Inflammatory Observation of the Month: Educated women are easier to get along with than uneducated women. And I don't mean this in an elitist way. I mean, most women, maybe, have a hard time being all Sisterhood! when they've never heard of Sisterhood, and so they go on competing -- to the benefit of The Patriarchy and those who would like to keep us from talking to one another. (Listening, Metal Ox? The Amy incident?) Divide and conquer. It's how they've kept the upper hand. We won't have "equality" until we stop being catty, girls, and stabbing one another in the back. So stop it. If you work with me at The Job, you know what I mean and you know who you are. Any how, I didn't run in to this level of catty bullhockey in my academic jobs. Not that backstabbing ambition doesn't exist there, I don't mean to imply that. It certainly does. But, overall, those terminal degreed women seem to try to stick together and not be catty bitches and also, well, there are other things to talk about in that world than men and make-up and how everyone else is a slut or whatever. Here, in corporate world, not so much. So go ahead, tell me I'm generalizing and am wrong. Cool! We'll be talking about something other than men or make-up!
Happy Observation of the Week: Cards! Did you see those games on Saturday (Sunday, too)? At the second, wow, was everybody fired up! Way to hustle, guys! That's some beautiful ball playing! You so rock!
Oh, and speaking of rocking: ! Last night, in this order: Gin Blossoms (2); Stray Cats (4); Pretenders (4); ZZTOP (5)! Fun. What a concert. I'm so happy to have seen my gender-bendy girlfriend Chrissy Hinde before I did die. So Happy.
Love!
M
Monday, July 30, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
Ani and The Night Raiders
Ah, the Cubs are here this week. I'm going, damnit. It's especially fine because they -- the Arch Rivals, are back 3.5 games, tied with Atlanta and Arizona, all of them then second behind San Diego in the NL, while the Cards are back 8.5 at 45-50, all as of 3:00 PM today. So things should be pretty fired up for these games -- the Cubs fans have something positive to be on about, unlike their usual just being on because they're Cubs fans. Personally, I don't like to engage in a lot of knuckled-headedness at such times, and I very much prefer it when everyone on either side is polite about it confines their ribbing to good natured banter. So, what I'm saying it, maybe since the Cubs fans will be happy they won't be mean. Visualize whirled peas.
Speaking of arches and fire, interestingly there have been two incidences of broken mechanical whatevers and thus stranded people at the height of our High One. Wow. Rather silly or something that after the first one, which those in charge of the Arch admitted immediately and apparently without the slightest embarrassment they had no idea the cause, they let the thing climb up again the next night (I think it was; might have been two nights) and -- gee wiz -- it happened again. Only this time they had a clue -- broken cable, electrical short. Why that time and not the first? Sometimes it's so hard to tell the difference between a cover up and ordinary stupid people.
Princess, I love you, but from now on when we go out I have to have a curfew. I just can't be staying up all night, and it seems that I can't be trusted without a Midnight at which I Pumpkinize. Chatting 'til dawn was divine, but it threw me off for the entire weekend, including not being able to get to sleep on time last night -- inconvenient for getting up at 6AM. But we had fun, didn't we. Ani DiFranco is the bomb. I knew she was a song writer, but didn't know she played such kick-ass guitar! Wow. Really, really fine.
Scorpio1 had fun at this film shoot, ending up as the "lead" extra, with a speaking role. Yeah, S1!!! Maybe you'll be discovered now! Let's get you an agent! You're certainly fabulous-looking enough, and undoubtedly talented. ---- Any acting or modeling agents out there want to rep a 6', blond headed, blue eyed, buff and handsome 22-year-old? Duh?
Speaking of arches and fire, interestingly there have been two incidences of broken mechanical whatevers and thus stranded people at the height of our High One. Wow. Rather silly or something that after the first one, which those in charge of the Arch admitted immediately and apparently without the slightest embarrassment they had no idea the cause, they let the thing climb up again the next night (I think it was; might have been two nights) and -- gee wiz -- it happened again. Only this time they had a clue -- broken cable, electrical short. Why that time and not the first? Sometimes it's so hard to tell the difference between a cover up and ordinary stupid people.
Princess, I love you, but from now on when we go out I have to have a curfew. I just can't be staying up all night, and it seems that I can't be trusted without a Midnight at which I Pumpkinize. Chatting 'til dawn was divine, but it threw me off for the entire weekend, including not being able to get to sleep on time last night -- inconvenient for getting up at 6AM. But we had fun, didn't we. Ani DiFranco is the bomb. I knew she was a song writer, but didn't know she played such kick-ass guitar! Wow. Really, really fine.
Scorpio1 had fun at this film shoot, ending up as the "lead" extra, with a speaking role. Yeah, S1!!! Maybe you'll be discovered now! Let's get you an agent! You're certainly fabulous-looking enough, and undoubtedly talented. ---- Any acting or modeling agents out there want to rep a 6', blond headed, blue eyed, buff and handsome 22-year-old? Duh?
Friday, July 20, 2007
Mildness, Wildness
Blissfully uneventful week, minus the being an extra thing.
- Saw the Moody Blues on Tuesday. What lovely, calming music. A treat to see the flute in the spotlight.
- Change of guard at work, looks positive. Old boss good, new boss good. What's to complain?
- Princess over tonight for Crabmeat Maison and something I'll concoct from my second batch of that "Most Extraordinary" French Lemon Cream (as discussed at length, last post). Made it last night. Am looking at layering it with cookies (who needs crust). Just need to drive over to Bob's for the crab, dressing already made, left from the weekend (thanks, daughter dear). Fresh tomatoes from my garden. And basil (instead of parsley).
- Then we'll go see Ani DiFranco at the Arch. Yippee. I'm ashamed to say that I really don't know her work that well. I've heard a few songs and liked them. And I know I like what she stands for. But I've never owned an album of hers. So, really looking forward to it!
- Weather is most fabulous. 65 last night. Barely 80 today. All is blessed and good. Please pray for my children, who are growing, and searching, and beautiful, and feeling the tugs and tides of youth upon them.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Of Family, Pork Fat, Integrity, and Being an Extra
Insight: Doing yoga for the movies is not the most balancing activity in the world. Examples: no warm-up; many takes of down-dog to warrior one, all but one on the right leg (so the comedic actress could tumble over to the right out of warrior – it was funny!); after 10 takes of shoulder stand with no transition into or out of or counter pose, one’s shoulders feel, well, tight and sore. And, yes, I did do some of my own counter posing but was, all in all, kind of lazy about that.
Lesson: Go do a real yoga class after the film shoot, if possible. I had a margarita and some deep fried tamales instead and that didn’t work all that well. Franlky.
Additional Note: It’s not a myth that the camera adds weight (I watched the rushes). Because of this, if possible, one should avoid spending three solid days eating butter and sugar and cheese and pork fat before the filming day, as I did. Sure, I knew in advance the result. But honestly enjoying all that lovely food and company was more important to me than immortalizing myself on film five pounds thinner. Questionable judgment? You decide.
Still, what a novel experience, to be in a real feature film shoot. It was an interesting process to watch! No, no speaking lines. Just a slightly chubby yoga extra in the back of the room.
Chubbiness inducing factors aside, the family reunion was fun! Sure, I got a little cranky now and then, which is apparently my way. But it was nothing that a few hours alone in a quiet room couldn’t cure. As Gangaji would say, “this form” in which I am currently incarnated is just too sensitive to take in large groups of people for long periods of time. Hey, we get the nervous system we’re born with. The trick is learning to manage it.
I was really pleased by the response to my meal on Friday night. Cousin Miami told me the next day that people had used words such as “artistry” and, well, I don’t remember what else but it was cool to hear it, whatever it was. And I had a ton of fun putting it all together. Brother’s shrimp was good, too, but I am disappointed that whatever new chef they have at the Centralia House has corrupted his vision of the dish. Apparently they served it to him out of the shell, with rice. This is not the dish that won accolades in the New York Times even though the restaurant is in totally unknown Centralia, Illinois. The shrimp are, authentically, are large as it is possible to get them, served in the shell with finger bowls of water and a huge cloth bib. There should be tons of sauce to dredge the bread in. And, critically, the sauce should never be allowed to emulsify. It’s the separation of the tomato-based cocktail sauce and the butter that makes the dipping sublime. I have half a mind to call the chef and ask her or him what the hell happened, but I doubt I will. Still, it was really tasty.
I did several new recipes. Two appetizers that are reportedly from old New Orleans restaurants, Oysters Bienville and Crabmeat Maison. Bob’s Seafood in Saint Louis provided me with some really wonderful, sweet fresh Maine claw meat, flown in just that morning, for a mere $10 and change for a pound. They also solved my half-shell but I-don’t-want-to-shuck-them problem (couldn’t talk Brother into it, either) by stocking frozen oysters on the half shell. These worked beautifully for the Bienville, which is a bread crumb topping with aromatic vegetables, Parmesan, and cream; the full shells are baked on a bed salt with rosemary and cloves until the topping is golden and warm. I would have put some bay leaves in the salt if they hadn’t disappeared from my kitchen. What’s up with that? Scorpio 2?
Also, happily the crowd dumbfounded Mother and Brother by adoring the collard greens. Flash: cooking them with onions and bacon and ham hock is a lot tastier than my usual onions and garlic and olive oil. The collards from my garden have tasted really bitter to me, but those I cooked in all that pig fat had no bitterness at all. That I cooked them for more than six hours might have been a factor as well. Time for further testing! Also of note: pretty sure I’ve got the macaroni and cheese thing down.
The most lovely dish: French Lemon Cream Tart, from Dorie Greenspan. You can see the complete recipe at http://www.globalgourmet.com/food/ild/2006/1106/lemon-cream-tart.html. In the mean time, here’s a bit of what she has to say about it:
Of Lemon Cream and Pierre Hermé
I am thankful to Pierre Hermé, France's king of pastry, for many things, chief among them his friendship—we have written two books together—and his lemon cream. When we were just beginning work on our first book, Pierre explained the cream to me. In his typical fashion, he spoke softly, explained thoroughly and added just the meekest editorial comment: "It is nice," he said, with a sly little gone-in-a-flash smile. I immediately put two stars next to the recipe, a note to myself to try it right away.
At first glance, you would think that the lemon cream is just another version of lemon curd—the ingredients are almost identical. What's different is how they are treated, and it makes an enormous difference in the taste and texture.
In a curd, the eggs, lemon juice, sugar and butter are cooked together until they thicken. The result is silky, lemony and, above all, unmistakably rich and buttery. In Pierre's lemon cream, the eggs, lemon juice and sugar—but not the butter—are cooked together until they thicken, just like curd. The mixture is then poured into a blender and allowed to cool for a few minutes. Then the butter is added, in pieces, and the cream is whipped around for a few minutes. Here's the genius—instead of melting as it does in curd, the butter emulsifies (just as oil does in mayonnaise), so that the resulting texture is velvety and deceptively light. It is a stroke of culinary magic.
Like curd, lemon cream is a utility player. It can be spread on toast, used as a filling for cakes and pies, spooned over fruit desserts or just eaten off the spoon when no one is peeking. And, it can also be played around with, which is what I've done to create Creamiest Lime Cream and Meringue Pie (see the book) as well as Fresh Orange Cream Tart (see book).
And I will second her: this is the loveliest lemon dessert recipe I’ve ever encountered. And it’s not difficult to make. It came out perfectly the first time I tried it, and it wasn’t even in my menu plan. It emerged as a back-up after I broke the double batch of custard for Black Bottom Pies (it becomes clearer all the time that I can’t chat and cook focus-sensitive dishes at the same time), and didn’t have enough chocolate to make another double recipe, so had to come up with another pie. I had all the ingredients for this lemon tart. And I am so glad I did, it is just simply fantastic. Even my mother had no “tips” for me to improve it and believe me that just doesn’t happen.
I got great help from the Texas and Nashville Girls, and Brother-Wife was a great help, too, though I must say rather easily distracted. Hey, it’s the thought that counts (I think that’s what the Buddhists mean by intention).
Cousin Miami made a wonderful Sunday Brunch. Several breakfast casseroles, some sweets, salads, mimosas. Really nice.
But wow, that Sunday church service (we’ve developed a tradition of making our own private “church” on Sundays at the reunions). Mother set the perfect tone in the tribute that was given for my grandfather. She told a story about how, when they were teenagers, the minister at their church initiated a push to get the teens to sign an “Abstinence Card” promising that they wouldn’t drink alcohol. Apparently Papaw told his kids that they shouldn’t sign it unless they really thought they could stick to their promise. He could have used the whole card thing to try to corner them, and I can imagine how the religious right would advocate such as thing, as they do these days with sexual abstinence. But, even though Papaw and Mamaw were certainly not drinkers (though not teetotalers, either), the lesson about keeping one’s word outweighed even the preacher’s mandate. None of his kids signed it.
Additionally, as the story went, he was teaching Sunday school at the church at that time, and gave the same advise to his class: don’t sign if you can’t keep your promise. As a result he was fired from the job.
Not inconsequentially, that minister didn’t last long at the Grace United Methodist Church. Such strictures, and the others he tried to impose against dancing and other general liveliness, are decidedly not typical to “our” Methodist ways, and the congregation was fed up with him pretty fast.
My grandfather’s response to the whole thing, though, really illustrated the kind of integrity he has, by example, taught (or tried to teach) all of us. Being real, being true to one’s beliefs, being honest, keeping one’s word – all of these, I could see on Sunday, have been sent down as part of the family legacy. And I am grateful. Thank you, Papaw. And Mamaw, too. This is no small potatoes in this world. And no wonder I find the yogic prescription to unify mind and heart and word so resonate. Regardless of all the differences I’ve had with my family over the years, I can see now that this integrity is the foundation upon which I was wrought. OK, maybe my immediate nuclear family came close to undermining it. True, that crack in the floor was what I was rebelling against as a child, and now I see that it is a large part of my distaste for being around my father and his friends. Still, there is a reason or at least a larger prespective for or gained from that. I sense of choice: whom shall I learn from? With the solid ground of being true to one's word and self that I saw through my grandparents, I am now confident that I can learn from myself.
So, in short, way fun reunion, again. Love to see my coussies. They are all so fun and nice. And the men in my family, my generation, I must say, are extradordinary. Reading "women's" novels, cooking, thinking, nuturing their kids, loving their wives. Glad my kids love to come, too.
I remain afraid of speed boats, though, I am only now admitting it out loud. I really think the only fast things I trust are airplanes!
In other bright news our darling Princess is back from her humanitarian mission to Texas, and while there started a new e-mag of some philosophical weight a third of which she’s suggesting I edit, and her collaborator/friend will be reviewing me to form an opinion of her own. Wish me luck. and Yippee! More later as I discover!
Lesson: Go do a real yoga class after the film shoot, if possible. I had a margarita and some deep fried tamales instead and that didn’t work all that well. Franlky.
Additional Note: It’s not a myth that the camera adds weight (I watched the rushes). Because of this, if possible, one should avoid spending three solid days eating butter and sugar and cheese and pork fat before the filming day, as I did. Sure, I knew in advance the result. But honestly enjoying all that lovely food and company was more important to me than immortalizing myself on film five pounds thinner. Questionable judgment? You decide.
Still, what a novel experience, to be in a real feature film shoot. It was an interesting process to watch! No, no speaking lines. Just a slightly chubby yoga extra in the back of the room.
Chubbiness inducing factors aside, the family reunion was fun! Sure, I got a little cranky now and then, which is apparently my way. But it was nothing that a few hours alone in a quiet room couldn’t cure. As Gangaji would say, “this form” in which I am currently incarnated is just too sensitive to take in large groups of people for long periods of time. Hey, we get the nervous system we’re born with. The trick is learning to manage it.
I was really pleased by the response to my meal on Friday night. Cousin Miami told me the next day that people had used words such as “artistry” and, well, I don’t remember what else but it was cool to hear it, whatever it was. And I had a ton of fun putting it all together. Brother’s shrimp was good, too, but I am disappointed that whatever new chef they have at the Centralia House has corrupted his vision of the dish. Apparently they served it to him out of the shell, with rice. This is not the dish that won accolades in the New York Times even though the restaurant is in totally unknown Centralia, Illinois. The shrimp are, authentically, are large as it is possible to get them, served in the shell with finger bowls of water and a huge cloth bib. There should be tons of sauce to dredge the bread in. And, critically, the sauce should never be allowed to emulsify. It’s the separation of the tomato-based cocktail sauce and the butter that makes the dipping sublime. I have half a mind to call the chef and ask her or him what the hell happened, but I doubt I will. Still, it was really tasty.
I did several new recipes. Two appetizers that are reportedly from old New Orleans restaurants, Oysters Bienville and Crabmeat Maison. Bob’s Seafood in Saint Louis provided me with some really wonderful, sweet fresh Maine claw meat, flown in just that morning, for a mere $10 and change for a pound. They also solved my half-shell but I-don’t-want-to-shuck-them problem (couldn’t talk Brother into it, either) by stocking frozen oysters on the half shell. These worked beautifully for the Bienville, which is a bread crumb topping with aromatic vegetables, Parmesan, and cream; the full shells are baked on a bed salt with rosemary and cloves until the topping is golden and warm. I would have put some bay leaves in the salt if they hadn’t disappeared from my kitchen. What’s up with that? Scorpio 2?
Also, happily the crowd dumbfounded Mother and Brother by adoring the collard greens. Flash: cooking them with onions and bacon and ham hock is a lot tastier than my usual onions and garlic and olive oil. The collards from my garden have tasted really bitter to me, but those I cooked in all that pig fat had no bitterness at all. That I cooked them for more than six hours might have been a factor as well. Time for further testing! Also of note: pretty sure I’ve got the macaroni and cheese thing down.
The most lovely dish: French Lemon Cream Tart, from Dorie Greenspan. You can see the complete recipe at http://www.globalgourmet.com/food/ild/2006/1106/lemon-cream-tart.html. In the mean time, here’s a bit of what she has to say about it:
Of Lemon Cream and Pierre Hermé
I am thankful to Pierre Hermé, France's king of pastry, for many things, chief among them his friendship—we have written two books together—and his lemon cream. When we were just beginning work on our first book, Pierre explained the cream to me. In his typical fashion, he spoke softly, explained thoroughly and added just the meekest editorial comment: "It is nice," he said, with a sly little gone-in-a-flash smile. I immediately put two stars next to the recipe, a note to myself to try it right away.
At first glance, you would think that the lemon cream is just another version of lemon curd—the ingredients are almost identical. What's different is how they are treated, and it makes an enormous difference in the taste and texture.
In a curd, the eggs, lemon juice, sugar and butter are cooked together until they thicken. The result is silky, lemony and, above all, unmistakably rich and buttery. In Pierre's lemon cream, the eggs, lemon juice and sugar—but not the butter—are cooked together until they thicken, just like curd. The mixture is then poured into a blender and allowed to cool for a few minutes. Then the butter is added, in pieces, and the cream is whipped around for a few minutes. Here's the genius—instead of melting as it does in curd, the butter emulsifies (just as oil does in mayonnaise), so that the resulting texture is velvety and deceptively light. It is a stroke of culinary magic.
Like curd, lemon cream is a utility player. It can be spread on toast, used as a filling for cakes and pies, spooned over fruit desserts or just eaten off the spoon when no one is peeking. And, it can also be played around with, which is what I've done to create Creamiest Lime Cream and Meringue Pie (see the book) as well as Fresh Orange Cream Tart (see book).
And I will second her: this is the loveliest lemon dessert recipe I’ve ever encountered. And it’s not difficult to make. It came out perfectly the first time I tried it, and it wasn’t even in my menu plan. It emerged as a back-up after I broke the double batch of custard for Black Bottom Pies (it becomes clearer all the time that I can’t chat and cook focus-sensitive dishes at the same time), and didn’t have enough chocolate to make another double recipe, so had to come up with another pie. I had all the ingredients for this lemon tart. And I am so glad I did, it is just simply fantastic. Even my mother had no “tips” for me to improve it and believe me that just doesn’t happen.
I got great help from the Texas and Nashville Girls, and Brother-Wife was a great help, too, though I must say rather easily distracted. Hey, it’s the thought that counts (I think that’s what the Buddhists mean by intention).
Cousin Miami made a wonderful Sunday Brunch. Several breakfast casseroles, some sweets, salads, mimosas. Really nice.
But wow, that Sunday church service (we’ve developed a tradition of making our own private “church” on Sundays at the reunions). Mother set the perfect tone in the tribute that was given for my grandfather. She told a story about how, when they were teenagers, the minister at their church initiated a push to get the teens to sign an “Abstinence Card” promising that they wouldn’t drink alcohol. Apparently Papaw told his kids that they shouldn’t sign it unless they really thought they could stick to their promise. He could have used the whole card thing to try to corner them, and I can imagine how the religious right would advocate such as thing, as they do these days with sexual abstinence. But, even though Papaw and Mamaw were certainly not drinkers (though not teetotalers, either), the lesson about keeping one’s word outweighed even the preacher’s mandate. None of his kids signed it.
Additionally, as the story went, he was teaching Sunday school at the church at that time, and gave the same advise to his class: don’t sign if you can’t keep your promise. As a result he was fired from the job.
Not inconsequentially, that minister didn’t last long at the Grace United Methodist Church. Such strictures, and the others he tried to impose against dancing and other general liveliness, are decidedly not typical to “our” Methodist ways, and the congregation was fed up with him pretty fast.
My grandfather’s response to the whole thing, though, really illustrated the kind of integrity he has, by example, taught (or tried to teach) all of us. Being real, being true to one’s beliefs, being honest, keeping one’s word – all of these, I could see on Sunday, have been sent down as part of the family legacy. And I am grateful. Thank you, Papaw. And Mamaw, too. This is no small potatoes in this world. And no wonder I find the yogic prescription to unify mind and heart and word so resonate. Regardless of all the differences I’ve had with my family over the years, I can see now that this integrity is the foundation upon which I was wrought. OK, maybe my immediate nuclear family came close to undermining it. True, that crack in the floor was what I was rebelling against as a child, and now I see that it is a large part of my distaste for being around my father and his friends. Still, there is a reason or at least a larger prespective for or gained from that. I sense of choice: whom shall I learn from? With the solid ground of being true to one's word and self that I saw through my grandparents, I am now confident that I can learn from myself.
So, in short, way fun reunion, again. Love to see my coussies. They are all so fun and nice. And the men in my family, my generation, I must say, are extradordinary. Reading "women's" novels, cooking, thinking, nuturing their kids, loving their wives. Glad my kids love to come, too.
I remain afraid of speed boats, though, I am only now admitting it out loud. I really think the only fast things I trust are airplanes!
In other bright news our darling Princess is back from her humanitarian mission to Texas, and while there started a new e-mag of some philosophical weight a third of which she’s suggesting I edit, and her collaborator/friend will be reviewing me to form an opinion of her own. Wish me luck. and Yippee! More later as I discover!
Monday, July 09, 2007
Rules for a First Date With Me
After polling several women friends I find there is universal agreement that the whole slipping of the hand onto the back of the neck on the first date is creepy in the extreme (see Monday, July 02, 2007, More Precious Than Rubies ). With this in mind, I’ve developed a set of First Date Rules to help our disabled brothers navigate the cobwebs in their own brains and not sink the ship before they’re even out of the gate.
Ya, true, I’m still out of the dating game at present -- and have specifically eschewed all internet guys, whom so far I’ve found consistently creepy. Nonetheless, I feel it my social duty to use the ridiculous experiences I’ve accrued in the field to educate those men who just can’t seem to, well, stop being foolish and disgusting.
Note: Of course most of these apply to subsequent dates as well. But remember: you never get a second chance at a first impression!
Margaret’s First Date Rules
1. Do not show up to take me out in your shorts and T-shirt!
Are you kidding? Unless we are going on a true hike (and a stroll around the park or through the Botanical Gardens is not a true hike), you are still on a date and should at least show enough motivation to wear decent clothing. Seriously, I’ve had men meet me at nice restaurants in their freaking shorts and baggy T-shirts! Grown, 45, 50-year-old men, for Christ’s sake. What did this communicate to me? It said, “Hey, babe, you’re no big deal,” for one thing, and for another it said, “I’m a careless rube.” So, put on a casual button-down shirt, or a Polo shirt, or at least something creative, so heaven’s sake. And if we’re going out to dinner then wear a pair of slacks. Jeez. Believe me, I’m worth dressing up for. And if you’re all averse to dressing appropriately for the occasion, then let’s just save ourselves the trouble and, like, not go out.
2. Learn to make a plan.
If you ask me out, have a plan. Don’t sit passively on the phone with no idea where to go or what to do. (If I ask you out, I’ll have a plan.) Leaving it all up to me does not make me feel “in control.” It makes me feel like you still need your mother to tell you what to do. If you’re a man, act like one and make a plan. Show me that you can ease life’s stresses and show me a good time. I know you know how to use the internet! So use it. And when you have an actual idea, then call me.
3. Don’t be putting your hands on me, creepizoid, in any way, shape, or form!
There is only one exception to this rule: if I put my hands on you first.
4. For God’s sake, don’t cry, OK?
You just met me! I cannot possibly be important to you! Tearing up or looking dejected or getting pissed off (even silently) if you see or I say that I’m not going to want to have another date just show me that you are some kind of an emotional mess. Who is the guy who sits outside a woman’s house with a remote radio and a box cutter and six pair of cut-up panty hose? (Um, really, so far pissed off or tearful has happened three of the five times I’ve had these stupid internet dates.) (Oh, and by the way, tearing up or getting red in the face when you talk about your ex indicates you’re not ready to date again – and, yes, I CAN see these reactions!)
5. Don’t be wimpy about food.
In my sensibility, Food=Sex. The passions are the passions. If you can’t be brave and intense and playful in one, you probably can’t in the other, either. Food wimpiness, therefore, is as much a turnoff as a limp dick. More. At least the latter has some work-arounds.
I realized that the handontheneck guy, he was wimpy about food, and that’s part of what made his grabbiness icky. At Mangia Italiano, where I was raving about their fresh home made pasta, he ordered a freaking salad. Now, that might be ok if he were passionate about salad or really just wanted a salad, but it was clear that it was because the thought that was the only thing that was “good for” him. He wanted pasta, talked about the pastas, considered ordering them, salivated, hemmed and hawed, then ordered a salad. Then stared like a guilty orphan at my lasagna (ya, I gave him a bite). God. It wore me out.
I have nothing against salad, I love salad, but I said clearly on my eharmony profile that I was into food and wanted someone who could be adventurous about food! Being scared of any food that’s not salad? That disqualifies you. Also, this guy looked askance at my glass of wine. That is not ok. I will have a glass of wine with my Italian! And this is the too-touchy guy?
Now look: I could forgive, let’s say, Mario Batali or Anthony Bourdain if they touched me a few times on a first date. Why? Because those are guys who live for passion. They are no-holds-barred, travel the globe, eat pure pig fat and thirteen courses of slow-cooked shin and sauted thymus and twenty three bottles of wine in a sitting there-is-nothing-I-won’t-try-if-it’s-been-cooked-with-love, full-bore take no prisoners grab-ass students of the senses. These are guys who would rather die than confine their palates to some strict cold nihilistic wasteland of chill and bland. And I admire them for it. And if either of them were single I’d be calling them, in spite of the fact that neither is particularly good-looking and both are way too loud and obnoxious for me. It would be worth it. They would approach, [uh-hum] everything, I’m sure, as if it were the most hellacious and mindblowing once-in-a-lifetime meal.
But if salad guy touches me, well, it’s just creepy. He’s not living in his body. He’s not playing in the fields of the Lord if he’s tending toward all raw food. Sorry. It’s a prejudice. But guess what? When it comes to who touches me – and even who I date -- I get all the prejudices I want, for free! So, if you’re wimpy or frightened or you don’t know how to have fun with food, I won’t like you! And if I don’t like you, you can’t touch me! Stay home and eat a salad.
6. Tune in.
Don't be a jerk. Be sensitive. Learn to care for others. If a woman looks away or stiffens up when you touch her, don't do it again. Apply this principle to everything.
I think that’s it, for now, for the first date guidelines. I hope it’s been helpful.
Ya, true, I’m still out of the dating game at present -- and have specifically eschewed all internet guys, whom so far I’ve found consistently creepy. Nonetheless, I feel it my social duty to use the ridiculous experiences I’ve accrued in the field to educate those men who just can’t seem to, well, stop being foolish and disgusting.
Note: Of course most of these apply to subsequent dates as well. But remember: you never get a second chance at a first impression!
Margaret’s First Date Rules
1. Do not show up to take me out in your shorts and T-shirt!
Are you kidding? Unless we are going on a true hike (and a stroll around the park or through the Botanical Gardens is not a true hike), you are still on a date and should at least show enough motivation to wear decent clothing. Seriously, I’ve had men meet me at nice restaurants in their freaking shorts and baggy T-shirts! Grown, 45, 50-year-old men, for Christ’s sake. What did this communicate to me? It said, “Hey, babe, you’re no big deal,” for one thing, and for another it said, “I’m a careless rube.” So, put on a casual button-down shirt, or a Polo shirt, or at least something creative, so heaven’s sake. And if we’re going out to dinner then wear a pair of slacks. Jeez. Believe me, I’m worth dressing up for. And if you’re all averse to dressing appropriately for the occasion, then let’s just save ourselves the trouble and, like, not go out.
2. Learn to make a plan.
If you ask me out, have a plan. Don’t sit passively on the phone with no idea where to go or what to do. (If I ask you out, I’ll have a plan.) Leaving it all up to me does not make me feel “in control.” It makes me feel like you still need your mother to tell you what to do. If you’re a man, act like one and make a plan. Show me that you can ease life’s stresses and show me a good time. I know you know how to use the internet! So use it. And when you have an actual idea, then call me.
3. Don’t be putting your hands on me, creepizoid, in any way, shape, or form!
There is only one exception to this rule: if I put my hands on you first.
4. For God’s sake, don’t cry, OK?
You just met me! I cannot possibly be important to you! Tearing up or looking dejected or getting pissed off (even silently) if you see or I say that I’m not going to want to have another date just show me that you are some kind of an emotional mess. Who is the guy who sits outside a woman’s house with a remote radio and a box cutter and six pair of cut-up panty hose? (Um, really, so far pissed off or tearful has happened three of the five times I’ve had these stupid internet dates.) (Oh, and by the way, tearing up or getting red in the face when you talk about your ex indicates you’re not ready to date again – and, yes, I CAN see these reactions!)
5. Don’t be wimpy about food.
In my sensibility, Food=Sex. The passions are the passions. If you can’t be brave and intense and playful in one, you probably can’t in the other, either. Food wimpiness, therefore, is as much a turnoff as a limp dick. More. At least the latter has some work-arounds.
I realized that the handontheneck guy, he was wimpy about food, and that’s part of what made his grabbiness icky. At Mangia Italiano, where I was raving about their fresh home made pasta, he ordered a freaking salad. Now, that might be ok if he were passionate about salad or really just wanted a salad, but it was clear that it was because the thought that was the only thing that was “good for” him. He wanted pasta, talked about the pastas, considered ordering them, salivated, hemmed and hawed, then ordered a salad. Then stared like a guilty orphan at my lasagna (ya, I gave him a bite). God. It wore me out.
I have nothing against salad, I love salad, but I said clearly on my eharmony profile that I was into food and wanted someone who could be adventurous about food! Being scared of any food that’s not salad? That disqualifies you. Also, this guy looked askance at my glass of wine. That is not ok. I will have a glass of wine with my Italian! And this is the too-touchy guy?
Now look: I could forgive, let’s say, Mario Batali or Anthony Bourdain if they touched me a few times on a first date. Why? Because those are guys who live for passion. They are no-holds-barred, travel the globe, eat pure pig fat and thirteen courses of slow-cooked shin and sauted thymus and twenty three bottles of wine in a sitting there-is-nothing-I-won’t-try-if-it’s-been-cooked-with-love, full-bore take no prisoners grab-ass students of the senses. These are guys who would rather die than confine their palates to some strict cold nihilistic wasteland of chill and bland. And I admire them for it. And if either of them were single I’d be calling them, in spite of the fact that neither is particularly good-looking and both are way too loud and obnoxious for me. It would be worth it. They would approach, [uh-hum] everything, I’m sure, as if it were the most hellacious and mindblowing once-in-a-lifetime meal.
But if salad guy touches me, well, it’s just creepy. He’s not living in his body. He’s not playing in the fields of the Lord if he’s tending toward all raw food. Sorry. It’s a prejudice. But guess what? When it comes to who touches me – and even who I date -- I get all the prejudices I want, for free! So, if you’re wimpy or frightened or you don’t know how to have fun with food, I won’t like you! And if I don’t like you, you can’t touch me! Stay home and eat a salad.
6. Tune in.
Don't be a jerk. Be sensitive. Learn to care for others. If a woman looks away or stiffens up when you touch her, don't do it again. Apply this principle to everything.
I think that’s it, for now, for the first date guidelines. I hope it’s been helpful.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Read the Declaration! Click Here! Interesting Current Relevance
Fun holiday! Scorpio2 and I went, first, to the St. Louis Art Museum, and browsed around the free exhibits. All the usual ancient artifacts, then the impressionists, the pointillists, the depressing Dutch, some interesting German post-constructionists. We’ve seen them a million times, of course. I find I always love seeing Van Gogh, though. He really packs a punch. Still, it’s fun roaming museums and galleries with my girl. I like watching her take it in.
My boss gave me tickets to a Gateway Grizzlies game, a minor league baseball team right over the river in Illinois. That was super fun. It was nice of S2 to go with me, as I know that she hates sitting out in the sun, and could careless about baseball. We were right behind the visitor dugout – feet and purses props upon it. I taught her some rules and showed her a little about how to keep score. She was quite a trooper, never complaining, and had to admit that such a good view of the cute batters was quite enjoyable.
Then, crossing the bridge back to the city, we looked over at the levee and saw the THRONGS of people along the riverfront, at the fair. “It’s Cindy Lauper tonight,” I told her. “What! You didn’t tell me it was Cindy Lauper! You didn’t tell me there was actually somebody good playing!” “You wanna go?” “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!” she said. And so we went. Ten block walk from the parking lot, absolutely intolerable mash of a million people. Far away view among very rude people who cared nothing about blocking the view of those behind them. But still, it was fun! Cindy Lauper is adorable, totally. I’d seen her early in the year with Metal Ox, at The Pageant, and loved her. So, fun.
Friday night, I was a bit sad not to meet The Princess’s friends from Dallas. Apparently they craved a private audience with her. Understandable. In the absence of She and Her Court, S2 and I went to Fat Tony’s for BBQ. In spite of the apparent endorsement from Bill Clinton, S2 declared the ribs inferior to Hammerstones. Indeed, Fat Tony’s did look too pink for my taste, too. I like the meet falling off the bone. I had the pulled pork, which was really good, though not quite greasy enough for me. The frozen fires were good enough, and slaw really tangy and fresh S2 love the baked beans. Service was amusing, too. I think the counter lady thought I was seriously IQ deficient, since I couldn’t find the water on the self-serve beverage station. Brainstorm, though, when we decided to make a summer quest for the The City's best ribs. This post-vegetarian version of S2 is very into ribs. I sure there is something in there she needs. So, how fun will that be?
After the BBQ we took a drive through Forest Park, then I talked S1 into going over to Sqwires to watch fireworks. I don’t know why there were fireworks on the 3rd, but there you go. There were. I had noticed earlier a great view of The Arch from the Sqwires patio, and indeed, it was a pretty good place to view. Only about 10 other people seem to have had the idea, so there were no crowds. We had coffees and dessert (chocolate ravioli, mediocre but pleasant), and watched the pretty pyrotechnics. Fireworks are better from farther away, I’ve decided. At the riverfront the next night they were going off as we were leaving the Cindy Lauper concert, and it was deafening and quite unpleasant. As S1 said, if a person had just come from a war-torn country it would be a head-burying trauma all over again. Though the way the percussions echoed through the canyons of downtown was pretty interesting. In an apocalyptic sort of way.
S1, more painful bad luck. He needs a karma switch. And he needs to man up and get out of his mommy’s house. I wouldn’t mind if his attitude were better, but oft times he’s just amazingly unaware of other’s needs and feelings. How does this happen? Did I not raise him otherwise? I often think that all this insensitive posturing is his defense against his own deep sensitivity. And that just sucks. The world needs sensitive men, so badly. And yet it has convinced him that it’s totally uncool to be so. You know, I wonder about all the things I thought would make my children grow up happy and well-adjusted. Pristine pregnancies, home births, breast feeding, relaxed childhoods at home with mommy. But then there was divorce, single parenthood, years of relatively genteel, but still, poverty (though they were never hungry!). I don’t know. All I know is I love them, at that never stops.
My boss gave me tickets to a Gateway Grizzlies game, a minor league baseball team right over the river in Illinois. That was super fun. It was nice of S2 to go with me, as I know that she hates sitting out in the sun, and could careless about baseball. We were right behind the visitor dugout – feet and purses props upon it. I taught her some rules and showed her a little about how to keep score. She was quite a trooper, never complaining, and had to admit that such a good view of the cute batters was quite enjoyable.
Then, crossing the bridge back to the city, we looked over at the levee and saw the THRONGS of people along the riverfront, at the fair. “It’s Cindy Lauper tonight,” I told her. “What! You didn’t tell me it was Cindy Lauper! You didn’t tell me there was actually somebody good playing!” “You wanna go?” “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!” she said. And so we went. Ten block walk from the parking lot, absolutely intolerable mash of a million people. Far away view among very rude people who cared nothing about blocking the view of those behind them. But still, it was fun! Cindy Lauper is adorable, totally. I’d seen her early in the year with Metal Ox, at The Pageant, and loved her. So, fun.
Friday night, I was a bit sad not to meet The Princess’s friends from Dallas. Apparently they craved a private audience with her. Understandable. In the absence of She and Her Court, S2 and I went to Fat Tony’s for BBQ. In spite of the apparent endorsement from Bill Clinton, S2 declared the ribs inferior to Hammerstones. Indeed, Fat Tony’s did look too pink for my taste, too. I like the meet falling off the bone. I had the pulled pork, which was really good, though not quite greasy enough for me. The frozen fires were good enough, and slaw really tangy and fresh S2 love the baked beans. Service was amusing, too. I think the counter lady thought I was seriously IQ deficient, since I couldn’t find the water on the self-serve beverage station. Brainstorm, though, when we decided to make a summer quest for the The City's best ribs. This post-vegetarian version of S2 is very into ribs. I sure there is something in there she needs. So, how fun will that be?
After the BBQ we took a drive through Forest Park, then I talked S1 into going over to Sqwires to watch fireworks. I don’t know why there were fireworks on the 3rd, but there you go. There were. I had noticed earlier a great view of The Arch from the Sqwires patio, and indeed, it was a pretty good place to view. Only about 10 other people seem to have had the idea, so there were no crowds. We had coffees and dessert (chocolate ravioli, mediocre but pleasant), and watched the pretty pyrotechnics. Fireworks are better from farther away, I’ve decided. At the riverfront the next night they were going off as we were leaving the Cindy Lauper concert, and it was deafening and quite unpleasant. As S1 said, if a person had just come from a war-torn country it would be a head-burying trauma all over again. Though the way the percussions echoed through the canyons of downtown was pretty interesting. In an apocalyptic sort of way.
S1, more painful bad luck. He needs a karma switch. And he needs to man up and get out of his mommy’s house. I wouldn’t mind if his attitude were better, but oft times he’s just amazingly unaware of other’s needs and feelings. How does this happen? Did I not raise him otherwise? I often think that all this insensitive posturing is his defense against his own deep sensitivity. And that just sucks. The world needs sensitive men, so badly. And yet it has convinced him that it’s totally uncool to be so. You know, I wonder about all the things I thought would make my children grow up happy and well-adjusted. Pristine pregnancies, home births, breast feeding, relaxed childhoods at home with mommy. But then there was divorce, single parenthood, years of relatively genteel, but still, poverty (though they were never hungry!). I don’t know. All I know is I love them, at that never stops.
Monday, July 02, 2007
More Precious Than Rubies
Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, and the man that getteth understanding. For the merchandise of it is better than the merchandise of silver, and the gain thereof than fine gold. She is more precious than rubies: and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared unto her. Length of days is in her right hand; and in her left hand riches and honour. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.
-- The Christian Bible, Proverbs 3:15.
On the dates I've had during the Metal Ox lulls, I've almost always come away with the impression that men my age seem to think that women my age, for whatever reason (ennui? desperation? apathy?) are all cool with getting jiggy wit it on the first date. Or at least that we are so crying out for touch – or something! what? – that laying hands upon us is just as welcome and inconsequential as, say, a smile. Why is this?
Example: yesterday I had what I thought was a harmless engagement with a man to walk through the Botanical Gardens. He seemed like a nice person. Clean, educated, professional, attractive enough. Well spoken. As we were walking, a few times he laid his hand on my back in that sort of guiding way that can be comforting if a man one is truly with does it, but that, frankly, for me, is a bit of an invasion from someone I have met five seconds ago. I didn’t much like it, but it’s a common enough social gesture that I didn’t think it necessary to say anything. Perhaps I should have. Half an hour into the walk we were standing among a scattered group of people, looking out over the lotus pond, when he slipped his hand very lightly across the back of my neck, then sort of left it there, buried in my hair.
Now, call me picky, but this felt to me like quite an intimate physical gesture. The touch, as I said, was light, too sensual in its intention, and far too familiar. It gave me the creeps.
A chill went down my spine. My hackles went up. Bad vibe. I wanted to leap into the loti, but I was frozen. I blurted out, softly, "Please don't do that. I don't know you well enough." He apologized and took his hand away. I tried to give him a chance after that, and even went to lunch with him, but it was no use. I continued to feel creeped out. When I got home I saged off. It was icky.
What would make this man, a stranger, think that he could touch me this way? Seriously? It was the first time we’d met, it being a blind date, and no conclusions had been drawn or enunciated in any way. What, I wonder, did he have to assume in order to feel that I would welcome him touching me in any way, much less this stroking of my neck? When I go to the community garden, men don’t touch me that way. At the neighborhood socials, men don’t touch me that way. Even if I’ve met someone several times and they are flirting with me, they just don’t touch me that way. I don't give off any vibe that says it's ok to touch me, as a rule (the exceptions being when I am in a relationship, 'cause then I really like to cuddle and hold hands and stuff ; and I would certainly cuddle my kids if they'd ever let me, which they don't any more of course, though sometimes Molly and I will cuddle a little bit which is really nice). Even my women friends sort of give me a look to see if it's ok before they give me a hug. It's just the way I am. I have to filter energies, because I feel them pretty intently. And if I don't know someone, then I don't know about their energy. I may or may not want it to mingle with mine. Energies, see, are as potentially life giving or life threatening as body fluids. And anyway, even if I weren't that way, there are certain modes of touch that just aren't what one does with an acquaintance. Placing one's hand sensually/possessively on the back of another's neck is in one of those modes of touch. Points being, first, there's either a social disconnect there or the guy runs with a way faster crowd than I'm into, and, again, I know for sure I was giving off no touch me signals. I've spent years training to be aware and in control of my energies.
But why do so many of these guys that I've met at Eharmony behave this way (OK, I've only been out with five, but only one of them was not icky this way)? My kids say it's because guys that are looking for a woman online are a priori desperate guys. Can that be true? Maybe I should give that consideration. Lunging at a woman right off that way does definitely have an air of desperation to it. And opportunism.
And maybe these guys are used to those desperate, jaded, I've-given-up-so-what-the-hell women. Could be.
Even so, I thought eharmony was supposed to be the refuge for those persons who aren’t looking to get laid right off the bat. Maybe I’m wrong. But that’s what I thought. If I'd wanted those kinds of men I’d have gone to match.com or lavalife. Ick fest! At any rate, on the off chance that the online thing does spawn these desperate-ados, I think I'll hang it up for a while. I have no desire to try to sate my need for love by engaging in soulless or soul-killing adolescent acts of farce with lonely baby-men. Sorry, Charlie! I can get higher quality "love" just doing yoga or sitting on my fire escape watching the squirrels play. More true intimacy picking basil from my garden, making a divine pesto, and feeding it to my friends and family.
All I know is, if I'm going to give a guy a second date then he needs to behave like a gentleman on the first.
P.S. And I don’t want to hear any “oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it” or “you really should give these men a fighting chance” crap, either. Women, when we hear one another iterate creepy feelings about situations, should validate one another, period. Trusting our instincts is what saves our lives and our psyches. Not trusting them is what gets us in trouble. If I had not second guessed some of my early impressions of Metal Ox, for instance, I would not have spent all those years being emotionally battered and betrayed by him. This need to trust the body’s knowledge goes double for everything having to do with touch. A person’s touch is the movement of their energy into one’s own energy, it’s their calling card. If an alarm goes off, either that person is out of line or the touchee is grokking some energy that is not – in whatever way – good for that touchee. If a touch feels bad, it needs to stop. This sounds like something one tells children, but that’s only because it’s that elementary. And any “Oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way,” or “I’m just being silly” or “What a bitch I am” shooting through our minds after an initial response of “Ick!” or “Don’t do that!” is our cultural conditioning to disregard our intuition. And who gains from that? Who loses?
Here’s another thing that occurred to me: any guy worth half his salt would have felt my body stiffening up the first time he laid his hand on my back! Did Mr. MoBot not even try to tune in to whether or not it was ok to touch me? I did finally speak up, and perhaps I should have after the first unwelcome grope, but I doubt the man’s sensitivity to others – especially on matters involving touch – if he didn’t note at all I wasn’t digging his grab-handing. And keep in mind, some men get off on invading a woman.
Really, though, it’s not that this event was particularly traumatic. It's life being life. It’s a blip on certain screens of self. It's illuminating. But it’s a blip worth talking about, for me, because (1) it was not the first time, but it was the time that made me feel fed up; (2) as itself and as analogy for other invasive and insensitive action and assumption on the part of humans toward and regarding other humans, it’s illustrative; (3) I’m proud of myself for speaking up to the guy; and (4) I feel good saying it out loud: I don’t want guys I don’t know touching me! Stop it! Now! Be gentlemen, you insensitive clods, or remove yourselves from my presence! I am not here for your entertainment, for Christ’s sake, OK? At least not until I freaking know you.
-- The Christian Bible, Proverbs 3:15.
On the dates I've had during the Metal Ox lulls, I've almost always come away with the impression that men my age seem to think that women my age, for whatever reason (ennui? desperation? apathy?) are all cool with getting jiggy wit it on the first date. Or at least that we are so crying out for touch – or something! what? – that laying hands upon us is just as welcome and inconsequential as, say, a smile. Why is this?
Example: yesterday I had what I thought was a harmless engagement with a man to walk through the Botanical Gardens. He seemed like a nice person. Clean, educated, professional, attractive enough. Well spoken. As we were walking, a few times he laid his hand on my back in that sort of guiding way that can be comforting if a man one is truly with does it, but that, frankly, for me, is a bit of an invasion from someone I have met five seconds ago. I didn’t much like it, but it’s a common enough social gesture that I didn’t think it necessary to say anything. Perhaps I should have. Half an hour into the walk we were standing among a scattered group of people, looking out over the lotus pond, when he slipped his hand very lightly across the back of my neck, then sort of left it there, buried in my hair.
Now, call me picky, but this felt to me like quite an intimate physical gesture. The touch, as I said, was light, too sensual in its intention, and far too familiar. It gave me the creeps.
A chill went down my spine. My hackles went up. Bad vibe. I wanted to leap into the loti, but I was frozen. I blurted out, softly, "Please don't do that. I don't know you well enough." He apologized and took his hand away. I tried to give him a chance after that, and even went to lunch with him, but it was no use. I continued to feel creeped out. When I got home I saged off. It was icky.
What would make this man, a stranger, think that he could touch me this way? Seriously? It was the first time we’d met, it being a blind date, and no conclusions had been drawn or enunciated in any way. What, I wonder, did he have to assume in order to feel that I would welcome him touching me in any way, much less this stroking of my neck? When I go to the community garden, men don’t touch me that way. At the neighborhood socials, men don’t touch me that way. Even if I’ve met someone several times and they are flirting with me, they just don’t touch me that way. I don't give off any vibe that says it's ok to touch me, as a rule (the exceptions being when I am in a relationship, 'cause then I really like to cuddle and hold hands and stuff ; and I would certainly cuddle my kids if they'd ever let me, which they don't any more of course, though sometimes Molly and I will cuddle a little bit which is really nice). Even my women friends sort of give me a look to see if it's ok before they give me a hug. It's just the way I am. I have to filter energies, because I feel them pretty intently. And if I don't know someone, then I don't know about their energy. I may or may not want it to mingle with mine. Energies, see, are as potentially life giving or life threatening as body fluids. And anyway, even if I weren't that way, there are certain modes of touch that just aren't what one does with an acquaintance. Placing one's hand sensually/possessively on the back of another's neck is in one of those modes of touch. Points being, first, there's either a social disconnect there or the guy runs with a way faster crowd than I'm into, and, again, I know for sure I was giving off no touch me signals. I've spent years training to be aware and in control of my energies.
But why do so many of these guys that I've met at Eharmony behave this way (OK, I've only been out with five, but only one of them was not icky this way)? My kids say it's because guys that are looking for a woman online are a priori desperate guys. Can that be true? Maybe I should give that consideration. Lunging at a woman right off that way does definitely have an air of desperation to it. And opportunism.
And maybe these guys are used to those desperate, jaded, I've-given-up-so-what-the-hell women. Could be.
Even so, I thought eharmony was supposed to be the refuge for those persons who aren’t looking to get laid right off the bat. Maybe I’m wrong. But that’s what I thought. If I'd wanted those kinds of men I’d have gone to match.com or lavalife. Ick fest! At any rate, on the off chance that the online thing does spawn these desperate-ados, I think I'll hang it up for a while. I have no desire to try to sate my need for love by engaging in soulless or soul-killing adolescent acts of farce with lonely baby-men. Sorry, Charlie! I can get higher quality "love" just doing yoga or sitting on my fire escape watching the squirrels play. More true intimacy picking basil from my garden, making a divine pesto, and feeding it to my friends and family.
All I know is, if I'm going to give a guy a second date then he needs to behave like a gentleman on the first.
P.S. And I don’t want to hear any “oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it” or “you really should give these men a fighting chance” crap, either. Women, when we hear one another iterate creepy feelings about situations, should validate one another, period. Trusting our instincts is what saves our lives and our psyches. Not trusting them is what gets us in trouble. If I had not second guessed some of my early impressions of Metal Ox, for instance, I would not have spent all those years being emotionally battered and betrayed by him. This need to trust the body’s knowledge goes double for everything having to do with touch. A person’s touch is the movement of their energy into one’s own energy, it’s their calling card. If an alarm goes off, either that person is out of line or the touchee is grokking some energy that is not – in whatever way – good for that touchee. If a touch feels bad, it needs to stop. This sounds like something one tells children, but that’s only because it’s that elementary. And any “Oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way,” or “I’m just being silly” or “What a bitch I am” shooting through our minds after an initial response of “Ick!” or “Don’t do that!” is our cultural conditioning to disregard our intuition. And who gains from that? Who loses?
Here’s another thing that occurred to me: any guy worth half his salt would have felt my body stiffening up the first time he laid his hand on my back! Did Mr. MoBot not even try to tune in to whether or not it was ok to touch me? I did finally speak up, and perhaps I should have after the first unwelcome grope, but I doubt the man’s sensitivity to others – especially on matters involving touch – if he didn’t note at all I wasn’t digging his grab-handing. And keep in mind, some men get off on invading a woman.
Really, though, it’s not that this event was particularly traumatic. It's life being life. It’s a blip on certain screens of self. It's illuminating. But it’s a blip worth talking about, for me, because (1) it was not the first time, but it was the time that made me feel fed up; (2) as itself and as analogy for other invasive and insensitive action and assumption on the part of humans toward and regarding other humans, it’s illustrative; (3) I’m proud of myself for speaking up to the guy; and (4) I feel good saying it out loud: I don’t want guys I don’t know touching me! Stop it! Now! Be gentlemen, you insensitive clods, or remove yourselves from my presence! I am not here for your entertainment, for Christ’s sake, OK? At least not until I freaking know you.
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