May 17, 2005
(You'll need to click on the image to actually be able to read it.)
And do women ever love jewelry. In my humble opinion, there are very few exceptions to this rule. Even if some women don't opt for the all the flash a professional, Certified Gemologist-employing jeweler can provide, they still wear a chain around their neck, a ring or two on their fingers, and earrings. The question, to my mind, would be why? The reason I ask this question is because I don't think most women have stopped to think about why they wear all this stuff.
Jewelry is such an automatic thing for most women. I know it is for me. I don't have my ears pierced, so I rarely worry about earrings, and when I do, well, I can't find any that I like because the clips you find in department stores are not designed with my demographic in mind. I don't wear anything around my neck mainly because chains and I do not, for the most part, get along. But I always wear my wedding ring, my watch, and a bracelet the husband bought me in Kuwait that I'm particularly fond of. I believe this throws me in the "low maintenence" section of the jewelry department, but even I am susceptible to the thrills of all things sparkly.
I don't know what that's all about, either. I'm not a jewelry hound. Never have been, never will be. I suspect you'll never find me draped, head to toe, in diamonds at any point in my life. Even knowing this, I still cannot stop myself from looking at the sparklies on display. I just can't. My friends are the same way. In the past, I have compared this susceptibility in women to oooh and aaaah at the offerings in a display window to men's fascination with women's breasts: in either situation, we can't really help ourselves when it comes to looking. Heterosexual men, always, always, always, look. They cannot help themselves. I think it's hardwired. When they're younger, they stare and gape and generally act like it's the first time they've seen a pair of boobs. But when they get older, the better they get at looking surreptitiously. The open-mouthed staring becomes a quick glance downwards that you might easily miss if you're not paying attention. They might not have any need to look; they might be happily married to their wives, whom they adore, but they still look. It's the same with me and jewelry. I have no need for more jewelry, but I still look.
But I don't feel the need to be sneaky about it.
Case in point: when the husband, Mr. H and I were in San Francisco and were walking around the high-end shopping district that is Union Square, we passed a few jewelry stores along the way. We'd be walking along, minding our own business, enjoying the city, and then---whammo! We'd pass a window with diamonds and pearls on display and I'd stop to stare. The boys would keep walking until they realized I was no longer with them, and then they'd come back to see what I was gazing at. The husband didn't mind my behavior: he was used to it. It was Mr. H. who was surprised with me. He knew I didn't ever really want more jewelry, and that I wouldn't probably wear it if I had it, so he didn't understand the fascination with the stuff. I couldn't explain it to him. It's just that it was pretty, it caught my eye and I wanted to look at it. It was particularly bad when we got over to Chinatown, because there was an amazing wealth of goods on display, and they, unlike the pricey shops over in Union Square, had stuff I could actually afford to buy.
I cannot imagine what it would be like to walk into a jewelry store and say, "May I please look at that bracelet? And that ring..." with the actual intention of buying. Looking is one thing that I like, but actually laying down cold hard cash for something, that in reality isn't all that rare? You do know that, right? That diamonds aren't rare at all? Well, you do now. You can walk down a creekbed in South Africa and the pebbles you would feel crunching under the soles of your shoes would not be pebbles at all but rather diamonds. Uncut and unpolished diamonds, but diamonds nonetheless. The only reason diamonds are an expensive quantity is because of an Englishman named Cecil Rhodes, who not only went on to found Rhodesia (now Zambia and Zimbabwe), but also DeBeers. You see, Cecil, and the men who followed him, through some seriously ruthless business practices, created a monopoly for DeBeers. Through this monopoly they were able to keep prices high for something that is not rare at all. You should have seen the look on my sister-in-law's face the first time I told her this: a world-reknowned jewelry hound, she looked like she was about ready to burst out in tears. My brother, her husband, however had a different look on his face: I think the phrase "abject fury" would describe it quite well.
And that, I believe, gives us a clue as to why some women drape themselves in sparklies: it shows off how well they---or their husbands---are doing in the world, financially speaking. Sure, when you're younger, jewelry is about decoration. It's about it being pretty and nothing else. Yet, once you get to a certain point in life, jewelry takes on more meaning than simple decoration. This is how you judge people. Is this shallow? You bet it is. But is it any more shallow to judge someone based on what handbag they carry, what clothes they wear, what car they drive? Nope. It's just one more benchmark we have to use to decide about people without actually having to ask them a thing.
My sister-in-law, sensing a threat to her world, and how she judged the people therein, God Bless Her, blocked out the information I'd related to her. (That is if, of course, if she remembered it, all of us being somewhat inebriated at the time of telling.) I don't think my brother really had a choice in the matter, this not being information that would serve him well in his negotiations at Borsheims.
But anyway, don't take my word for it: go and read what our other Daring Demystifying Divas have to say on the matter. And, because five is always better than four, make sure to check out what my lovely blog child, and Divaesque Lady, Phoenix of Villains Vanquished has to add to the conversation.
As far as The Men's Club is concerned, well, I'm afraid I have good news and bad news. The bad is that Zonker has decided to frame his membership badge and hang it up on the wall because he's got too much work going on at the present moment. We will miss him. The good, however, is that the wonderful Villains over at Naked Villainy have decided to jump into the testosterone pool that is The Men's Club. So, make sure to go over and read what our Maximum Leader has to say, while also checking out Phin, and Puffy. The Wiz was called off on a muy importanto business trip at the last minute yesterday, so I will update when he gets around to posting about this topic.
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Since I never married, I never got a nice ring, so I bought myself one a few years back. It was on lay-away, and it took me a year to pay it off, but finally, it was mine! It's from the 1930s, with a flat setting and lattice work on the sides. It's "me". I wear it pretty much everyday. In general I like old/antique pieces that aren't made by the thousands, and I like Celtic styled stuff. I have lots of the Celtic stuff!
I don't really see my jewelery as a status symbol -- maybe because I can't afford diamonds and sapphires? (But hey, if some guy wants to send some diamonds and sapphires my way, I'm sure I could learn to love them) Dunno. I just think I'm a magpie that likes bright shiny things. May 13, 2005
Don't go and read it unless you have one of two things handy: a. a shower capable of pumping out gallon after gallon of cold water or b. a partner in crime who can help.
Dang!
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Apparently you all don't think I'm the fount of wisdom I make myself out to be because no one---not one single, solitary person---sent a question to the divas sez mailbox for me to answer.
Hmmmph.
I was going to go and snatch a bunch of questions from Carolyn Hax's column, and answer them in my own way, but I just figured it's not worth my time to try and entertain and enlighten a bunch of people who just don't give a damn.
You'll excuse me, but I need to go and milk my martyr complex for what it's worth.
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May 10, 2005
Questions, darling, questions. I need questions for Divas Sez on Friday.
Don't be mediocre, darlings. That simply wouldn't do.
/Edna voice
{Clicket on baby-got-back-girl over on the right sidebar to receive an email prompt}
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Ahhhhhh. Yeah, I know. everyone's favorite subject. Well, at least it is for some of the men in the audience. For the women? Well, that's another story entirely. In my experience, women, on the whole, do not like strip clubs. Nor, for the most part, do they like strippers---unless they happen to be one. Strippers are seen as a threat to a happy home. This is why men, wisely enough, tend not to advertise when they go to a club. When was the last time any man told his wife, "Yeah, honey, I'll be at such and such bar for a time, then we're planning on going over to the King of Diamonds after that. I don't know when I'll get home. But I'm going to need cash, and I'm going to need it in small denominations, so can you get me $100 in five dollar bills when you go to the bank?"
Yeah, like that's going to go over well.
If they divulge that information at all it's after the fact and not before. I know many a woman who simply does not want to know, so it's a "don't ask, don't tell" situation. One of the husband's friends, however, has a wife who would hit the roof if she found out where he'd been, so he has, on occasion, asked lil' ol' me to cover for him, should his wife call and wonder where he is. Fortunately, she's never called, so I've never had to cover for him.
I, on the other hand, have absolutely no illusions about the husband's activities. He's been. I know he's been. He knows I know because he's told me. I know that, sometime in the future, he'll go again. I see no reason to disillusion myself in regards to this, or demand that he not go: I wouldn't want to put him in a position where he has to lie to me, and I must say that I don't understand women who don't get this. Men are going to go to strip clubs. This is a fact of life: why not just deal with the facts as they are rather than trying to bend them to your particular whims? While you may think that your man's visits to a club means something about your relationship, you should probably know that, unless your man is going on a daily basis, those visits have absolutely nothing to do with your relationship. They do, however, have everything to do with looking at naked women.
Men go to look at naked ladies. They have reached the stage of their life when they have some brass in pocket, and they can pay to see a naked woman, rather than having to work for that particular payoff. I truly believe this activity is them trying to get in touch with the glories of sex and women as seen through the eyes of a teenager, when sex was new and any naked woman was gorgeous, even if she was, in reality, a hag. Nowadays, they just let their eyes wander in an unfocused sort of way to get back to that feeling. They just can't touch.
Now, I can understand how men can go to these places. No hassles there. What I don't understand is why women would want to go. And there are women who dig those places. If you're one of them, well, know this much: I don't get you. Those places are for men. They appeal to men. They smell like men. They are populated with men. This is their clubhouse. If you show up at one of these places, a muppet will pop up and will start singing "Which one of these things is not like the other?" Furthermore, I don't think men want you there. It ruins the illusion for them. How do I know this? Because I've been, and I was a less than enthusiastic visitor. If you want the rest of the story, take the jump.
And no, Mom, you're not allowed to take the jump.
For those of you who would like to skip the jump, you can go and read what the other Delicious Demystifying Divas have to say about this topic. Make sure to go over to Meanderings where one of our Red Hat divas, Michelle, has also thrown in her two cents. You can also go and read if Pete, Zonker, Puffy or Phin have confirmed or denied my suspicions.
UPDATE: Pammy also has chimed in. more...
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May 08, 2005
Let's just say that she truly is demystifying things for the men in the audience.
I shall only add this bit of advice onto hers: learn it and live it!
And, yeah, I'm up at bat for this Friday. Get all your very important questions into the divassezatgmaildotcom mailbox by Thursday evening.
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May 06, 2005
She's also working on one question that is requiring a bit of research to answer, so I will update when she does.
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May 03, 2005
The nose is a particularly funny looking part of our bodies. I mean, honestly, have you ever actually looked at your nose? It is, by all aesthetic rights, a silly thing. It sticks out, for no apparent reason. It could be big, it could be small. It could be wide, or it could be so small that when your nostrils flare on an angry exhale, you look like a pissed off chihuahua. But what the hell is it there for? Why do we have this incongrous thing sticking out of the middle of our faces? The answer, my dear friends, is to smell things. Because we need our sense of smell, as it is necessary to our survival as human beings as our hearing, sight and taste.
It's easy to forget nowadays, when everyone is so very interested in making everything smell like nothing (or everything, as the case may be) that we need that big proboscis on our faces to keep ourselves alive. After all, how can you tell if your food or drink is spoiled when it looks perfectly fine? How can you tell when you're in trouble? Because you smell the fear coming off your comrades---and yourself---in the form of body odor. You can smell sickness. And since it's generally an unpleasant smell, you know to stay away, hence keeping yourself from catching a nasty illness. You can also smell the putrid odor of the decay of death and you know to stay away from that as well. Smell is as crucial to human beings ability to survive as the ability to see the bus that's barrelling at you at 45 m.p.h. These drastic examples aside, smell is also crucial to the survival of the human race for another reason: it helps you find the person you're supposed to mate and reproduce with.
Now, personally, I believe that in this day and age we are too obsessed with scent---and not in a good way. How many ads do you see for a product that appeal to your sense of smell during your favorite one hour tee vee show? Think about it for a minute. Just off the top of my head I can think of laundry detergent, fabric softener, cleaning products, air fresheners, shower soap, lotion, arthritis rubs...and this doesn't even count the ads for actual perfume. A primary selling point of these products is that they appeal to your sense of smell in a positive way. We like things to smell nice: our clothes, our houses, our air, but most importantly, our bodies. We want these things to smell nice because it's not fun, in this day and age, to have things that don't smell nice, because that will bring social ridicule upon us. Hence I believe we go a bit overboard in an effort to avoid said ridicule. People make fun of other people who don't wash on a regular basis, hence we find a soap that not only makes us clean, but gives off a fragrance to cover up any body odor we might give off during the course of the day. In fact, the anti-bacterial properties of soap are there, primarily, not to keep you from being sick or becoming infected, but because bacteria is the stuff that makes us smell perhaps not so fresh. You can sweat all day long, but you won't start to smell unless that sweat combines with bacteria. We find a fabric softener that not only keeps the static cling away, but also radiates a powerful flowery fragrance, because that smells better than our own natural smell, which can and will cling to clothes. Fragrance, these days, is just as powerful a marketing factor as the primary purpose of whatever product the fragrance is attached to. As such, I think we've lost quite a bit, and perhaps---just perhaps---are making life more confusing for ourselves. After all, would you rather know what a potential mate smells like, and be able to discern what you find attractive by that, or would you rather judge them by the smell of the fabric softener they use? How can you tell nowadays just what a potential mate smells like when they're bathed, head to toe, in loads of different fragrances?
Now, speaking for myself, I like a man to smell like, well, a man. I refer you to a passage I wrote for the never-finished, forever-being-tweaked manuscript. I'm not going to set it up for you: you don't need to know. Surprisingly enough, this passage hasn't been tweaked too much and has survived a few ruthless edits simply because I like the way I put it the first time round:
"...but to smell him? That was a thing of beauty. He smelled like a man should smell: of utilitarian soap, small, minty traces of the shaving cream heÂ’d used, the wool of his damp overcoat, the starch the drycleaners had used on his shirt, the one whisky heÂ’d allowed himself at the party, and the beginnings of sweat and hormones. She could remain in that miasma for hours and feel nothing but pleasure."
I can conjure all those smells from memory, separately and I can also throw them together as well. Can you? I'm pretty sure you can, and you probably have your own notions of what will and does smell good on your own potential mate. I'm not a big one for men dousing themselves with cologne. I think a man who simply washes on a regular basis smells good. Yet, I will shamefully admit, there was a time that I would gladly follow a man around, like I was the village idiot, when they wore this. Oh, God did that stuff ever smell good to my eighteen-year old nose. I would like to think---ahem---that it was because it accentuated what I thought smelled good on a guy naturally, but that would just be my brain trying to justify my actions. The stuff, in all actuality, appealed to my baser instincts. My hormones ran over whenever I caught a whiff of that stuff. That stuff was ambrosia. I'm getting shivers even now just thinking about it. (Meeeeow!) Not to put too fine a point on it, let's just say that my good sense went straight out the window when a man who was wearing Drakkar walked by. He could have been a complete and utter troll: I didn't care. He was wearing the stuff that appealed to my hormones. And, in that shameful admission, I believe we find the answer to why we're so busy trying to deceive our noses with all the fragrances we use: because they might make us more attractive, more appealing to the opposite sex; they might cover our flaws; they might level the uneven playing field that is the battleground to find a mate---they allow us to think maybe we've got the high ground. What's sad, however, is that you may, in all reality, be down in the swamp and you might not know it because you can't smell it over all the fragrances wafting around you.
Ok, enough with the longwinded bullshit. Now it's time for you, my devoted Cake Eater Reader, to go and read what the other DeliciouslyDiabolical Demystifying Divas have written. Make sure you go over and welcome one of our Divaesque Ladies, Ruth, at Chaos Theory, who has chimed in as well today. As always, in the spirit of equality, make sure to check out what the fearsome foursome that is The Men's Club---Puffy, Phin, Zonker and The Wiz---have produced on this topic as well.
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April 26, 2005
Today's topic as we've begun calling it in chats amongst ourselves: Ring-Ring.
Ahem
Mike: So how long do I wait to call?Trent: A day.
Mike: Tomorrow.
Sue: Tomorrow, then a day.
Trent: Yeah.
Mike: So two days?
Trent: Yeah, I guess you could call it that, two days.
Sue: Definitely, two days is like industry standard.
Trent: You know I used to wait two days to call anybody, but now it's like everyone in town waits two days. So I think three days is kind of money. What do you think?
Sue: Yeah, but two's enough not to look anxious.
Trent: But I think three days is kind of money. You know because you...
Mike: Yeah, but you know what, mabey I'll wait 3 weeks. How's that? And tell her I was cleaning out my wallet and I just happened to run into her number.
Charles: Then ask her where you met her.
Mike: Yeah, I'll ask her where I met her. I don't remember. What does she look like? And then I'll asked if we fucked. Is that... would that be... T, would that be the money?
Trent: You know what. Ha ha ha Mike, laugh all you want but if you call too soon you might scare off a nice baby who's ready to party.
Mike: Well how long are you guys gonna wait to call your babies?
Trent, Sue{unison}: Six days.
----Swingers which is a Cake Eater Approved Movie.
Do you honestly think Alexander Graham Bell had any idea of what he was about to unleash upon the world when he told Mr. Watson to "Come here"? Do you think good ol' Alexander could have possibly imagined how much freakin' angst his invention would cause billions of people, wondering when the object of their heart's desire would actually manage to let their fingers do the walking? I can't think that he knew. He probably thought that, gee whiz, here's this nifty invention and the whole world will soon be able to communicate with it! Think of all the problems this will solve! Wow. Wars could be averted because people could communicate directly! All the evils of society could be at an end because people will actually be able to talk to one another! This is neato!
I have to think the man's up in heaven and is a bit disillusioned at how trivial his invention has become. It's probably the same for the guys who came up with the Internet and the World Wide Web: another fantastic communications tool and what do people do with it? They have cybersex.
But, as usual, I digress.
Now, Mike in Swingers had a bit of a dilemma on his hands: when to call his "beautiful baby" so that he didn't come off as either too needy and anxious or, conversely, appear to be disinterested. He was searching for the Goldilockian Solution (TM): the one that was just right.
Sadly, he turned to Trent and the boy named "Sue" for this solution, which was not only a mistake because they're idiots, but also because they shot for the male solution to most problems: if you can quantify it, you can solve it, as if finding the key to a woman's heart was an algebra problem. Unfortunately, there is just no quantifying when a man should call a woman. It's a roll of the dice: no matter what he does he could come off as badly as Mike did when he kept calling Nikki. (I still cringe whenever I see that scene.) Or he could come off as well as he did with Heather Graham's character. You never know.
But I suppose this is something you already knew, right? You're probably getting a wee bit grouchy that I'm not "demystifying" this particular issue for you. Well, ok. I haven't handed out my number in quite some time, but here were my rules for what was and wasn't acceptable. If, for some unknown reason, there is a chick out there who reminds you of me, well, here are your guidelines.
Ahem. {Insert Kath blowing the dust off this particularly ancient scroll here}
Kath's Rules of The Ring
1. The guy is the one who calls. Always. You will never, ever, never ever catch me asking a guy for his number. Not. Going. To. Happen. He should never expect me to call him untill a month after we've been seeing each other exclusively. I chalk this up to being somewhat "old fashioned." Other people might chalk it up to me being a big, fat chicken. Toss of the coin. Ahem. Bygones.
2. One day is enough time to have passed for moi since the original meeting/handing over of the phone number. And by this I mean twenty-four hours should have passed. Call before then and you're a goner.
I am, at this point, not expecting you to call at all. The handover of my number does not constitute any such agreement between the two of us. There is no contract in place. As such, I will be slightly disappointed if you don't call, but hey, I realize there is such a thing as beer goggles, and if I was on the receiving end of yours, well, I don't honestly want to know about it. Ahem. Bygones.
3. When/if you call, please learn how to converse. Nothing annoys quite as much as dead air. Neither should you eat while you're on the phone with me. Bleech.
4. After we have set up a time and place for a meeting, if, for some reason, things did not go well on our date, and you told me at the end of it that, "You'd call me" and yet did not call, realize I will not be pleased. It's pretty simple stuff: don't say you're going to call if you're not going to call. Don't think you're "being nice" by lying. Women do not, on the whole, appreciate fibbers. If you say you're going to do something, do it. If not, expect me to badmouth you to all of my particularly mouthy friends to the extent that you won't get any for quite some time. Actions do, indeed, have consequences, or didn't your mother teach you that?
Pretty simple stuff. The original handover means very little in the scheme of things: it's what you do afterwards that counts. Each and every woman does have a Goldilockian Solution to her: you're just going to have to deduce what you think will work and avoid what won't. It's the clever boy who wins the prize.
Now run along and see what the other Diabolical Demystifying Divas have to say about this topic, and while you're at it, you can also see what advice and consolation the Munificent yet Magnificent Men's Club has provided.
You should also note that our Daring Diva is scheduled for Divas Sez on Friday. Get your questions into the inbox---which you can find by clicking on the button on the right sidebar---by Thursday evening, by which time she should be done with finals and drunk enough that she'll come up with some seriously good answers.
January 10, 2008 ADDENDUM: Women! Seriously! Stop Googling for the answers to your problems!
You see, I have this thing called a "referral log" and I check it occasionally to see who's coming to this site and what they're reading whilst they're here. For some strange reason, an inordinate number of people Google into this site using the search phrase "Why Hasn't He Called?" Seriously. I get at least ten hits a day to this freakin' post, which I wrote two and a half years ago. I realize that life is a mystifying thing and that the urge to find the answers to it is overwhelming. But you need to realize that when you Google for said answers, well, you look like an idiot.
You're bright young things, I'm sure. You obviously know how to use a computer and a search engine. Most of you use correct spelling and punctuation in your queries, too. This tells me that you all have potential. So listen up: STOP WASTING YOUR TIME ON MEN WHO DON'T CALL YOU!
Furthermore, stop Googling for the answers to all your problems, ok? You look a bit desperate when you do this. I sit here and wonder if there's an epidemic of rude men, or if it's just a group of women who want answers---and who go looking for them. YOU SHOULD HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO THAT SIT AROUND AND WAIT FOR SOME JERK WITH BAD MANNERS TO CALL YOU. Go out, get a degree and make more money than some man can make and take care of yourself. Don't take that kind of crap from ANY man. You're better than that. Go out and live up to your potential, for chrissakes. Life is extremely short. Don't waste your time on some random dude you met in a bar and to whom you gave your number. In fact, DON'T give out your number unless you're fairly certain the guy is a gentleman who will treat you right.
And, most of all, stop Googling in here wondering why he hasn't called.
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April 22, 2005
Sadie is up for next week. Get your questions in so our Daring Diva may enlighten you. Clicket on baby got back girl on the right and ask away!
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April 20, 2005
We need QUESTIONS for our lovely Sassy Diva to answer on Friday. Clicket on the Demystifying Divas button on the right, and fill up the email prompt with a question.
Get them into the box by tomorrow, 6pm GMT, so our beyoooootiful English Diva can have a whack at answering them.
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April 19, 2005
The topic we've chosen for ourselves this week is pretty basic: the differences between men and women when they get ready to go in the morning. Talk about taking the differences between the sexes right down to base level. Heh. Should be interesting, no?
As most of you, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, will know, the husband and I have been married for ten years. We've lived together for a little bit longer than that. (Yeah, I know. Our bad.) During that time, we've lived in (counting on fingers) seven different apartments. Only two of which had big bathrooms, where we could both move around and get ready simultaneously. The apartment we live in now is most assuredly not one of these apartments. The bathroom here is the size of a postage stamp. If the bathroom door is shut, it's a crapshoot to open it: you might, quite literally, knock your spouse into unconsciousness. Whenever we see large bathrooms in our friends' houses or in a showcase, our envy erupts, like goosebumps on a Muscovite hooker in January. We both start lusting for a larger vanity, a huge bathtub, a bigger shower, and in the husband's case, a separate room for the toity. Some people have this response when it comes to kitchens, and we are not immune from that, either, but the bathroom is where it is at for us.
The reason for this envy is not only size-related, but also because I'm a slob and the husband is a neat freak who's constantly having to rein in the OCD. He wants a bigger bathroom so that he isn't forced to deal with my slovenly habits and somehow a double vanity will solve this problem, even though he hasn't listed out exactly how it will do so; he's just confident that it will. I want a bigger bathroom so I have more places to stash my excessive pile of appearance-related shit. In our current space, I have claimed the top of the counter, the space under the sink (the Q-tips reside there, so technically we're sharing), the bathroom cabinet (again, technically speaking, we're sharing because his shaving kit resides there), one side of the medicine cabinet and the top of the toity. The husband, God love him, gets one side of the medicine cabinet. But what's surprising is that's all he needs.
Now, given my need for extra space, you'd think I was someone who spent an excessive amount of time getting ready to go in the morning, wouldn't you? Well, I don't. Generally speaking, I can be in and out of the shower, hair done (well, it's a sopping wet mess, but I don't blow dry every day because it's bad for your hair, so it's as done as it's going to get unless I have a meeting and actually have to do it up), dressed, with minimal makeup in forty minutes or so. Pretty good for a chick, no? The husband, well, he does take less time to get ready, but that's because he doesn't wear makeup and never has to deal with a mascara wand that's bound and determined to spread black goo onto your face instead of your lashes. He just stands around in the shower, wondering about the world. I am seriously thankful we've never had to pay a water bill.
Fortunately for us, we do not have jobs that require us to leave the house every morning. We pretty much stay in our pajamas for as long as we can stand it. Then one of us will hop in the shower and the bathroom is our domain for that period of time. Working from home has saved us from many o' a fight about hogging the bathroom. The problems arise when we leave the house together, and I have to be fully made up with hair done.
The poor husband. It takes me a while to put on the full war paint. That means a couple of extra coats of mascara, eyeliner, and eyeshadow. That means full foundation and powder. That means the whole meal deal when it comes to lip liner and lipstick. And blush. We can't forget about the blush. Of course, while all of this is going on, I'm also running around trying to figure out what I'm going to wear and doing my hair. This takes, all told, about an hour and fifteen minutes. And I always think it's going to take less time than it does, hence the husband just stands there in the hallway, glowering, waiting for me to get my crap together, asking me every few minutes, "Are you ready to go yet?" To which I reply: "Yeah, just give me a second," because even if it's not going to take a just a second, and I know this, I have hope that maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to pull it together so he won't be annoyed with me.
Then I'll remember I have to switch out my handbag, so it matches my shoes and the ensemble I've chosen to wear.
Or that I've forgotten my belt, which is something you just cannot forget when you switch over to boot cut pants, otherwise you'll be flashing your ass crack to the world.
Or that I've forgotten to spritz myself with perfume because, after all, the husband bought me the stuff. He likes for me to wear it, so I'd better get with the freakin' program here.
(I can feel the disapproval from the male section of the audience already}
By this point in my rushing around, the husband is generally ready to lose it. He doesn't see why this should be so hard. After all, all he had to do was change his shirt, throw on a sportcoat, brush his hair and teeth. Why shouldn't I be the same, for crying out loud? It's not like I didn't know we had to leave the house at a particular point to get to our destination on time. I should be better organized. A bigger bathroom would spare him. He's sure of it.
I'm not so sure. Women just have more stuff to do in the bathroom than men do. What exactly does the husband do in the morning? He shaves, he showers, he washes his face and puts moisturizer on (and he wouldn't do the last two if he wasn't married to me). He then throws gel into his hair, brushes his teeth and---presto chango!---he's done. I have other stuff to do, like battling with mascara, which as any woman can tell you, takes time.
And you boys wouldn't like for us to look like garbage, would you? Because we would look like something the cat dragged in if we were ready to go when you wanted us to be. I know this for a fact.
Ok, that's not really going to fly, but that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Now go and read what the other Delicious DemystifyingDivas have written on the subject. Make sure you go and welcome Kate from Katespot, who is subbing for Chrissy this week while the Feisty One takes some time off from blogging. The Marvelous Men's Club has their own take as well.
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April 18, 2005
To: Mamamontezz
From: Kathleen Nelson
Re: Criticism
A few points about your post wherein you slag The Demystifying Divas for having the gall to call ourselves divas.
1. If you choose to criticize our work, please link to it. You can also simply link to our blogs if searching for the individual posts is too much work. You might also want to use our names when criticizing us, just so your readers know whom you're referring to.
I have no issues with dissent. You're more than welcome to think our work is crap. But to never once refer to us by name or link to our work is intellectually dishonest. Furthermore, I suspect you know this.
2. The name "Demystifying Divas" is a joke. It always has been. It's a catchy title. That's all.
I suppose this means the joke is on you for not realizing this.
3. If you're going to criticize someone's writing, perhaps you should make sure your post is bulletproof when it comes to the grammar. Otherwise it comes off as a pot/kettle situation and I'm fairly sure that's not what you were shooting for.
Have a nice day.
See also: Pammy
UPDATE: Mamamontezz has deleted my trackback. Woooh. Classy behavior, that.
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April 15, 2005
Read on after the jump. more...
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April 12, 2005
Er, sorry. I couldn't help but continue on with the Cops antidote. I didn't want y'all to be poisoned. Ahem. Bygones.
Anyway, it would be Tuesday, which, of course, means yet another installment of The Daring Demystifying Divas. Today's topic: bad boys and why women, indeed, love them.
If I had a nickel for every time a guy, after a long night of drinking and smoking, asked me, "Kath, why do women like jerks?" I'd be a rich woman. This complaint was laid at my feet frequently in the golden days of yore, generally, because I was the nice girl they were walking home. If their evening had gone as planned, I wouldn't be anywhere in the vicinity. Their definition of a jerk was one who swooped in at the last minute, ruining well laid plans. I prefer to call the guys who did the swooping business "bad boys." Because, ultimately, that's what they are---bad boys.
I never answered these guys seriously when they asked. I always tried to boost their confidence by saying things like, "Oh, she's nuts. She's not worthy of you," and so on and so forth. The last thing they needed from me at that stage of the game was to lay out the facts of the matter.
Well, times have changed. I'm not walking home from the bars with yet another heartbroken man. I am blogging. I am supposed to be "demystifying" things. So I will, indeed, lay it all out for the men.
Now, as I see it, the attractions of the bad boy are many---one of which is that they generally ride motorcycles---but I think it ultimately comes down to the fact that they don't give a rat's ass about what the world thinks of them. They're not oblivious, by any means. They just don't give a damn. There's something very liberating in that, and freedom, as we all know, is a heady elixir. To be liberated from the say-so of society? Not to conform your life to what other people think you should be doing or saying? Not to care a whit if you're poaching on someone else's territory?
Well, wow.
One could get drunk on that potion rather quickly and easily, as if it was a shot of tequila, instead of a rush to the system. There's something very manly in that action that gets the estrogen to pumping, ya dig? It's quite sexy. Even if you know firsthand that the guy is a Grade 'A' Prime asshole. Some of us just don't care.
I know. It makes absolutely no sense, right? If women make judgments based on our emotions and brains rather than on our hormones, well, we'd pick the nice guy each and every time, right? We'd find niceness sexy, right? Well, I hate to tell you this, darlings, but we do possess hormones and when you get that sort of rush, well, I think those of you who possess the vaunted XY chromosome could relate, eh?
Ok. Knowing that's probably not going to fly, I shall valiantly push on with the demystifying, because there's more to come. There's the good news. I did mention that there was good news, right? I didn't. Oh, well. Sorry about that, but there is indeed good news, so ungird your loins: women get tired of bad boys. We do, indeed, move on to the nice guys. Eventually most women become accustomed to the hormone rush and decide that, "hey, most bad boys treat me like shit." They will dissect what they found attractive in their particular bad boy and they will look for the good qualities they liked and will try to find those in a nice guy. And there are plenty of nice guys out there, it's just a matter of finding the right one. One who has the proper blend of good guy and jerk.
So now that things are as clear as mud, go and see if the other Daring Demystifying Divas can clear things up for you. If you're a lady, know that the Macho Men's Club have flipped the coin and are tackling the topic of bad girls, and why men love them. See, kids? We really do have something for everyone!
UPDATE: Michele and Phoenix have also chimed in.
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April 08, 2005
You know how you're supposed to learn something new everyday? Well, this is your opportunity for today! Go and read.
Just in case you're interested, know that lil' ol' me is up to bat next Friday, so clicket on the Demystifying Divas button over on the right sidebar and send your questions to the divas sez email box. I need your questions by next Thursday evening so the gray matter has some time to work on them.
I will start eating fish right now to get said gray matter in shape.
I look forward to hearing from all of you!
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April 07, 2005
It's worth the wait, though.
UPDATE: Madame Sadie has some visuals for The Men's Club.
Methinks they fared better than the Demystifying Divas did.
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April 06, 2005
What? Haven't you been paying attention? Geez. We've been doing this for almost a month! That's practially the longest running feature in the blogosphere!
I know. I know. You've been busy. You've been avoiding my site because I'm looking for coin and you don't want to feel guilty about not coughing up. You also are loathe to admit you are such a fan of blogs and bloggers that you emultate us by adopting our habit of having attention spans that are roughly the size of your average gnat. I know all about this, but come on, kids! We're here to answer all of your very important questions. Take advantage of the situation, for cryin' out loud!
So, here's what you're going to do: you're going to clicket on baby-got-back-girl over on the right sidebar. An email prompt will pop up. You're going to fill it with that one question about the fairer sex that you've been dying to ask, if only you'd had an outlet for such a question. You will then send it off.
Feisty Chrissy will do her absolute best to answer it on Friday and, to paraphrase Bertie Wooster, God, as I once heard Jeeves put it, will be in His heaven and all will be right with the world. (He added, I remember, some guff about larks and snails, but that is a side issue and need not detain us.)
You will then do this again next week. On the off chance that you will have become so well-adjusted as a result of Chrissy's brilliance, you will spread the word to your friends and family and ask them to send questions to the Divas Sez mailbox for the next Diva to answer. Which, if memory serves, will be me.
Got it? Good. Let's not have this discussion again next week, ok? One gets bored when one has to repeat themselves.
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April 05, 2005
Can you barbeque dead guppy? Or would it be too much of a waste of time?
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Marrrrrvelous, darling.
As was mentioned last week the three of us and The Four Musketeers Men's Club were charged with sussing a few things out for Dax, who was inspired not only to ask, but also in a bit of creative illustration by watching Cheaters:
{...}What is cheating? Is it just fantasizing about being with another person? Is it a casual flirtation? Is it meeting for coffee? Is it any less than actual penetration?And at what level of commitment can cheating occur? If I take Sadie out to dinner on Friday and then Christina to the theater on Saturday, did I cheat on Sadie? What if Sadie and I shared an intimate kiss? Is that different? What if Kathy and I had sex one night, then I went out with Silk? Did I cheat on Kathy? Never mind that Priscilla would castrate me and stuff my penis in throat before she got busy actually killing me.
At some point in every relationship an emotional investment is made. How much of an investment does it take before cheating can occur? What should be the penalty?
Hmmmm. That's a lot of questions. I shall do my best to answer.
Ultimately, for me, it comes down to what causes harm. That's cheating. If you know your actions will cause your partner pain because they would see your actions as a betrayal, that would be cheating. It's pretty simple stuff.
Now, this obviously doesn't count if you're not with someone, yet they are under the mistaken impression that you are and they're hurt because you went off with someone else, etc. You must be in a relationship where promises regarding faithfulness have been made. This need not mean marriage.
Now, I am absolutely sure after reading this it has just crossed someone's mind that they're in the clear and a big wave of relief has washed over them. Well, don't let yourself off the hook there, darlin', because I'm sure as heck not going to. If these people think they've just been given the green light to whip out the "what they don't know won't hurt them" rule, thinking ignorance truly is bliss, think again. Because partners always know, even if they don't know the particulars. That's, ultimately, a bogus rationalization for selfish behavior and it's not going to fly with me. (As a related side note: I find it interesting that there are many conservative men who were on the warpath when Bubba Clinton did his thing, ranting and raving about how, yes, a bl0w j0b does constitute sexual relations, yet who nowadays find it absolutely ok to justify their actions the same way he did. But I digress.)
Anyway, to get back to the topic at hand which was pain in case your mind is as all over the map as mine is this morning.
Now, there is pain, and there is pain. Cheating causes the latter type of pain. It hurts, to put it bluntly. I haven't been there, Thank God, but I have friends who have, and dear God, they were just ripped to shreds by the event. These friends were married or were in committed relationships---relationships where promises of fidelity were offered and accepted. Their partner would have a fling, they'd find out about it somehow and always, always, always, the betrayal was the only thing they could see for weeks. They felt like they'd been used, and to top it off, they had this habit of blaming themselves for their partner's actions. They'd been found lacking, they realized. Whether this lack of whatever was real or perceived was really beside the point at that stage of the game: it was there, looming large, like an oversized vulture just waiting to feast on the remains. It made them feel humiliated; it made them beat themselves all over with the if only stick. If only I'd done this, if only I'd done that...none of this would ever have happened and we'd still be happy. While that point is debatable, it's the humiliation that, just from my experience of helping a few friends, is harder to get over than the betrayal.
But cheating is relative. If you're in a relationship where you're allowed to hook up with other people, no one is cheating---in the true sense of the word. Cheating means to get away with something, to take the easy route to satisfaction. It means everyone is on the same page as far as what is expected and someone has diverged from that understanding. If there is a misunderstanding, where one partner thought one thing and the other thought something that was at the opposite end of the spectrum, well, there are bigger problems in that relationship than just perceived infidelity.
Does a casual flirtation cause harm? I don't think it does. But someone else might. Does the husband's endless fascination with Angelina Jolie harm me? Nope, because I'm secure in our relationship and I know that bitch can't hold a candle to me. She's also a whack-job, too, so I've got her beat there, as well. (No comments from the Peanut Gallery, eh?) Does my fascination with Colin Firth hurt the husband? Does he think I'm cheating because I occasionally wander around Pemberley in my mind with Colin? Nope. Because we understand what is and isn't cheating. We're on the same page. We've made promises and have kept those promises. Other couples might think differently and might have made different promises.
As far as penalties are concerned, well, I have certain thoughts about that and they involve a toothpick and rope.
Now go and read what the other Delicious Demystifying Divas have written on the same subject. For the droopy, feather-totin' hatted opinions of our Four Musketeers, go and read Puffy, Phin, The Wiz and Zonker. Although, I'm not really sure how two fish can wear big droopy hats adorned with feathers, but hey, this is the Internet, isn't it? The land of imagination, so make yours work for you.
UPDATE: Pammy at Lollygaggin' has chimed in.
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