• Made at least as much money as I did (Last boyfriend didn’t and that was an issue for HIM. I didn’t want to deal with that again.)
• Interested in the arts
• Knows that Bach isn’t an obstacle and spelled with an L (I may have balked at that)
• Decent enough-looking but not gorgeous (read: full of himself)
• Exercises but isn’t obsessed
• Divorced but no kids
• Great in bed (duh)
• Nice to animals and waiters
• Will bring me coffee in the morning
• Doesn’t have closet space issues
My friends understood most of my list, but wait—what the hell was this divorced crap? Why on earth would I want a man who came with the emotional baggage of divorce?
But I had thought it through. My last two long-term relationships had been with men who had loved me, but who I just knew in my heart weren’t ready for a lifetime commitment. I wanted a man who had made that commitment, had failed, but who could be a man and accept the responsibility to learn from those mistakes and make me his priority.
Because truthfully, how many men want to remarry multiple times? I knew there was a smart guy out there who would see what an amazing catch I was (smart, redhead, able to do numbers in my head; well, two out of three’s not bad), would treasure me and would realize how not to repeat that pattern. That’s what was missing in my previous relationships…that level of maturity.
My friends thought I was crazy, of course. Or that I’d had too much bubbly.
A mere three weeks after moving to the New Jersey headquarters of my pharma job, I met my ideal husband-to-be. (Thank you, Santa.) It was an ordinary day that quickly turned extraordinary.
He not only helped me move in to my new place, but ran a number of errands for me on our very first date. And our first date in New York City was nothing short of magical.
When he proposed a mere three months later, I was not shocked. Surprised, certainly, but not shocked. Of course, I said yes. I think the only person distressed initially by the suddenness of his proposal (top of Rockefeller Center at the Rainbow Room—very romantic) was my ever-practical mother who just wanted to know if I was pregnant. (No, Mom. Just in love.)
Eighteen years and two kids later, he’s still out running errands for me. If you read my blog, you’ll know that if he’s at the grocery store, it’s as if he’s gone to a foreign country where they only speak wolf. But he still goes.
He’s a giver…so while I may not have lucked out when it comes to having a grocery store adventurer, I’m happy.
Remember ladies—the guy who does your errands is usually a giver in other ways (Yes. I am talking about sex.).
So do what I did: Be like Santa. Make your list, check it twice.
Then go with naughty and nice.
***
“Men get funny around large-breasted women—they talk to the breasts,
as if they will answer. Waiting, for the breast to shake hands.”
DUDE. TEN O’CLOCK. CHECK IT OUT.
Okay, if making lists for everything wasn’t hard enough, if you live in the OC, you have two sets of lists: the “real” list (mine), and the “plastic” list (when I step outside my door). Given that one Bravo Real (ahem) Housewives show is based here and that I’m surrounded by blonde plastic on a daily basis, my personal real list is front and center, baby.
My husband loves my red hair, fair skin, freckles, and um, real body parts. Which is a good thing, given that we’ve been married so long and all. There is however, a certain amount of pressure to fit in here in the OC. Which I completely ignore.
In the OC, we play “Are those real?” pretty much every day. In fact, there’s a term unique to this area for all the Pamela Anderson lookalikes: lollipops. Blonde chicks who look like they may um, tip over at any moment.
My husband says it’s because we live here surrounded by women disfiguring themselves that my feminist leanings win out and I feel the need to riff on men. To kind of even things out. (Besides, there’s no Real Househusbands of Ridiculous and Shameful Behavior on Bravo, right?)
And yet…I disagree. Men are doin’ it for themselves, dude.
“Looking at cleavage is like looking at the sun. You don’t stare at it. It’s too risky. You get a sense of it and then you look away” ~ Jerry Seinfeld
We watch your eyes as you check out that chick.
Newsflash: We see you.
(It’s not like it was oh, a snake that slithered by that got your attention. In the middle of our dinner together. In a restaurant.) Well, actually…
No, you are not sly. Yes, you are so busted. Yup. Every time.
And yet…
Sometimes we check her out, too. (Yeah, like those are real.)
We understand that part of being a guy is your apparently uncontrollable need to check out other women. It’s not your fault women have breasts that venture into your line of sight…
You can’t figure out, honestly, how on earth we get anything done.
You’re not able to see another woman walk by without looking for the following reasons:
–The female form is beautiful (We agree; why do you think we flaunt it?);
–It would be a crime against nature not to look;
–God placed women in front of you for your viewing pleasure.
Sound familiar? (It should. It’s not only imprinted on your DNA if you’re straight; it’s also on page 53 of the Mancode manual.)
Can you believe that some women don’t get this concept and will even take it personally that you would look at other chicks when you are with them? I’ve even seen couples fight about this.
The nerve.
Somehow those relationships never last. But I digress.
Here’s a little Chickspeak insight for you:
We know you like to look. We get it. You cannot look away from a nice rack. It’s a little like staring at the sun. Or a car accident.
But dudes, don’t push it. If you want to continue to have access to our racks, let’s establish a few ground rules, shall we?
For some, I don’t know, strange reason, when drool comes out of the side of your mouth and your neck twists around like in The Exorcist so you can watch a chick walk all the way out the door, we find it rude. And unattractive. Women are just silly that way.
We don’t like it when you stare at a woman’s breasts longer than the eye-flick rule (and that includes talking to the breasts. Um, up here, dude.). Anything past that and we invoke our right to call a foul. (If you have to ask what a foul is, we have no hope for you and you should just move in with your bachelor, and may I point out surely celibate, brother.)
If you keep looking at that chick’s rack in line at Starbucks more often than you gaze lovingly (damn it) at us, it’s time to seriously rethink our relationship. And by rethink we don’t just mean who gets to keep the Starbucks rewards card. Or our pet goldfish, George Bush XVIII.
If you think we’re being unreasonable, consider this: We women get gypped. The only thing we get to check out on guys is how their tushes look in jeans. That’s it. I mean, it’s nice and all (meh?), but you guys really hit the jackpot when it comes to um, (How shall I put this?) observing the available merch.
But really…is it our job to watch you revel in it?
Sigh. I suppose it is. For example…
(Ooh, cute waiter, nice ass, ten o’clock.)
So, um, sorry, where was I?
***
*Poignancy Alert*
TIED
I love a good joke. I love writing a good joke even better. But there are times and situations where you just can’t find the funny. I’m usually all about the snark, but one situation last year fell into that latter category.
At first I was afraid to write about it, because, you know, it wasn’t going to make anyone laugh. But I braved it out and posted it (of course with a poignancy alert). To my surprise, the response was incredible.
; Turns out I can write about something other than toilet paper rolls (don’t get me started, though).
Having a sense of humor about oneself is so critical. It’s what gets us through our dark times. My ex seemed to laugh and be a generally happy guy around others, though he clearly had his demons.
I rarely believe anyone when they say they’re fine. I know it’s a pleasantry. I know how I feel when I say it. I wish I had paid closer attention when my ex, D, said it.
I struggle with the love I had felt for D. He was a major part of my life, someone whom I thought I would marry, have children with, and build a life. I had invested so much of myself in “us,” when we broke up it took me awhile to figure out how to move forward as “I.”
Fast-forward twenty years. It was ’09. I was happily married with two kids, and then out of the blue D contacted me. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t shaken by him reentering my life. Not the kind of, “we’ve got to run off together” Drew Barrymore/Justin Long kind of movie fantasy. No it was more just… odd. Uncomfortable, I guess. To remember our connection but to not really feel it anymore.
Then when he committed suicide a few months later, I didn’t know what to do with these feelings. Was it okay for me to grieve for a lost love, even though I’m happily married now?
Writing about it certainly helps me to sort things out; well, to a certain extent.
These pieces, the pieces about D, are the easiest for me to write, though often the hardest to share.
For more background on our relationship, please also read “He loved me THAT much,” where I discuss my love affair with D. I truly loved this man, who was quite jealous and possessive of me, to the extent that he became verbally abusive with me on several occasions. Yet, I fell even harder.
(Oh, in the pic above, D is on the right, blue shirt. He’s with his best friend, who died tragically in a construction accident years ago.)
Eventually I ended it, only after he cheated on me. For the second time. (I journaled it all as any good writer does—and then tossed those hurtful books into a box that I didn’t find until sometime last year, in a case of eerie coincidence.) I shake my head now to think that I allowed myself to be the girl who would allow herself to be treated that way.
Too bad it isn’t up to the mind to control the heart.
Anyway, D contacted me in July ’09, on Facebook. I had not seen or heard from him in over twenty years. Shocked, I didn’t know what to do or think. I was surprised that I had such a physical reaction to his message—my heart raced, and my legs became jelly.
I shared D’s simple message with my husband, who said to do whatever I thought best—he knew of our history and how much had gone unresolved.
I tentatively reached out, on the condition that he had A LOT to answer for. I forewarned him that I was not the same girl he’d known back in my early twenties. Expect some ball-breaking. Well, he had read my blog...he knew.
We spoke online and through e-mails for a few months, and it was great. He answered all of my questions, and he more than apologized for being an idiot several times over. He even discussed specifics about dates and trips. He still knew my birthday and our dating anniversary (his lucky numbers, he said).
To be honest, that astounded me: I had little or no memory of those things. I know that stung him.
I think I blocked out a lot of those trips because of some of the bad things that happened. His temper. So many fights, over me. The wine glasses smashed against apartment walls because a guy (a college classmate) had called and left a message on my answering machine; I shake my head when I remember how he gently helped me pick glass out of my hair.
Or the time in Reno on New Year’s Eve, after we’d been waiting in line for an hour in the freezing cold, when he broke a man’s leg with the taxi door after the guy stumbled into our cab and wouldn’t get out.
I don’t honestly remember my reaction that night. He said I got “real quiet,” and avoided him the rest of the night—tough to do in a small apartment. He couldn’t understand it, because “I did it for you, darlin’.” That right there, even twenty-some years later, just proved to me how different we really were. He thought he was my knight in shining armor...still.
I spoke with him the day he killed himself. A normal day, October ’09. I found out he was gone by checking his Facebook wall a few days later. It said “D—RIP.” I thought it was a cruel joke—until I saw the raw emotion in the messages. It seemed like something you would read about in a story. The shock so acute the numbness took over.
I, like most of his friends, had no idea there was anything, anything wrong. Of course, after the fact, I can see there were signs. He told me in that last conversation that I would always hold a piece of his heart in the palm of my hand.
He asked if there was any chance he’d still have a shot. He asked if I still loved him.
I had tried to hold him in my heart, but kept falling on my tears.
I still dream about him. The strangest part is that I have always dreamed about him. Of all my past loves, he’s the only one who has stayed in my subconscious. The dreams are peaceful and he’s always loving. I know I loved him—the attraction was stronger than anything I’d ever experienced before when I met him. Within seconds of meeting, we were on a course to be together.
He never physically hurt me. Ever. He was very protective of me. He never hit me, though he did use his strength to prevent me from doing things. More than once he told me I was like his live doll. He didn’t want me to break.
I think he had this respect for women, although he wanted to control me, to own me, and would go to ridiculous lengths to achieve that impossible goal. I know I frustrated the hell out of him. He often referred to me as “a handful.” Can’t imagine why.
I grieve for him, even though I am no longer with him. I’m sad for what his life became, what he could have become, what we were when it was great, and what could have never been.
I’m allowing myself to love him.
***
“Shopping is akin to halftime for most men: if it can be done in 15 minutes, fine.
Any longer #theyheadforendzone”
SHOPPING IS NOT A VERB
When a man accompanies his chick shopping, it seems to me he ought to be pleased about all the potential rack-sightings instead of complaining. But that’s just me.
I personally think how a man shops tells a lot about how he’ll be as a mate. Test him with different scenarios. Don’t hold back. Then choose wisely, girls.
My guy understands that chicks like things in little boxes. Or ones that say “Prada” or “Louis Vuitton” on them (at least in this house).
Don’t be disappointed if your man isn’t a shopper. It’s a guy thing. It’s more important that he runs errands for you, in my opinion. There’s a direct correlation between errand-running and your sex life.
Don’t believe me? Ask your mom. Wait. Let’s not go there.
Men approach holiday shopping differently than women. To guys, shopping is not a verb. It’s a destination. It’s a THING, if you will. Get in, get out, with a minimum of damage. Shopping ain’t no disco.
I break Male Holiday Shoppers into five categories:
1. Buddy The Elf
2. The Waffler
3. The English Patient
4. Mr. Happy
5. The Hunter
1. “Buddy the Elf” is the guy who approaches shopping with full gusto. He’s the list maker. Overjoyous. Wow. Doesn’t want to miss a moment of this joy. He even buys one of those little magnetic Santa list pads that come with a special matching pen for just this occasion. He breaks out the reindeer sweater (or jumper for you Brits) when he does his shopping to feel in the Christmas spirit, despite pleas from his kids that he “looks like a dork.”
It goes without saying that Buddy has been playing Christmas music in his car since Halloween and that he doesn’t really need to decorate all that much since he leaves most of his tiny happy villages up all year long. (If y
ou haven’t seen the movie Elf, I highly recommend that you do so. “The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear,” is this guy’s mantra.)
You would think he would do his shopping throughout the year. But no. Buddy likes to do all of his shopping on Christmas Eve; the crowds, the lights, the scent of desperation—it’s the ultimate high for this boy. He really does want to get just the right present for each person. Unfortunately, he’s so wound up in the spirit that reindeers pooping and snowmen peeing snow have become his gifts of choice for even those closest to him.
A Walk in the Snark Page 4