater reader you're obviously fond of bullshit, so this isn't really a big leap.
Have you seen those commercials for some allergy medication, where a woman is narrating about her woes with allergies? Then, miraculously, once she starts taking this medication her woes are over with. The entire background starts out full of people and things, these people and things disappear (obviously because this woman has allergies) and then once the woman starts taking the medication, all those things that disappeared reappear, replete with a neato popping sound effect. One of the people who disappears is a "boyfriend with cats." Are we all on the same page here? We are. FABULOUS!
What I don't understand is why this dude reappears.
There's two problems here: the dude still has the cats, which apparently affects the very essential ability of the young woman he's dating to take in the air she needs to breathe, and why on earth would anyone subject themselves to heavy duty allergy medication just to get their boyfriend (and his cats) back? The dude apparently wants her, but still wants his cats too. That sounds pretty selfish to me.
Cat allergies are a pretty big deal, of you didn't know. There are varying degrees of sensitivity, but as I'm married to a man who can walk into a place and tell if there's been a cat in the domicile sometime in the preceding five years, I'm just going to assume everyone's like him. (Work with me here, people.) If I had had a cat when I started dating the husband, he never would have become the boyfriend without me getting rid of the cat. And it would have been selfish of me to keep the damn cat when things started getting serious. I can understand not wanting to jettison a much-loved pet after the first date, but come on. This chick in the commercial was obviously beyond the first date. Yet, she apparently loved this selfish cat owner enough to go on daily allergy medication which probably came with the requisite warning advising against heavy machinery while drugged up. How dumb was she, too, while we're at it? This dude is apparently insensitive to the fact she needs to breathe, yet he refuses to get rid of the one thing that causes his girlfriend agony: his cat. And she goes along with it. Duh.
I think that tells you rather a lot regarding this one cat owner and the girls he dates. He apparently likes them willing to do his bidding, to put his priorities and needs first, even if it's not the best option for their health.
Why, I'll even bet he's asked her to clean out the litter box!
The NERVE of some people!
I suppose the lesson of all this is that if the object of your affection has more consideration for the needs of their pets, that means they think their (and we're talking about the pet owner here) needs are more important than that of their signifcant other. Which means they're selfish and you should probably dump them. It's just not going to work.
Ok, so now that I've bloviated authoritatively on a subject which I know nothing about, go and read what the other daring demystifying divas---Sadie, Chrissy, and Silk---have to say. Ruth at Chaos Theory was supposed to be our guest diva today, but since she's occupied with something else, she has, in one fell swoop, shifted the Diva/Men's Club operational balance by---gasp---asking a man to chime in. It's supposed to be five girls to four guys, hence ensuring we always win, but alas this week the boys have a chance at gender equity. If you're in favor of that sort of thing, Men's Libertation, that is, go and visit Tincanman to see what his take on the topic is. And while you're at it, go and visit The Wiz, Phin, Stiggy and the Naked Villains for even more testosterone blogging.
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July 21, 2005
Today's topic: Most embarrasing dating moments and how to avoid them.
I find myself somewhat at a disadvantage here because, quite frankly, it's been almost thirteen years since I've dated anyone. You, of course, are tut-tutting and saying in a whisper so no one else can hear you talk to your computer, Kath, you obviously remember OTHER incidents from your dating past, no matter how long ago it was, why not this one? Well, you see, here's the deal: I'm very good at blocking out embarrasing things that happened to me in the past. Because there were lots of embarrassing moments when I dated. I experienced much mortification. And I've blocked it out. I've shoved these memories into a trunk, which was subsequently shoved into a back, dusty corner of the attic that is my brain, and, for the most part, has been all but forgotten about. Sorry. You're SOL.
Well, for the most part. An overriding theme comes to mind.
My main problem, it seems, looking back now, was never recognizing when some dude really liked me. I was a clueless heartbreaker it seems. I was always more interested in chasing after the guys I liked, rather than paying attention to the men who wanted me. Sigh. A while back I found a stack of letters a guy friend from high school had sent to me when I was living in Austin, Texas for the summer, nannying for my sister's kids. This being the age before email and cheapola long distance, he'd sent me a letter a week, sometimes twice a week, saying how much he missed me, how much the summer in Omaha was sucking without my presence, etc. At the time, I took it at face value. Even though this guy had previously asked me "to be his girlfriend" in a pathetically sweet sort of way, and I had refused him, I thought he'd gotten over it and was still just being my friend. Nope. I was taking the letters as I wanted them to be, not as they really were. Not surprisingly, he finally took whatever hint I was giving off and moved on.
Another time, in college, I was working at the Econ/Soc Reading Room (which doesn't look as if it exists anymore) and there was this really nice guy, an Econ grad student, Ahmet, from Turkey who patronized the place. I liked Ahmet, because, unlike the Chinese grad students, he washed and shaved, ate food on occasion, and didn't reek of cheap cigarettes or body odor. I liked chatting with him about his country and his experiences going to school on the continent, living in Turkey, etc. Of course, my luck being what it was, he took my friendliness to mean that I had the hots for him. I didn't, of course. This led to one very uncomfortable lunch at the M-Shop in the Student Union. He thought he was taking me out. I thought we were getting together to eat. Whoops. Very uncomfortable that lunch was, because he was offended when I insisted on paying for my food myself.
Then there was Gary, who while a very nice guy, had a lot of notions about what a girl would consider to be romantic. Writing, "Kathy {insert maiden name here} is beautiful" on a chalkboard in the classroom where we met once a week for a seminar on South African politics and then writing "Do Not Erase" on the board next to it, meaning it was up there for entire week before I found out about it, well, was mortifying. But I thought it was just a joke on me. Hahahaha. Funny stuff, eh? Gary was a nice guy and all, but he was really short. About 5'2". I'm 5'6". I stared down at him every time I talked to him. I don't mean to seem like I discriminate against short guys, but...well, I guess I do discriminate against short guys. Sigh. Anyway, he wasn't my cup of tea, and once again, I got blindsided. Turns out his declaration on the chalkboard in Ross Hall wasn't a joke. He showed up one night, a bouquet of flowers in hand, an invitation to dinner at one of the fanciest (and priciest) restaurants in Ames on the tip of his tongue, and I had to let him down gently.
Hmmph. Well, I guess I remember more than I thought I did. Lucky you!
Why was I so clueless? you ask. {Insert shrug here} Beats me. Poor self-esteem? Who the hell knows.
As far as the second part of the essay is concerned, well, I don't think anyone should be asking me about how to avoid being embarrassed on a date. I haven't the foggiest notion. I would assume that you could avoid my mistakes and---ahem---actually PAY ATTENTION to what's going on around you and that might save you some grief in the short term. That might help.
Ya think?
Enough. Now run along and see what the other fabulous demystifying divas have to say on the matter. Make sure to check out what Michele of Meanderings has contributed to the discussion, since she's our guest diva this week. For the male perspective, be sure to visit The Wiz, Phin, Stiggy and whichever Naked Villian is chiming in this week.
UPDATE: The Kid has a couple of stories about drunken fraternity boys and singing cowboys to entertain you all with.
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July 07, 2005
It almost seems wrong to ponder on something so freakin' trivial as jealousy on such a day,but perhaps, even if I'm not in the mood to write something new, someone needs a pick-me-up and would like to read a golden oldie...sooooo, I'm reposting this bit I wrote back when we had Divas Sez, our incredibly successful attempt at starting an advice column.
What makes a Diva jealous in a good way. What makes a Diva jealous in a bad way. Is there a difference?Now, personally, given how I feel after I've had a visit from the little green monster, I don't think it's possible there is such a thing as "good jealousy." It's all bad, and as I will explain, even the least likely thing can set me off.
The husband, God love him, is absolutely, 100% secure in our relationship. He doesn't worry that I'm going to leave him for someone who doesn't play MMORPG's. He doesn't worry when I start chatting with males, because he knows that, for the most part, I would prefer to chat with men because they're not talking about, well, men all the time, which is something I find a wee bit tiresome at this stage of the game. So, if we're at a party, he doesn't worry. He has no need to worry. And he goes on about his business, blissful in the knowledge that no man will be able to tempt me away. This, I believe, has something to do with the fact he is the King of Logic. Logic is always the bottom line. Emotions, he would argue, while nice, are a drawback because they get in the way of logic.
I, on the other hand, am a freakin' drama queen. (I am a diva, ya dig? This makes great sense in the scheme of things.) I love my emotions. I feel {insert Tony the Tiger voice here} they're grrrrreat! I feel they're the truth about who we are as human beings and logic, while it has its uses, is pretty goddamn boring. As such, I can get very jealous, at the drop of a hat, and, most of the time, it's for absolutely no good reason other than the fact I have a very good imagination. Picture the a couple at a party, split up, talking to two separate groups of people. The woman (me) notices something might be amiss out of the corner of her eye. He just touched her on the shoulder? What does that mean? Does he think she's hot? She's a blonde, for chrissakes. He doesn't like blondes! Goddamnit! What's she got that I haven't? What makes her so appealing that the husband, who is not mr. touchy feely, just touched her on the shoulder? Aiiieee. He's cheating on me! He's leaving me! I know it. I know it. Well, that's just NOT happening, ya hear? I'd better go over there and intervene!
And all of this is because the husband noticed a spot of lint on her black sweater clad shoulder and, living up to his worst OCD tendencies, couldn't stand to see some small bit of white marring all the blackness.
Jealousy is our insecurities at play in the fields of the Lord. It's the two-year-old inside of you who screams MINE! and starts hitting even though Mommy told them they shouldn't. It's your worst fears, laid out on the table, for all to see, because you're too angry and hurt to pull back and look at things in a rational manner.
Now, I'm not denying jealousy has its uses, because, ultimately, it does tell that special someone in your life that you do, indeed, care enough to send the very best of your own particular brand of insanity, but how healthy is that? Not very, in my opinion. Relationships are hard enough without a little green monster horning in and offering up its two cents worth.
Now, go and read what the other marvelous divas have to say. Make sure you give Divaesque Lady Joan of Seven Inches of Sense a warm "howdy." For the male perspective, please go and read what the marvy men's club---Stiggy, Phin, The Wiz and the Naked Villains---has contributed.
{Ed note: Yes, I did fiddle with the time stamp on this post.}
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June 28, 2005
This week's topic on which I am about to start pontificating: The guy flick/chick flick thing.
Now, I will admit, I have been somewhat lax in following along on the message boards we have set up for the private hashing out of future topics. Hence, I have no idea what I'm supposed to be shooting for with this subject, or if I'm supposed to be shooting for anything at all. Fortunately, I have plenty of ideas for this subject without prompting from my cohorts in any particular direction. I'm all about the diversity, no?
When one thinks of the typical "guy flick" a beefy, greased up, camo-wearing, M-16 holding Sylvester Stallone comes to mind. You automatically think of Rambo, in other words. This, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, is the penultimate guy flick. Or at least that's what my brothers would have told you way back in the day. (I fully realize I'm dating myself with this one, believe you me. My only defense is that, at the time, I was twelve.)
I've never seen any of the THREE Rambo movies, nor will I ever want to. Why? Because a. Sly looks just freakin' greasy in these movies and it's revolting and b. I am not interested in some dude running around the jungles of Southeast Asia (read Vietnam) fighting off whatever the hell he's supposed to be fighting off. (At least that's what I think the plot line is about. Who knows? I could be wrong. Pffft. It's not like I'm interested enough in the subject to look it up.) It just doesn't interest me. Neither am I interested in any John Wayne movie. Neither am I a big fan of Clint Eastwood (And, no, I've never seen Unforgiven. Yes, I fully realize most people think it's one of the best movies ever made. Pfft. Just not interested in it.) or his Spaghetti Westerns.
However...
There are plenty of movies that most would consider to be "guy flicks" that I do like. I am a James Bond nut, and have been ever since my brother Dave introduced me to the joy and wonder that is Dr. No and From Russia With Love. I'm a Sean Connery girl, just in case you were wondering, but Pierce Brosnan is a very close second. My favorite Bond movie? Thunderball. It's got it all: Sean Connery in those tight little swim trunks; a good Bond girl and a bad Bond Girl (and, man, was she ever bad...and that was cool); supersonic jets landing on water; Largo and SPECTRE; and a massive underwater fight scene with those super-duper cool motorized thingymabobs. I, mean, honestly...what more could you ask for? Dave also introduced me to another guy flick that has since become one of my absolute favorites: Die Hard. When I was younger, I was a big Bruce Willis fan because of Moonlighting, hence he was the main reason I liked this flick. As I've gotten older, however, I've realized that Alan Rickman, truly, is the reason to watch this movie: it would be half of the movie it is without him. He's the man with the plan, and that's ever so much fun to watch.
And that, I believe, is what it comes down to. Guy flicks, provided they're not overloaded with testosterone, are fun to watch. Chick flicks, or what some people would describe as Chick flicks, like Beaches or Waiting To Exhale, aren't. They're loaded with estrogen. They're all about jerking tears, and if they can't get them honestly, well, they'll do it dishonestly and make everything sad, so that if you happen to be in a bad mood, well, pull out a box of kleenex and settle in for a long night of feeling sorry for yourself. As someone who personally despises crying, well, they're just not my cup of tea. There's something contrived about them. I can't quite put my finger on it, but that's the feeling I get. Yet, lest you think me a cold-hearted chick who's all about the espionage flick, all is not lost in the weeping department. I will fully admit to thinking Steel Magnolias is a brilliant movie, even if---those rat bastards!---it makes me cry every single fargin' time. As is Terms of Endearment, which also turns me into a blubbering fool every time I watch it. You could also throw Love Story into this category, because it will really turn on the faucets.
I have to wonder what it's like for women who don't have older brothers. I have four of them and each of them, in their own distinct way, transplanted a bit of their own likes and dislikes to me, and this includes their choices in movies, reading material and other things as well, too. Besides hooking me on James Bond, Dave also hooked me on a Tom Clancy and Robert Ludlum (I'm referring to the Ludlum novels that were written before he died, of course). I have a fine appreciation of Steve McQueen and war movies (particularly Where Eagles Dare. I can't tell you how many times we watched that one together.) because of my brother Mike, even if I did reject his attempts to indoctrinate me into the Tolkein Fan Club. Steve helped to develop my love of fast cars. And Tim, well, let's just say that Timmy helped to put all of this into perspective for me. They led me down the path that gave me a fine appreciation for the middle-of-the-road guy flick. I have plenty of sisters, too, but they weren't as influential as the brothers. Interesting, no? Well, not really, I know, but still, it's a wee bit curious. What's it like for women who don't have brothers? It's an interesting question. If you, as a female, are influenced by the men in your life and you only have a dad, are you more into chick flicks?
Hmmmm.
Anyway, as far as this goes toward interpersonal relationships, well, the husband has also influenced me in the guy flick department as well. Star Wars was just another movie I was fond of before I met him. I didn't know what Anime was until I met him. And I most certainly did not know anything about the wonderful world of gaming until I met him. But, if you flip the coin, he wasn't familiar with the works of Jane Austen until he met me. He didn't have the patience to sit down and watch a historical drama until he met me. And he most certainly was not fond of the romantic comedy until he met me, either. I've gained an appreciation for new things because of him, and vice versa.
While our tastes have converged over the years, we sometimes still have to flip a coin to determine whose movie we're going to go and see. Because we rarely agree on which movies we want to see. This, we've learned, is the only fair to do it. We'll pull a quarter out and we'll flip while one of us calls it in midair. Whoever loses the flip is the automatic winner the next time around. If, by chance, there are two movies we both want to see, like the conundrum we had this past weekend, where we both wanted to see Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Batman Begins, we assign heads to one movie, tails to the other and flip the coin for that, too. It's simple and it works to keep the marital strife to a minimum.
Now, that I've rambled on long enough to have bored a horse to death, it's time for you to go and see what the other fabulous demystifying divas have to say on the subject. Make sure you go and give a wonderfully warm welcome to one of our new Divaesque Ladies, the magnificent Margi Lowry, who's also got something to say.
I, unfortunately, have some sad news to pass along this week. The Wizard, the famous instigator of The Men's Club, had decided he has too much to do and too little time to do it in, so he is bidding us a fond farewell. We will miss his contributions, but he should still be stopping by on a regular basis. Hopefully. Fortunately, however, Stiggy, Phin and the Minister of Propaganda have decided to keep the side going, so go over and read what they have to say.
In other Diva related news, well, we have something rather large and exciting to announce. We're going to be moving our regularly scheduled Tuesday postings to THURSDAY. This will start next week, July 7, 2005, so adjust whatever you might need to adjust accordingly.
UPDATE: Since it's his perogative, The Wiz has changed his mind about leaving us to our own devices. Hence, he kicked in an essay. Go read.
WooT!
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June 21, 2005
For your education and entertainment, I present to you, Mr. Dave Stewart and Ms. Annie Lennox---yes, that's right kids. We're talking about the Eurythmics--- performing their smash hit Would I Lie To You?.
And, yes, kids. I was trying to sound like Dick Clark there.
Anyhoo...I've always thought the snarky alternative title to this song should be "Did I Stutter, A**hole?" Annie's packed her bags, she's cleaned the floor, and you're supposed to watch her walk out the door, (Although, one does wonder why, if the relationship is over, Annie would bother to clean the floor. Wouldn't a breakup negate the need for that sort of dreary housework?) and all the while the chorus is singing in the background, "Believe Me." So, when one actually bothers to listen to the lyrics of this song, one gets the impression that perhaps Annie wasn't as truthful as she might have been during the course of this relationship. Why else would she need plead with him to believe her otherwise?
Annie's been telling some little white lies, methinks.
And you know that happens, right? No one likes to cop to it, but it does happen, especially in the early stages of the relationship, when we're desperate to impress and perhaps the unexpurgated truth isn't the image we'd like to present. However, when you really dive into the deep end of a relationship, honesty is always a virtue, but not at the cost of being kind. So, instead of lying flat out, we perhaps tell little white lies, or tell lies of omission, where we just skip around the situation altogether. Because, sometimes, lying---and I really do hate to say it---is the right thing to do.
To prove my point, we shall examine all the options for one particular, universal, question that is asked everyday by women:
If a man doesn't want his bollocks to magically disappear, the smart answer to this question is...
...a noncomittal, "hmmmm" and a prompt change of topic. While this would count for a lie of omission, it would nonetheless be, technically speaking, the most correct way of answering this question. It dodges. It weaves. It avoids the killer right hook. Yet it's kind, and if the woman knows how to read between the lines, she will know that a. her man does not want to be dumped into a vat of hot water and b. he's trying not to hurt her feelings.
The seriously wrong answer to this question would be, "Yes, you are a lard ass. Change into a tent, would you? I don't want to be embarrassed." If you have a wish to be castrated, well, go right ahead and throw this one out there for the consumption of your beloved. It won't hurt...I promise.
Yet another incorrect answer would be if he chose to flat-out lie and said, "No, dear. It doesn't. You look great." If said woman then goes out to a party, where the main topic of whispered gossip happens to be "what the hell was she thinking when she put on that dress?" and she catches wind of it, well, he's a dead man. Because he's supposed to protect her from this sort of thing, he's supposed to be honest with her, and he failed. If only he'd told me the truth!
The problem here is that, at times, we want our significant others to lie to us. Sometimes we don't want the truth as they see it, but rather we want them to prop up the truth as we see it, which probably isn't the truth at all, but rather an illusion, or delusion as the case may be. Sometimes the kind thing to do, the thing that will ensure your vital bits don't magically disappear, is to fib. And by my usage of the term "fib," I mean it's all right, on occasion, to slightly lie to save someone hurt. "Fib" is not, in Kath's Thesaurus of Potentially Life Altering Language, the exact equivalent of "I'm not going to tell her that I slept with someone while I was at that dental convention in Acapulco." That would be an outright lie. And it's not kind to pull that sort of whopper on someone with whom you've pledged to spend the rest of your life. Because that kind of lie, while saving your bollocks temporarily, could come back to bite you...hard. Because that's a selfish kind of lie. A fib is a kind sort of lie. Get the difference? Good. Otherwise, you'll be just like Annie and you'll be pleading with her to "believe you" as she walks out the door. And I'll bet you anything she won't have cleaned the floor before she packed her bags.
And that's all she wrote. Quite literally. So, now go and see what the other Demystifying Divas have to say on the topic. One of our newest Divaesque Ladies, Sheila of The Sheila Variations, is stepping up this week and adding her two cents. Then, for the flip side, go and read what our Marvy Men's Club, which is comprised of Stiggy, The Wiz, Phin and our Maximum Leader, has offered up on this topic.
UPDATE: Divaesque Lady Twisty has also chimed in. Scoot along and read.
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June 14, 2005
Now, if you were to ask this question of the husband (which I did: he's my polling sample) he would tell you a. every beach should be topless (And yes, just to confirm any leaps of the imagination you might have made with that little bit of disclosure, yes, the French Riviera is one of his dream vacation destinations.) and b. just say no to the "grape smuggler"-type swimsuits, aka speedos. You see, in his mind, a woman's body is a beautiful thing. He's not going to mind one bit if a woman has a few extra pounds on her---as long as she's topless. Naked breasts distract from any imperfections apparently. For a man's body, well, according to the husband, said man shouldn't wear one of those itty bitty speedos unless he's got the body to pull it off, and even then it's a flip of the coin as to whether the man really should be wearing the thing. What I find ironic is that if he ever were to make to the French Riviera, he'd find a lot of speedos mixed in with all of the topless women, because I believe that's one of the places in Europe where hygiene requirements dictate that men have to wear such a swimsuit.
As for what I think, well, I think as long as you're comfortable in your swimsuit and it doesn't keep riding up your butt (hence forcing you to keep digging for gold...in PUBLIC), you can wear what you'd like. Even if it's a Speedo. Because, really, there are some men who can get away with wearing speedos. (Michael Phelps comes to mind. Hottie McHotHot! Rowr.) It's all about being comfortable with your body: if you're comfortable with your body, well, that feeling of confidence that you give off has a way of hiding cellulite and stretch marks. It's a magic little thing.
A couple of years ago, back when we could afford such a thing, the husband and I were members of what would be thrown into the city club designation for places where you spend an obscene amount of money playing the meet and greet game. It was the same deal as a country club, only without the golf course. There was a health club instead. It was a pretty swank club and we enjoyed our membership there not only because was it the best people watching opportunity in town, but also because there was a rooftop pool replete with BAR SERVICE! There's really nothing quite so nice on a hot summer afternoon than having a very cute, very nice, young waiter deliver you a refreshing, cold glass of Chardonnay as you read the latest edition of The Economist whilst sunning yourself poolside. That's living, let me tell you.
Ahem.
Anyway when I first went to the pool, of course, I was a wee bit nervous about how I looked in my swimsuit. Now, I'm not a bikini girl. I haven't owned one since I was about five-years-old (It was green with cute little fishies on it) because I thought (and still think) they were too revealing for me, so I've pretty much been a maillot girl ever since. If you don't know what these are, well, know that it's got a low-ish back on it, it covers my rear-end, and it shows what I would consider to be a reasonable amount of cleavage. Nothing too fancy, in other words. It's also functional and as such it makes me feel comfortable. But this was the club--- with rich bitches who spend every waking moment on the elipticals in the health club. I was nervous that I was going to be the only one with cellulite poking out. The husband told me I looked fine and then shoved me out the door.
As it turns out, the husband was (once again) right. I needn't have worried. It became quite obvious that the world, and the people in it, really aren't airbrushed. (It'd been a while since I'd gone to a pool. My expectations for embarrassment were high.) There were women there, well over the age of forty, standing around, chatting with friends, who were dressed in skimpy bikinis and they looked fabulous---despite the fact you could divine how many kids they'd had just by counting the stretch marks on their tummies. They didn't care. Neither did they care if there were a few dimples on their thighs and butts. They just didn't give a rat's ass. Why? Because they were comfortable with their bodies.
These women were a sharp contrast to the young woman who always sat devotedly next to her asshole boyfriend at the edge of the pool. (He stole my waiter once by waving a fifty dollar bill in midair, at a club where everything was done by tab, hence he was forever shut into the asshole category as a result.) Now the boyfriend was the type who thought it necessary to wear his diamond-encrusted Texas Timex to the pool (along with a few guido chains around his neck) and was more interested in showing off how much money he had than actually having a good time. Well, let me amend that: showing off how much money he had was his idea of a good time. His girlfriend, who I'm very sure was not used to going to clubs of this nature, was an interesting people-watching specimen. I will admit, she fascinated me because she was, well---how do I put this?---incongrous? Yeah, that works. Her attitude didn't match what she looked like. That's why I found her interesting to observe.
She was tall, thin, and was a bottle blonde. Every time she took a swim, she never dipped her head under the water, because it would wreck the full war paint she had going on, to say nothing of her perfectly arranged hair. Now, this woman had what a lot of men would consider to be the perfect, early 21st Century body. And by that I mean she could have body-doubled for J.Lo. I would swear on a mile-high stack that she'd had gone for the ass implants. Her butt was completely, perfectly, round, like you'd cut a softball in half and had slid each half under either cheek. These implants, of course, matched the ones on her chest, which were just right. Not too large, but not too small, either. Her stomach was flat, her thighs were slim, her toes were professionally tended to, as were her hands. She had the perfect body that only the best plastic surgeons could provide and yet, surprisingly enough, after all that, she wasn't comfortable with herself. Her boyfriend apparently thought all of his money needed to be displayed appropriately, hence she was always in a bikini. She was perfectly tanned and was quite pretty naturally. But she wasn't comfortable with herself. Her arms were always crossed over her chest. She wore a towel around her waist as much as she possibly could. She always looked as if she was trying to hide, always looking down and trying to be invisible, so that the teacher wouldn't call on her. The older, bikini wearing women, who were busy chatting with their friends while they tried to keep their kids from kamikazi-ing off the side of the pool and killing themselves in the process, intimidated this girl. And it was there to see by anyone who'd bothered to look.
Hence, this is why I say, wear what you want to the pool or the beach: if you're comfortable in it, who cares what anyone else has to say about it? You could have the best body money could buy and still not be comfortable with it. So, why bother worrying (and spending thousands of dollars fixing it) about it? You'll save time and money that way. And, as the husband always claims, confidence is the sexiest thing a woman can wear. Don't worry so much about how it fits.
Now, run along and see what the other fabulous demystifying divas have to say on the subject. Also, please go over and say "hi" to Divaesque Lady Kate, who is also contributing to our vast knowledge on this subject this week. Also, make sure to check out what the boys have to say on the topic. The Wiz is taking a bye week, so he won't have anything to say, but make sure to read what Phin, Stiggy and The Foreign Minister have contributed.
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June 07, 2005
I would have to say that the answer to this one is no. It is NEVER ok for this to happen. Others might be more enlightened and are able to keep their emotions in check, and can pull the "yeah, sure, he's a great guy, it just didn't work out with us, so go for it" thing off. I'm sure those people are out there. It's just that, in reality, I've never known this to work out, no matter how 21st Century someone purports to be. I'm very much like Dr. House on this issue: everyone lies. If someone says they're over their ex, just assume they're lying. If someone says that they're mostly over their ex, just assume they're lying. If someone says they're not over their ex, well, just assume they're lying, but that they'll still be jealous if you date their ex.
To explain my thoughts on this one, I have to lay out a bit of my ancient history. You see, I have never been the type of girl who turns guys' heads. They don't walk up to me and start chatting me up. It just doesn't happen. I'm just not that chick. I have brown hair and I wear glasses. Go figure. I am, however, the girl who can chat on all sorts of subjects and will "intrigue" a man once she starts talking to him. I have no idea why this happens, but it's always been this way. Now, this was a very uncomfortable experience when I was coming of age, because my friends would gain a guy, I'd get to know them because the socially acceptable thing to do is to get to know the people your friends date, and then this is when it would get interesting. For some strange reason I always wound up fending off advances from my friends' boyfriends. God, talk about awkward.
One glaring example from my youth: my best friend from high school was dating this goombah. And there's really no other way to describe him: he was a goombah. He was Italian-American; he was born and raised in Nebraska, but for some strange reason thought he should have a Brooklyn accent; he wore gold chains around his neck and---I swear to God---wore a pinky ring, and drove a Bitchin' Camaro. He pretty much fit the "goombah" definition. He was an "ok" guy, and we got along all right, but I was having a hard time understanding why Julie thought the sun rose and set with him. The first time I met him was the first weekend I was home from college after my freshman year. We went to a party, I was introduced, I chatted with him, and before then end of that night he'd grabbed my ass TWICE. When Julie was right next to him, no less. I'd removed his hand both times, and added a painful twist to his finger to make sure he got the message that he shouldn't be trying that on, and shot him nasty looks to back up the message.
Now, I told Julie about this the next day. And, of course, she took it under advisement, but while I thought she was being rational about it, she was simply filing this information away. Not to use against him, but rather to use against me. She broke up with him a few weeks later. This was fine and dandy with me. No hassles. About six months later, I was home from school from Christmas break, and she was dodging me and pretty much not wanting to have anything to do with me. I didn't understand what was going on, she wouldn't stay on the phone long enough with me for me to suss it out, and so, when I got back to school, I sent her a letter, wondering what was up. Well, she sent one back saying we shouldn't be friends anymore. Because I was "always trying to steal her boyfriends away." And she listed out this boyfriend, even though she'd dumped him, as just one of the many examples of my being a bad friend.
I was stunned. Here I'd practically broken the guy's finger---twice---in an effort to be faithful to my friend, I'd told her what he'd done, and who was the one who had to pay the ferryman? Not him, that's for sure. A couple of years later, Julie and reconciled, but it was short lived. Think you can guess why? Her fiancee---yep, that's right, the man she was engaged to be married to---kept sending me these soulful glances across the room when I first met him. I was dating the husband by this point in time, and the boyfriend knew this, but the minute Julie got up to go to the bathroom, well, he started running his finger along my hand, saying how cool I was and that we should get together sometime. Oy.
Of course, I ran the other way. I didn't want to get blamed, again, for the fact she kept picking out losers. This happened many more times, with many more girlfriends and the objects of their affection. I have no idea why it happened. It's not like I went looking to steal their boyfriends away. I just talked to the guys. That's it. I hate homewreckers, yet I constantly got lumped in with their lot. It's something that baffles me to this day. Yet, this is why I've never thought it would be ok, under any circumstances, to even think about having warm and friendly thoughts towards a friend's ex. I just wouldn't do it. It's not worth the hassle, because, in my humble opinion, no matter how much your friend says they're over their ex, there are still going to be little rumblings of jealousy that could, conceivably, ruin your friendship. It's just not worth the trouble.
Now run along and see what Sadie, Silk and Chrissy have to say on the subject. Please also go over and give Kelley at Suburban Blight, one of our fine Divaesque Ladies, a warm welcome and read what she has to say.
For the male perspective, as always The Wiz, Phin, Stiggy have spoken up. As has the I-can't-bring-myself-to-shoot-raccoons-Smallholder at Naked Villainy.
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June 01, 2005
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May 31, 2005
It's topics like this that remind me how long it's been since I was single.
They also remind me how very nice it is to be married.
Because you don't have to think about this stuff when you're married. It's all out there. It's been dealt with. You know their secrets. They know yours. And what's even better is that neither of you care. Your past has not been a hindrance to your future and, honestly, what could be better than that? You lived, you learned, you weren't denied the object of your affection because you might have been stupid in the past. I repeat: what could be better than that?
But that's not the part of this business I'm supposed to be demystifying, is it? I'm supposed to be hitting the "before" marriage business, not the after. Sigh. Ah, well. It may have been awhile, but, the way I see it, this is comes down to trust. When do you trust someone with not only the good bits about your history, but the parts that might be considered bad? Particularly your sexual history, knowing what a loaded gun that might be in someone's hands.
The only answer I can give is that this is a question best left up to your gut. If your sexual history isn't going to get someone killed (i.e. HIV/AIDS) or make them ill (other sexually transmitted diseases that may not be lethal, but definitely leave a mark), you can wait for full disclosure until you feel comfortable enough to share that information---if you feel it's necessary to share that information, and I'll come back to this in a moment. However, if you have been engaging in risky sexual behavior---and I shouldn't have to define what this is for you, kids. You're all grown-ups. If you don't know this by now, well, you're a lost cause----you should definitely tell anyone you sleep with that you've been a particularly naughty girl/boy BEFORE YOU SLEEP WITH THEM. I don't care if it's hard or if it's uncomfortable or if it's not really something you want to bring up in the heat of the moment. In this day and age, sex can kill. It can and does. Still. It's not fair to not let someone in on the risks they're taking by being with you.
Preaching aside, if you should tell someone about your past is yet another issue that needs to be addressed. Now, at one point in time I would have said, absolutely, you must lay everything out on the table for your partner's consumption, and they should do the same; that there shouldn't be any secrets between you. But now? Well, I'm not so sure. I think this comes part and parcel with maturity and the realization all of the noteworthy bits of your life haven't happened in your early twenties, when sharing this sort of thing seems to be a benign and expected act.
As I often tell Mr. H, when he relates to me his latest tale of singledom over Sunday morning coffee, I am so happy I'll never have to deal with any of the trials and tribulations of being single ever again. And I am. Believe me, I am. But, I will admit, there are times when I wonder what I would do if I were, and this is one of those instances: would I disclose everything to this hypothetical potential partner? Or would there be some things I would keep to myself, not necessarily because they're horrible things that I would fear would make this hypothetical person run the other way, but simply because I don't think they need to be related; that they're not necessary to the conversation? And the answer is that I don't think I would disclose everything. Life is long. So much longer than it seems it ever could be when you're in your twenties. Experience is gained. Lessons have been learned. And one of the lessons learned is that not everything in your past is relevant to the future. A particular instance may have, in part, made you who you are today, but that doesn't mean you have to tell all. As long as what you're choosing not to disclose is a benign thing, there can be some things you can choose to keep to yourself. I don't think this is bad. It's simply a case of the other person not needing to know.
And that's all the psuedo-advice this particular diva can dish out on this fine Tuesday morning. My partners in crime, the other fabulous divas, have dished out their own bits of advice, so go and read what they have to say. Also be sure to check out what The Minister of Propaganda, The Wiz, and Phin have said on the subject. We'll see when/if Stiggy chimes in on this topic, since he's off gallivanting around Europe at the present moment.
UPDATE: This week's guest diva, Moogie, has also chimed in. Go and read.
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May 24, 2005
This week's topic was inspired by one, in my humble opinion, particularly annoying Yes song: which is better to have---a broken heart or a lonely heart?
Now, whomever wrote this song for Yes came to the conclusion that, indeed, it was better to be the owner of a lonely heart, rather than a broken heart. Much better than... This is the first time I've actually read the lyrics to this tune, and I have to say I have no idea what their reasoning behind this bit of advice is. I've never been able to understand the words when they sang them, so I don't know why I was thinking I would be enlightened when I read them, but hey, I'm a hopeful girl that way. Alas, they have not provided any enlightenment. So, I suppose I must actually work at this post and come up with my own conclusion. Bastards.
{Goes back and reads the lyrics again}
It seems, upon a second reading, that if you have a lonely heart, somehow, you seem to have control over your fate. You can make the choice not to be lonely, whereas if your heart is broken, well, you're pretty much screwed. Hmmph. Basically, this gets back to an old Shakespearean theme: is it better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all?
I would have to say, yes, it is better to have loved and lost, because at least then you know what you're missing. The thought of going through that all again may terrify you, but at least you've risked something. You've gone out and made choices and are living with the ramifications of those choices. You've been brave before and you can be brave again, because you know what love feels like---and on its good days, it's a pretty nice thing. But if you think loneliness is the best option, well, you may, like the song says, realize you have control over your fate. You may realize that you don't have to let it get to you, you can insert Oprah's message of EMPOWERMENT here, yadda, yadda yadda, ad nauseam, ad infinitum.
But...
Let's be honest, kids. How many people do you know who seem to have a serious attachment to being lonely? They've made loneliness into their mate and they talk about loneliness the way some women and men talk about their significant others. Because those people are out there. I'm sure you've met a few: single women and men who constantly bemoan how if only I could meet the right person and then never actually get off their ass to do something about it. You invite them out, you introduce them to someone you think they'll get along with, hoping against hope that this will get them to quit their bitching, or at least move to a new stage of bitching, and five minutes later---POOF!---they've hit the self-destruct button and are back at your side, bitching and moaning again, about how that person wasn't right for them, what were you thinking, etc. They have run back to their ever faithful mate: loneliness. These are the people, in my experience, who have the ideal mate all laid out in their mind and they won't settle for anything but that, while they know, somewhere in the back of their mind, that said ideal mate simply does not exist in reality. They set the bar too high for any mere mortal to pass over.
In other words: there are people out there for whom loneliness is their drug of choice and, boy are they ever addicted to it. Instead of falling off and having to get back on, they prefer never to get on the horse in the first place. They've decided that while getting on the horse is ideal, and something they really should do, they prefer to turn the horse into a unicorn: a mythical creature that can and will never be caught. It's more comfortable for them. And that's fine and dandy. I just wish the few friends of mine who are like this would quit bitching about the damn horse, because it gets so boring to have to listen to it.
But, you don't have to take my word for it. You can go and read what the other Disarming and Demystifying Divas have written on the topic. Make sure to give a warm welcome to Pammy, one of our Red Hat Divas, who has joined in this week. If you'd like to flip the coin and see what the males have to say, you can go over and read what the Air Marshal, The Wiz, Stigmata (who's filling in for our beloved, but dead as a doornail and subsequently flushed down the toity Puffster) and Phin have coughed up.
UPDATE: Serendipity
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