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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Like I said, I'm not good at keeping up with them. 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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