In Search of a Well-Built Man (And Why I’m Not Buying Anymore Fixer-Uppers)

A friend recently forwarded me an essay in which the columnist referred to men as “fixer- uppers” and noted that an acquaintance of hers actually claimed to have “fixed up” her “fixer-upper” husband.

Being a builder’s daughter, this got me thinking.  I grew up under the tutelage of a man who made me believe that anything could be fixed, no matter how complicated. Granted, the fixing might involve a lot of time, trouble, and cursing…and maybe even the use of a sledgehammer.  But nothing was unfixable.

That seemed to be the take of the woman who claimed to have “fixed up” her spouse.

But this begs the question: do you really want to marry a fixer-upper?  Because it’s going to require the same kind of investment as a fixer-upper house…unless you’re okay with all the leaks, rot, and cosmetic deficiencies.  And most of us just aren’t.  Plus, if the fixer-upper is so bad that you need to use a sledgehammer and start gutting the whole thing, well, that’s the sort of work you want to leave to a professional.

Unfortunately, for me, it took me awhile to learn this.  Builder’s daughter: anything can be fixed.  Sure, if you want to spend a lifetime doing it. Meanwhile, you could have just bought a well-built house (or man) to start with.

I’ve fixed up a couple of houses.  Scraped paint off of rotting window sills, replaced shingles, ripped out shag carpet, even jacked up a foundation once to replace the rotting sills underneath. And while the experience of all this home remodeling eventually led me to the conclusion I wanted to build a new house from scratch instead of trying to make old and icky ones work for me, I did not take that wisdom into the realm of dating and marriage.  Somehow I thought if I could be the general contractor on a home renovation project, I could also be one on a man renovation project.

Unfortunately, being the kind of “let me test the limits of my abilities” kind of person that I am, I selected whole house gutting projects. (I hope my former spouse is being honest when he says he doesn’t read this blog, but if he is reading this, perhaps he’s been fixed up enough that he’ll think it’s funny….) My experiences have run the gambit from trying to make a compulsive liar stop lying to trying to make a guy with zero self-esteem pick himself up and do something. These were projects for people with PhD’s in psychology, not for an English major with home improvement background. I was way out of my league.

If you have to jack up a guy’s foundation because it has rotted away, you’re in serious trouble.  It’s like a friend said to me not too long ago when talking about whitewater kayaking: “If you get into big water and don’t know what you’re doing, you could get really hurt.”

The same applies to home renovation and relationship building.

But there is something to be said for “trial and failure.” You learn a lot.  I never got the compulsive liar to stop lying. (I finally gave up on him after helping him write stellar job application letters for several months only to find the unmailed applications stuffed into the glovebox of his car.)  And I never got the guy with trampled self-esteem to believe he was worthy of love and success either. (Though I gave it the good old college try—something along the lines of taking seven or eight years to get through college because you keep failing the same course over and over.)  I’d like to think I can now recognize a major fixer-upper a mile away.

Not that I’m looking for perfection, mind you. I’m okay with a few squeaky floorboards, some air leaks around the windows, and maybe even some scratched up cabinetry. I can live with imperfections on that scale as long as the big picture looks good.  But if I see any faulty foundations or caving in roofs, I’m heading for the hills.

Of course, I realize some of my gentlemen acquaintances are going to be quite happy to turn the tables on me here and talk about “fixer upper” women.  And I realize on the male scale of renovation projects, I might look like a property deserving of demolition given my propensity to do things that men find extremely annoying…like write blog posts such as this one, for example.

But that’s okay. We could all use a little self-improvement. The thing to remember, however, is that people aren’t like houses. You can’t just go in and start tearing things out and putting in new plumbing. If the guy (or gal) you’re with doesn’t want to improve himself (or herself), no amount of fixing on your part is going to do any good. (Which is why I am suspicious of the woman who claims to have “fixed up” her husband.)  You’re wasting your time, your life.  Move on, get over it, and find something (or someone) that doesn’t need repairing.

Delving Deep into VPL: Are We Crossing the Line?

I will admit that a few years ago, I didn’t even know what a VPL was.  That’s when I heard two of my friends discussing the issue with the kind of seriousness reserved for topics like the national debt.  After that brief yet impressionable experience, it was all over for me.  Ignorance gone.    Naiveté shattered.  I was faced with the stark awareness that I had long overlooked the power of this small V-shaped indent.

I’ve been confused about it ever since.  Women really think about these things?  I soon had to admit there is a time and a place for everything.  And visible panty lines are no exception.  After all, there’s nothing like a well-coiffed woman dressed in a curve accentuating frock, with puckering lines on her tailend interrupting her sexy lines.

And there are times, particularly when I’ve got a little extra on my hips, that I’ll succumb to wearing pantyhose or other cellulite firming contraptions under a pair of dress pants.  It gets ‘em zippered and avoids the panty lines that seem to be sinking a little deeper into my padding that week.  I guess I’m avoiding SVPL—super visible panty lines perhaps?

My concern is the over-obsession with panty lines.  I was recently shopping with a friend, and she was buying ‘anal floss,’ as she calls it—to wear to the gym.  She literally has specific gym panties.  I thought about how uncomfortable and sweaty I am to begin with at the gym, hemmed in with a tight sports bra and trying to keep my new stylish half-bangs from dripping sweat into my eyes. Then I cringed at the thought of having a permanent thong weggie.

Who cares if I have a panty line at the gym?  I don’t have much make-up on, and I probably vaguely stink of the underside of the gym mat.  Is it actually possible that someone is looking at my backside?  In the off chance that some guy would check  me out under these less than ideal circumstances, might I venture to say that a panty line would hardly make a difference?

This begs the question, however, as to why we have to wear panties at all.  I can understand that with a pair of ‘dry clean only’ dress slacks, another layer between my nether regions and my lined wool pants is totally legitimate.  And definitely in a pair of jeans.  Imagine the chaffing.  But in a pair of Yoga pants?  I’m wearing them for three hours and then tossing them in the laundry anyway.  I’m trying to shed my stress and elevate myself to a higher level of being.  Maybe panties are what’s been hindering my success in reaching enlightenment?   I guess I’d also like to simply offer up the notion that VPL or not, perhaps it’s a bit redundant to have another sweaty layer between me and a breath of fresh air.

Of course, hot and sweaty or not, I still tend to fall on the side of the fence that fully endorses VPL at the gym, as it means that P’s are being worn.  This reminds me of the unfortunate view I had of the woman in front of me at the gym as we were doing quad stretches, derriere extended.  She had chosen to go commando, maybe concerned with VPL? Unfortunately, her pants had gone through a few too many washings and were wearing thin.  Sorry for that mental image, but in the interest of full disclosure, such a fashion faux pas must be acknowledged.  Heck, even with a pair of thong panties, this could be an issue.  Lesson here, gals?  Always check the fabric durability of your workout gear.  Just like changing the oil, be sure to check those pants every 3,000 miles.

I’ve done a little research on the source of VL, and after sorting through the unmentionable riff-raff that came up on my Google search, which would have made Mr. Klein blush, I found an interesting article which cited a book by John Esten called Unmentionables: A Brief History of Underwear.  In it, he claims that panties were developed, in part, “as a Victorian attempt to control and hide genitalia and physique.”  Hmm….

The difference between these Victorian ladies and us is, of course, that they didn’t have an issue with VPL, as most of their lines were well padded, pouffed, hemmed-in, and laced up.   But I’m not so hidden from view. Even modest clothing today leaves very little to the imagination.

The economics of this issue is a whole other side.  In an article printed in The Los Angeles Times several years ago– “The Road to Profit, Paved with Panties”– Leslie Ernest states that the intimate apparel niche is a $9.1 billion industry in America.   We’re spending a lot of money on something that few people see.  It reminds me of the LensCrafter commercial where the old couple is glasses shopping.  After she slips on a pair of glasses, the old woman’s husband is instantly transformed into a svelte, sexy young man.  The voiceover says, “Unless your glasses are this good, you’re paying too much.”  Can I be so bold as to offer the same premise up for panties?  I think we’re paying too much, buying into yet another beauty myth.  Unless it’s taking ten pounds off, we’re being duped.  I would never go so far as to say that there’s not a legitimate time and place for smokin’ knickers.  It just seems like, as a culture, we’ve bought into yet another advertising lie that a few flimsy pieces of nylon, cotton, or lace really do provide an edge.  Sexy skivvies can give change in attitude?  Perhaps.  And yes, sexy is how you feel, not necessarily just how you look.  If panties give you that edge, go for it.  But I’d have to return to my initial gripe—sexy is not the vibe I’m interested in giving off in my mid-morning Body Pump class with a bunch of stay-at-home moms, gay men, and aging mavens.

When I brought this topic up to my trusty bus stop council of moms, there was no consensus.  Some women were legitimately concerned with VPL, and also VBL.  Yes, yet another line to worry about.  Interestingly, in our age group (well over 30), the greater concern was the back-fat induced bra lines (VBL).

I realized it was time to poll the guys. Did they notice VBL, VPL?  Did they care?  One woman went as far as to contend that our concern about VPL is just another example of “Girl on Girl Violence.”  That got me thinking.  Is our obsession with panty lines really just another way that we are undermining each other as women, fearing catty comments and less-than-approving glances at girls’ night?

My next panel included a group of professional men over, well, 40.  Maybe not exactly men on the prowl, but all my girlfriends are married to men no longer in their twenties.  (My other issue with twenty-something’s is that it’s a tough topic to casually drop into conversation with young men—I thought of asking the ruggedly handsome young barista at Starbucks this morning, and it crossed my mind as I was walking the kids to the bus stop and a lawyer-type twenty-something smelling of aftershave wafted past me on his way to the metro.   I’m sure my husband is relieved to know that I held my tongue in both cases.)  So in the interest of what little modesty I can say I have, I hired my friends to bring  the topic up with their husbands.

To our surprise, we found men do, in fact, notice panty lines.  And to them, it’s generally not a value-add for the whole image.  The consensus was that it was all about context.  In the work place and at the gym, it was generally not an issue. These nice men asserted convincingly that they were not really thinking along those lines in either place.   But these happily married men did say that a VPL on a woman in a more sexually charged environment, like a bar, club, or party, was definitely a negative distraction.  They went so far as to say that a VPL on well-dressed woman could over-ride the whole picture.  When we dug a little deeper with these guys, they asserted that VPLs are often correlated with other problems, such as an outfit that fits poorly, inferior fashion judgment, and even hint at a less than classy or even a ‘trashy’ stereotype.  They suggested that a woman who shows her lines is often missing the boat in other areas, too.  They read all this in a VPL? And they think we over-analyze….

Alas, we’re back to my original assertion that there is a time and a place to worry about the VPL.   But I’ll have to retreat on the suggestion that it’s another example of women setting an unrealistically high standard for other women.  If the guys I talked to admit to noticing, then it’s clearly not gender self-imposed.  Although we then have to ask if a married woman needs to worry about looking attractive to a man who is not her husband.  I’ll save that for another blog. Perhaps on Burkas.

So today, in the interest of research,  I’m game for the challenge.   I’m heading out to the gym, panty-free.  I’ve checked the durability and opaqueness of my pants, and I’m ready to buck the system.  I’m saying “no” to the lingering Victorian underpinnings still latent in our society and the rampant commercialism that’s feeding the fire.  And I’m saying ‘yes’ to anyone who happens to be checking me out from behind.  So if you are among the mid-morning crowd at the Ballston Gold’s, please don’t hesitate to notice.  You’ll see I’m ‘line-free.’

Ladies, You Might Be Desperate If….

I’ll admit it.  I’ve done a few crazy things for men.  Like pretending to enjoy watching a boyfriend participate in some bizarre World War I re-enactment that actually involved mud and trenches but really looked like a bunch of grown men playing dress-up in the great outdoors.

Then there was the boyfriend who tried to teach me fly fishing.  (Why I agreed I’ll never know, as I consider standing in a stream or at lake’s edge with a fishing pole about as exciting as watching paint dry.) But I tried it nevertheless. I wasn’t at it five minutes before I had my line tangled in a crabapple tree.

And I must not fail to include hanging out in the pit at a race track, the dirt from the track flying so thick that it later took two showers to get all the grit out of my ears and several flossings to get it out of my teeth. Not to mention the two beer guzzling guys who walked past me, saying, “Dude, I bet we’ll find some hot women here tonight.”  (I should probably mention my S.O. at the time was a race car driver, not a spectator, which basically means he did not own a T-shirt with a Confederate flag on it with the sleeve rolled up on one side to show off the tattoo of his mother’s first name.)

True, I’m not very P.C.  I can’t help it.  I call it like I see it.

Which is why I feel compelled to point out that I quickly learned we should all have our limits. Mine was one re-enactment and two dirt track races. (I liked the second guy better.)  And I’m inclined to think, now that I’m older and wiser, that my limits might be even more stringent these days.  A guy would have to be Mr. Wonderful for sure to get me to bungee jump off a bridge in New Zealand. Basically, he’d half to be flawless.  And I’m still not sure I’d do it.

So I kind of wonder why women do so many crazy things for men. Are we really that desperate?  So desperate to hold their interest and affection that we take up their crazy hobbies or at least stand on the sidelines watching them with enough regularity that we start to look a little bit…well…desperate.

It hit home with me the second (and last) race I attended.  Somehow I had convinced myself I was being supportive by spending a lovely spring weekend driving God knows how many hours through central North Carolina (the armpit of the state, in my opinion, with all its look-alike cities, interstates, and giant junk outlets) to the dirt track in Gastonia in a really big pick-up towing a sprint car (which if you don’t know what that is, ladies, it’s the one with the really big rear wheels and the Orville Wright-esque roof that makes it looks like a cross between an airplane and a go-cart).  I spent most of the day in the pit sitting on a tailgate reading a biography of William Faulkner for an article I was writing while the wives and girlfriends of the other race car drivers dished out elaborate buffets of fried chicken and biscuits, tested all their video recording equipment, and began climbing up on the roofs of their S.O.’s six-figure price tag towing vehicles to see if they could videotape the races from there. When race time rolled around, each one of those ladies lined up alongside her husband’s car, his helmet in hand like a squire waiting to tend to a knight.  That was the point at which I started to feel weird and decided the so-called fine line between being supportive and being pathetic was actually not so fine after all.

After that episode, I showed my support by not raising hell on the weekends my boyfriend decided to spend at the track and stayed home where there were much more interesting things to do than fawn over a weekend warrior race car driver.

But I’m not alone in having made some ridiculous efforts to impress a man with my supportiveness.  A friend of a friend who was planning a romantic getaway to Hawaii with her fiancé recently relented when he suggested they go camping in Utah instead…in a Winnebago…a very old Winnebago.  Driving cross-country for three days, camping for five, then driving back.  And in the interim, their meals would be tuna out of a can and the romance would be lovemaking in the back of a van.  Sure, it’s a little reminiscent of the teenage years in a way, but who wants to make out in a stinky van at age 40?  I’m personally all for the luxury hotel mattress.

I’m sure the lady in question is, too, so why won’t she admit it, hold firm, and buy those plane tickets to Hawaii?

Yeah, you guessed it.  For some reason, she feels that in order to hang onto the guy she has to sacrifice her sanity…and her precious vacation time.  You might be desperate if you do this, ladies.

Another friend of mine has an even more interesting track record.  In the course of her relationship career, she has purchased a bass boat, a motorcycle, and a kayak. She still has the kayak, and I think she actually uses it, but the bass boat and the motorcycle have long since hit the pavement.  I’m not even sure she actually ever got on the motorcycle.  The purchase, I think, was a gesture of intent.

And apparently good intentions work, as she did marry the guy.  He goes duck hunting and motorcycling without her these days, much to her relief, no doubt.

Women may claim that men, once married, suddenly forget how to cook, dance, and kiss, but women are guilty, too.  Our “tactics of desperation,” as I like to call them, suddenly cease once we feel we have the guy cornered. We magically lose interest in skeet shooting, football, and black lingerie.  (Well, some of us do anyway.  Personally, I would never want to be caught in Grandma panties by an EMT following a traumatic car accident, and I do know a woman who makes cupcakes with her husband’s picked team’s logo emblazoned in the frosting for the Super Bowl each year.)

A friend of mine actually asked me to write this post after deciding a couple of her women friends were acting a little too “desperate.”  At the time, I agreed with her that there are just some things you don’t do for a man, any man.

But then I got to thinking about it and, pathetic Super Bowl cupcakes aside, all this stretching of ourselves beyond normal limits isn’t necessarily a bad thing, not always.  Sometimes acts of desperation turn out all right.  I would never have discovered a love of sea kayaking had my former husband not goaded me into trying it out off a sandy beach in St. Croix.  Nor would I have learned how to shoot had a boyfriend not introduced me to the sport more than a decade ago and enticed me to at least learn how to blast a rabid skunk…or a rabid neighbor…if I needed to.  And frankly, I think if I’d been permitted a spin around the racetrack (instead of standing on the sidelines), I might have found that a little bit more interesting, too.

This is not to say I’m encouraging acts of female desperation, which seem to be most common in the unknowing years of the early 20s and the “oh, my god, I am never gonna get married unless I take up skydiving with this guy” years post 40.  It’s okay to get your feet wet in something new, just so long as you’re not sacrificing your own sense of self to do so or stretching limits that you’ve put in place for very good reasons. Moving in with an S.O. who owns 12 indoor dogs when you are a stickler for cleanliness is not likely to do anything for expanding your horizons or enhancing your relationship. This is a guy it’s even questionable whether or not you should be dating him much less marrying him (I mean does he ever show up without dog hair on his pants?).  Nor should you drink tuna water in the back of a Winnebago if every part of your being is screaming for a relaxing, luxurious getaway on a Pacific beach. Resentment isn’t something you want to cultivate in a relationship either.

But you do want to cultivate growth.

Rest assured, however, the line between growing and being desperate is very thick and very black.  You can’t miss it.

Growth feels like a rush.  Desperation feels like anxiety.  (Given how few men are willing to learn ballroom dancing and yoga, however, I’m guessing they feel a lot more anxiety about trying new things than we do.)

I’ve found as I grow older, I don’t really need the goading of a romantic partner to incline me to try something new…unless it’s squid.  Not really inclined to try that on my own, though I did recently eat some wild boar. I’ll gladly make a vain attempt at doing yoga on a paddleboard in the Tennessee River or see how much I can embarrass myself on an archery range in the Ozarks just because I can (and because an editor is paying me to do it).  It seems appropriate, once mid-life starts its heavy approach, to be up for anything.

With a couple of exceptions….

I still don’t plan to bungee jump off the New River Bridge anytime soon.  Nor will I go ZORBing.  Something about intentionally cramming one’s self into a rubber ball and then having someone push it down a hill at breakneck speed just seems…well…stupid.  And I really don’t feel either activity is going to promote any personal or spiritual growth…unless we’re talking a very quick trip to heaven.

But there are definitely experiences that you shouldn’t pass up. Years ago when a friend of mine went horseback riding in the snow in Iceland with her boyfriend, I thought she had lost her mind. Today she’s married to the guy and has, with his encouragement, hit five continents in the last decade and a half. Talk about “desperation” paying off.  Maybe fly fishing isn’t your thing. But I bet, even if it’s not, that standing in the middle of the Madison River in northwestern Wyoming with a moose grazing nearby and the Rockies rising in the distance has the potential to float your boat…even if next time you come armed with a camera instead of a fishing rod.

 

In Search of the All-Purpose V-Day Gift for Men….

That dreaded holiday is approaching again.  No, not Mother’s Day, though I think Valentine’s Day has got to run a close second.  Who hates Valentine’s Day more than a single girl without a date?  A woman who has been married more than two years….

And here’s why.  It’s not because we don’t like a bouquet of red roses, guys.  They’re very pretty and all, even if they are all dead within a week, less if you decide to get the day-after-Valentine’s-Day special at Kroger (um, yeah, I’ve gotten those).  There is something admittedly symbolic and decadent about that particular standby gift, if you even bother to get it, which a surprising number of long-term significant others don’t.  Some of them don’t even bring chocolate.  And if you aren’t smart enough to know there is some consolation for a girl in chocolate, you have no business dating or being married.

You see, we dread this holiday because we resent the fact that it’s so darn easy for the guys. Unfairly so.  Order the roses from the florist and maybe add in some artisan chocolates too boot.  Bam.  You’re done.

Meanwhile, we’ve been sweating bullets for at least a month in advance, scouring all the “what to buy your guy for V-Day web sites,” floored in some way that a silver whiskey flask or a progressive alarm clock are considered romantic gifts…or something he’d even want.  How many times does he hit the snooze button in the morning anyway?  And would a progressive alarm clock change that for him?  And do you really see him standing there pouring his favorite malt into the tiny hole in the top of that flask?  That’s the kind of OCD stuff high maintenance women engage in…minus the flask.  They’re trying to figure out how not to spill that French martini in the perfectly lovely (but top-heavy) glass they just bought for it.

But where, ladies, is the all-purpose V-Day gift for guys???  Where is our dozen red roses and a box of chocolates equivalent?

I’m fearful it doesn’t exist because, being the research-intensive journalist that I am, I’ve been doing some homework on this subject at the behest of female acquaintances.  Now, I haven’t done anything quite on the scale of the Gallup poll (But who answers those surveys anyway?  That’s right—little old ladies with too much time on their hands—not exactly an accurate cross-section of America), but I have been polling.  And the unfortunate reality is that no two women seem to have the same answer, and most of them have about a dozen “this gift might be a good one if you can afford it” suggestions that don’t even begin to offer the ease and convenience of red roses.

The first person to whom I turned my polling was my oldest and dearest friend Sarah.  I knew given the fact that she is married to a chef who has a number of high level hobbies we women don’t understand (like duck hunting and motorcycling…or something along those lines) that she would have to have some good suggestions.  This woman has been through the gift giving ringer.  As I recall, her husband once requested a very special duck hunting backpack, the only kind of duck hunting backpack with which he could properly engage in the sport, that cost a mere $180 bucks.  (And they wonder why we have to buy our purses at TJ Maxx.)

Her top all-purpose male V-Day gift suggestion was a pair of Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones. “Men adore these damn things,” she told me, “probably because they can’t hear their wives bitching at them while they’re wearing them.” A mere $300, ladies, to enable your S.O. to do what he already does so well—ignore you.

Another female friend I posed the “all-purpose male V-Day gift” question to pursed her lips, shook her head, and then said, “Food and sex.  Those are the only things I can think of.”

But that’s better perhaps than what fellow contributor Susannah offered up, which was “Do we still exchange gifts after 13 years of marriage?”  She never really answered the question exactly, but I’m guessing it was likely “no” after the tirade she gave me on men and flowers.

She did provide one likely suggestion though: “How about I don’t criticize him for 24 hours?”  A nice intangible gift that keeps on giving…at least for a day.  It would probably outlast a box of chocolates now that I think about it.

But still, I’ve not come any closer to fulfilling my quest.  Suggestions of super light kayak paddles, ATV outings, and super-duper hiking boots abound.  But we all know, as we’ve all been there, that we’ll purchase the wrong thing no matter how much research we engage in.  I tried for years to comprehend my former spouse’s hobbies in an effort to give the perfect gifts.  I’m pretty sure I failed every time.  I finally just gave up and stuck gift cards to Advance Auto and Bass Pro Shops in his Valentines. Not much thought going into that, but then exactly how much thought is going into the roses?  That’s if you even get roses…or a card.  I’ve gone plenty of years without either.

So maybe it is back to the old standby.  No, not the Victoria’s Secret gift card for him (though it will do in a pinch).  I’m talking sex.  As a friend of mine said with a shrug, “Sex is easy, but it’s always well-received.  I never get any complaints, and it’s the gift that gives back.”

Maybe so.  Some guys will do the laundry for it.  A few will even mow the grass.

And heck, don’t we have enough to worry about without having to come up with a V-Day gift he won’t return the very next day or stuff into his closet behind all those shirts you’ve given him over the years that really bring out his eyes but which he says are far too feminine?  (And since when is forest green a feminine color?)

But you know, there is some small and wicked part of me that just once would like to see men go through the retail gymnastics that we do for them.  How do they get off so easy?  Flowers, chocolate, a nice bottle of wine, sweet smelling lotion, a pretty necklace—and we smile and tell them how much we love their thoughtfulness.  Is it thoughtful?  How much thought did they put into it?  And maybe we are just too darn easy to please.  Um yeah, you read that correctly.  Women are very easy to please in the gift giving department, at least those who’ve been around the block a few times are.  We’ve decreased our expectations to the point that if a guy even remembers Valentine’s Day, much less gives us flowers, we think he’s king of the hill.

I’m not the only female though that longs to see them sweat as much as we do.

After much puzzling on this whole subject of what to buy the men in our lives, Sarah finally said we needed to start demanding more ourselves, give them a taste of what it’s like to search frantically for the gift that tells them that not only do we love them but we understand them, we get them.

Do they do this for us?

And then inspiration hit Sarah like a bolt of lightning from above, as she came up with a scenario for the women blighted by too much painstaking shopping at Brooktone and Cabella’s to try in an effort to give the men in our lives a taste of what we go through for love of them:

Do you have an iPod?  I think you should ask for an engraved one and ask him to make you a playlist that best reflects you and your relationship. Actually, get him to make several playlists that symbolize your time together….  Now that will get him thinking!  And doing something besides buying roses or chocolate…

Although I think you should ask for Shari’s Berries, too….

“He’s Not a Jerk, But He Is a Man”

It is a problem I often discuss with fellow contributor and mother Susannah Herrada—the dearth of material on this blog on motherhood.  We promise to cover this subject and do occasionally, but, as Susannah says, “Men and sex are so much more fun to talk about.”  I don’t know as “fun” is the appropriate word.  “Intriguing” might be a more accurate word and less likely to get me in dutch with the opposing gender than other descriptors that come to mind.

Not that I don’t like men.  I love them.  That’s the problem.

If I wasn’t so fond of them, I could avoid a lot of grief in this life.  Because it can be grief-inducing to love that which we do not understand.  If you’re a woman anyway.  I don’t think most men understand us either, but they don’t get very wound up about it.  They just shake their heads, shrug, and go treat their confusion with an alcoholic beverage or two.

I’m not sure at what point it was in my life that men really began to confuse me.  When I was a child, my dad was one of my fondest playmates, I was the only girl among a host of boys at my babysitter’s, and I loved LEGOs, Hot Wheels, and playing Soviets vs. Americans (as opposed to cowboys and Indians) with the boys.  I could leap off a brick wall, crawl through a ditch in a make-believe war zone, and take prisoners in a tomato cage with the best of them.  And when I hit high school, I found guys were much more interesting conversationalists than the typical adolescent girl who seemed to me far too wound up for my taste in spending the vast majority of her waking hours trying to figure out how to be attractive to the opposite sex when it seemed quite simple to me—just talk to them.  Having a great rack will only get you so far.  At some point you have to do something else besides look cute.

Or so I thought.

But somewhere after college and a couple of relationships that ended on sour notes for reasons I could not explain at the time and maybe after I had a baby, I started to lose my preference for men as friends.  It was almost as if, overnight, they became creatures who were completely out of touch with my reality and had absolutely no understanding of what I needed or wanted.

I found instead that in order to get what I required in the form of support and understanding, I needed to go to my women friends.  Because in the wake of the rush of teenage hormones and love gone wrong, the women had suddenly become smart again, and somehow the men I had so admired became a little bit stupid…at least in a few critical areas…one being human relationships.

They remain great consorts for debating whether or not the Fed is doing the right thing by keeping interest rates low or for discussing why we should care anymore about Newt Gingrich’s purported request for “open marriage” than we do about the stains on Monica Lewinsky’s blue dress.  Which sort of brings me to the point of this whole discussion.

And that is, are men really the jerks they so often appear to be?  Because while I really don’t give a crap who sleeps with whom or who is doing what on whose dress, the one thing that does bug me is when men lie.  Not just about sex but about all kinds of things.

When I suggested to a friend recently that I felt I was being lied to by a man, she responded somewhat glibly, “I’m not really sure if you can call it lying when they don’t really know they’re lying.”

You mean Bill Clinton really didn’t believe fellatio was sex?  And Newt Gingrich didn’t really realize he had no friends who could guarantee he did not make a request to his wife for open marriage?

Yep, on some level, that’s about right, ladies.  Their minds are a little bit different than ours.  Because as my friend went onto say, “They are lying to themselves, and they don’t really know it, so you can’t really get mad at them for lying to you.”

“Well,” I replied, still in a huff of discontent at some recent offense by a male friend, “I still think he’s a jerk.”

“No,” my friend rejoined, “he’s not a jerk, but he is a man.”

We women complain at length about this phenomenon of “being a man.”  We criticize their seeming contentedness with life as long as they have access to good food, warm beds, sufficient sleep, sufficient sex, a television, a drawer full or two of electronic gadgets, and a well-stocked liquor cabinet or fridge of beer, depending on which type of man you happen to choose.  But don’t we have some responsibility here?  I mean, we raised them.  Or our mother’s generation did anyway.  And then we went and married them, and if that isn’t an acknowledgment of acceptance, I don’t know what is.

Some of us can claim ignorance because we married young, back before we really understood what men were all about.  It’s like when you watch one of those reality TV shows on brides.  (Forgive me for not knowing the names of these things, but I don’t have a television, so I get a glimpse of popular culture only in hotel rooms.)  You’ll see the fresh and lovely 20-something bride, trying on her sequined, strapless gown, her mother arranging a veil over her delicate shoulders, and she oozes at the camera: “Jason is my best friend.  Marrying him is a dream come true.”

Yes, please hold the vomit if you can.

It’s not that I’m cynical.  I really do like men, especially the ones I don’t have to pick up after.  But I am a realist.  And I’m pretty certain if you ask any woman 35 and older if her husband is her best friend, she’ll give you a look of complete incredulity and say something like, “Are you kidding?  My 13-year-old daughter is a better friend than he is.”

And that’s because not only do mothers and society as a whole not train men to have the slightest idea how to be friends (Men’s idea of consolation in a crisis goes something like this, “Aw, that really sucks, Dave, that your wife walked out on you.  But hey, at least she won’t get after you about poker night anymore, huh?  So, how about a round of golf?  You up for it?”), their wives and girlfriends don’t give much attention to it either.  After we discover that the whole intensive listening, commiseration, hugging, and kissing away of tears that we experienced in the throes of early romance was all a grand ploy to get us between the sheets permanently, maybe with a few nice hot dinners thrown in, we become bitter and, well, give up.

We think these men are dreadful creatures for wanting no more from us than that and then for giving so little in return.

I’m loathe to report this, but we do bear some responsibility here, ladies.  Here’s a case in point: A male colleague of mine, after perusing this blog with some interest and not a little bit of offense, recounted to me how he was sitting in front of the TV one night watching the news while his wife folded laundry in the adjacent room.  After some time had passed, she called out, “How is it that I have folded four loads of laundry, and you are just sitting there watching TV?”

Not about to take this imbedded criticism sitting down, my male colleague retorted to his wife, “As I recall, when we first married and I helped with the laundry, you constantly criticized the way I did it until I just quit.”

Is this sounding familiar to any of you?

My disgruntled male colleague continued his story. “’I told her,’ he said, ‘do you want the laundry folded, or do you want it done your way?’” And he huffed a little at me, the surrogate demanding female, and said, “Because I’m just going to wad up my underwear.”

I’m listening to him all the while and nodding a bit.  I’m getting it.  I really am.

He’s not finished with his tirade against women though. “My wife irons the sheets,” he persists. “Who irons their sheets?!  She got that from her mother, but she’s way better than her mother. If she wasn’t, I wouldn’t have chosen her.”

And I find myself a little bit heartened by the seeming backhanded compliment he has given his beloved who does all the family’s laundry and carefully irons everyone’s bed linens. He loves her.  I heard it in his voice.  Nevermind that his wife has apparently not been through the ringer yet enough to do as a much more experienced friend of mine has done….

The friend to whom I am referring recently moved in with her fiancé.  And to her delight and surprise, she has discovered the man vacuums.  And he doesn’t just vacuum.  He vacuums without being asked to vacuum.  “The first time he turned on the vacuum cleaner,” she said, “my jaw dropped.”

Her jaw more than dropped actually.  She said the minute he began moving that sucker across the living room floor, she said to herself, I’m gonna marry that man.

Just between us, she admitted he doesn’t vacuum the way she would vacuum, if she indeed ever vacuumed, which she hasn’t because she’s always had a housekeeper, but the woman is no dummy.  She is keeping her lips carefully sealed, remembering to be thankful for the fact that “by god, the man has initiative” and who the hell cares if all he wants in return is sex and a steaming hot slice of lasagna?

Because that really is what it’s all about, isn’t it?  It’s not that we’re angry at men because all they want is food and sex (or whatever other seemingly simplistic pleasure it is). We’re angry at them because they don’t acknowledge what those needs actually represent—that sex is the only way they know how to relate to us in many instances, and our provision of a hot meal is how they know (whether they admit it or not) they are loved and cared for, and they need our emotional sustenance as much, if not more, than we need theirs.  (After all, their best buddy isn’t going to sit up with them all night and listen to them bemoan the loss of their mother, but we will…if they ask.  They probably won’t ask, at least not the way we would ask, but pay attention the next time your S.O. comes home from the most hellacious day at work ever.  And notice how it changes his mood entirely if you give him physical attention.  Deny it, and you have just verified, unintentionally most likely, that his boss is right—he is an idiot.)

It’s true they have a lot of trouble speaking our language.  But we are just as guilty of not speaking theirs.

This is not to say one should forgive the behavior of jerks.  Some men really are jerks and probably intend to be.  Like the guy I ran into on assignment not too long ago who began chatting with me at a cocktail party following a launch event.  We discovered to our mutual delight we both had wicked senses of humor, and I even forgave him for leaning into me a little too hard after he’d had a few drinks, particularly since it sounded as if, from his chit-chat, he’d been recently divorced and wasn’t quite over it.

However, I was to discover a few weeks later when he “friended” me on Facebook that yes, he was divorced all right, but also recently remarried, as in remarried four months before he started coming onto me in what I thought at the time was a relatively harmless gesture of flirting from a discarded man massaging his damaged ego.  No matter how I turned that one over in my head, the guy was a jerk.

But chances are actually reasonably good that the guy you’re with isn’t, at least not to the degree you think.  Give him a break, and let him wad up his underwear if he wants to.  And as for the guys, if you happen to be reading this, I’ll let you in on a secret a female colleague told me once: “The thing men don’t realize is that we’d forgive a lot more of their dirty socks on the floor, their muddy footprints across the porcelain tile, and the fact that they sit in front of the TV while we’re cooking dinner if they could just reignite the romance they spoiled us with before we married.”

The Five Types of Men…a Woman Needs

It started as these conversations often do—about half a dozen women (this time a gathering mostly of writers and editors) circled around a table, satiated from an over large dinner they never would have gulped down with such relish in front of their husbands and boyfriends, ever so perfectly relaxed after two glasses of wine each, some starting on the third. And while the topic of men can hardly be avoided at a table of women (men are one of our favorite subjects, you know), there is something especially dangerous about a table full of women writers accompanied by wine.

It began innocently enough.  The oldest among us, a talkative brunette from Alabama, mid-50s, was addressing the subject of the life changing effects of serious illness.  “When I had cancer, it was the first time in my life my husband really took care of me, really worried about me.” She paused, bit her lip.  “He was scared.  It was really nice.”

We were not shocked by this.  We nodded.  We understood exactly the phenomenon of the unappreciated wife, taken for granted like a La-Z-Boy recliner or Monday night football.  One among us asked, “How long have you been married?”

“30 years,” the Alabama writer replied.

Some of us gasped.

“It hasn’t been easy,” she went on.  “There were many times I thought of leaving him, just wanted to give up.”

“Then how did you stay married 30 years?” I asked, leaning in for her imminent wisdom.

“The way you avoid divorce for 30 years,” she said, “is to stay married.  It will eventually get better.”

Yes, I thought to myself, all you have to do is acquire some frightening and potentially fatal disease.  Then your husband will suddenly appreciate you.

“You know,” the middle-aged brunette continued a bit wistfully, “I always dreamed of having a man who would listen to my problems and be there for me.”

A couple of us shot her hard and disbelieving looks.  Really?  She’s over 50, and she still holds onto this pipe dream?

The outdoors editor from Mississippi with her deadpan, never crack a smile humor (if indeed it was humor) said suddenly and firmly, “The guy who will listen to your problems and be there for you—that’s your dad.”

We all nodded vigorously in agreement, and the ever hopeful cancer survivor looked a little bit disappointed, perhaps wondering if her husband’s newfound love and admiration would dissipate like her cancer cells after chemo.

One can’t be too critical of her, however.  Even the most experienced, cynical, and worn out wife among us cannot help but admit that occasionally we do dream of the perfect man. Why do housewives read Harlequin romances?  Why do the more worldly seek Jane Austen?  Because on some level, we still want to believe in those ridiculous fairytale romances of our youth, nevermind that every time my daughter tells me she wants to be Cinderella or Snow White, I cringe.

What we have to realize, however, ladies, is that the perfect man does not exist, at least not in one person.  But you have a couple of choices for addressing this problem.  You can accept that he does not exist and settle for one of the five or so types of men available, or you can complicate your life extremely (or maybe make it better—who knows?) by finding different men to fulfill your five different needs.

At the risk of over-generalizing (and I’m sure my male friends and colleagues will set me straight on this, as they always do), here’s what’s out there:

1)      The Man’s Man

The benefits: He can change the oil in your car, catch dinner with a fishing pole or shoot it, too, if need be (just in case the apocalypse comes), and he can carry all your luggage on vacation (though, be advised, because he is a “man’s man,” he will complain about it loudly). Whatever is broken, he can fix it (except your heart, I’m afraid to report).  And while he doesn’t do laundry, he’s a powerhouse at yard work, home repair, vehicle maintenance, and generally pretty good as well at holding his alcohol.

The drawbacks: Monday night football or some other equally annoying habit that leaves you wondering why he prefers pigskin to yours.  Rough hands and a complete lack of foreplay awareness.  Zero help around the house and substantial contributions to your workload—i.e., he drops double the number of stinky socks on the floor than the other four male types. He can boil water, but that’s about it when it comes to helping in the kitchen.  He’ll do dishes if you promise him “you know what” afterwards.

Advice from the experts: Don’t marry a man just because he can fix your car; you can always hire someone to do this.

2)      The Sugar Daddy

The benefits: If living in the lap of luxury is your highest priority, this is the man for you. He will give you everything your heart desires—a beautiful house, a luxury car, vacations to exotic and expensive destinations, all the clothes, jewelry, and shoes(!) you could desire. He will make you feel like a queen (albeit a lonely one).

The drawbacks: To finance all this luxury generally requires long hours, lots of traveling, and very little interaction with the life at home. He will be an absentee lover, husband, and father.

Advice from the experts: If you go this route, make sure you have a “rabbit” and/or a pool boy handy.

3)      The Helpmate

The benefits: On first glance, this guy seems like a dream come true.  He knows how to cook (in fact, he might even be a gourmet chef!), he does his own laundry and yours, too (and he even knows to wash your silk panties on the cold and delicate cycle).  He’ll help you clean the house, professing to be a true 21^st century kind of guy and a feminist to boot.  He’ll change diapers.  He’ll go to all the kids’ soccer games (and he won’t get in a fist fight with the opposing team’s head coach like the no. 1 variety might). In fact, he’s a major conflict avoider.  He avoids conflict with you; he avoids conflict with your mother; and he avoids conflict with the guy who just pinched your behind in the grocery store checkout line.

The drawbacks: If you want a guy who will clean the house, he’s perfect. If you want a guy who knows how to clean the clock of a rude offender, he’s not it.  And while you will love all the help around the house, you can only stand so much apron wearing before you start to feel like you just married your grandmother.

Advice from the experts: You’ll never have a dust bunny under the bed again, but who cares when you’re not doing anything in bed but sleeping?

4)      The Big Kid

The benefits: No doubt about it.  This is the most fun guy on the block.  He has a wild sense of humor, he kayaks, he skis, he loves snowball and pillow fights. And once you have kids, he’ll keep them entertained through the preparation of a five-course dinner, leaving you undisturbed in the kitchen.  He loves to please, loves to have fun, knows how to make you laugh when you’re completely sober, and has an uncanny understanding of what makes kids tick, which actually makes him a pretty great father.

The drawbacks: After awhile, you get tired of being the only adult in the house.

Advice from the experts: He’s loads of fun on vacation, but realize that when you have a late meeting, he thinks Cheeseburger in Paradise is a healthy option for dinner with the kids.

5)      The Lover

The benefits: This is the rarest breed of man, the one who knows how to talk to women (though the jury is out on whether he comes by this skill naturally or has acquired it as a result of experience, having grown up with six sisters and a domineering mother).  He knows exactly what to say to make you feel beautiful, sexy, loved, and admired, and he has equal skill in the physical manifestation of his admiration. He will stop at nothing to make you happy. (Be warned, however, many men put on a good show of being “the lover” in those early days of romance and pursuit; rare is the man who can sustain this personality type after the ring has been locked around your finger.)

The drawbacks: It’s very difficult to distinguish “the lover” from “the player” (which is one of several subcategories of “the jerk”—see below).

Advice from the experts: Proceed with caution. He can rock your world, but because he’s so darn good at it, you will live in a constant state of paranoia, wondering if, deep down, he’s actually “the player.”

Chances are, your S.O. is one of the above.  At least I hope he is.  Because there is a sixth type—“the jerk.”  The jerk comes in many forms, from the guy who expects to be waited on hand and foot as if he is Henry VIII with the wealth and power to attract six wives even after one has been beheaded, to the delusional “I’m a good man, and you damn well better respect me” type that plays computer games all day, ignores the kids, and only likes you because you make his life delightfully comfortable. (Yum, please pass some more of that butter coconut pie before I go take a 12-hour nap.)  If you happen to have “the jerk” in your midst, do a favor for womankind and dump him, please.

Your man, if you are lucky, might also be a combination of several of the above.  If he contains the characteristics of all five, you may actually have a woman on your hands.  Check his pants.

Because ultimately, if it’s a man you desire, you’re going to have to sacrifice something and stop envying your lesbian friends.  (In reality, their lives aren’t so great either.  Just stop and imagine for a moment what it would be like to live with a copy of yourself.)

Or, if you can figure out some way to do it that is legal, find five men who meet all of your needs.  Good luck with that one, by the way.  I think you’ll have better luck finding a pair of Manolo Blahniks on sale at the mall.

Sex and Chocolate: Why Variety and Frequency Really Do Matter

Here’s what woke me up in the middle of the night a few days ago.  Call it a dream, or a maybe a vision.  Heck, some men out there might go so far as to think it’s a message from above for all women.

Here’s how the tale unfolded:  Dressed in way too much tulle, I was standing at the altar, beaming at my husband-to-be.  Though the rest of the details were a bit fuzzy, the wrinkles, sagging, and cellulite which have encroached on my body over the past 13 years were all magically erased.  As I stood there radiating with every promise of the perfect life to come, I naively repeated the traditional wedding vows.  The strange thing was that this time, my wedding vows were a little different than I remembered from the first go-round.  There was a line inserted which went something like this: “And I promise to love, cherish, and eat only Hershey’s original chocolate bars for as long as we both shall live.”

Seemed odd.  Promising to devote myself to only one type of chocolate?  A bit restrictive perhaps?

It quickly dawned on me that with such vows, the only chocolate I’d be eating for the rest of my married life would be rectangular bars stamped with “Hershey’s.”  This strange vow dictated that no Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Snickers, or even a Hershey’s Kiss would pass my lips for the rest of my married days if I was to remain faithful to my husband.  And it went without saying that I’d have to abstain from my quest for the perfect square of dark chocolate.  No other brand or type of chocolate forever and ever, Amen.

That brief foray into an imaginary world was a bit disturbing to me.  I like chocolate.  I like different kinds of chocolate.  I experience a physiological response when I see chocolate.  My mouth waters when I smell warm chocolate chip cookies.  My eyes lustfully graze over the offerings of chocolate at the check-out, particularly at the better grocery stores which source a diverse selection of quality bars.   I even look forward to savoring a square of dark chocolate every morning.  No offense to Hershey’s, but the thought that I would be restricted to only a mediocre chocolate bar for the rest of my life seemed like quite a sacrifice.

Maybe I have a problem.  Then again, maybe at some level, it’s human nature to feel like that.

And now, I’ll take this opportunity to suggest that perhaps women’s connection to chocolate can provide a glimpse of what it’s like on the other side of the bed.  Albeit a weak analogy, I think there’s a little bit in here for all of us women.

Essentially, what your husband said when he stood at that altar was that he was going to eat only Hershey’s Bars for the rest of his life.  Perhaps you consider yourself more like a sassy Snickers bar or a sophisticated hand-painted artisan chocolate.  Either way, you get the point.  Eating only one type of candy for the rest of one’s life would get kind of monotonous.  Especially when he really likes chocolate and there’s a lot of chocolate out there.  Now whether or not he’d even have the chance to taste all that chocolate out there is another blog post altogether.  But back to the chocolate analogy– in some cases, adding to the depressing situation would be a strict frequency limitation: begrudging tastes only once or twice a month.

I’m no expert on men, but I imagine it’s not always easy for them to remain faithful.  It’s no secret that just like it’s more common for women to have eating disorders/body image distortion/weight gain, many men struggle with sexual issues at varying levels.  Even if he doesn’t act on his desires, lust is there nagging in his mind.  Just look at the wealthy and powerful.  Those men can write their own ticket in this department.  And look at what a mess they make.  Men who have remained faithful are akin to a woman who hasn’t gained an extra 15 pounds over her last 10 years of wedded bliss (eating too much chocolate, no doubt).  Therefore, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say that a woman’s food issues could be akin to a man’s sex drive.  From a survival of the species angle, this makes sense.  In most species, males procreate, sometimes with multiple females, while females are responsible for care and feeding of the young.  Sex for men.  Food for women.  Maybe we’re just not as evolved as we think we are.

Momentum, monogamy, and creativity are tough to keep up.  I’ve failed miserably at all of these at different points in my marriage. There are days that I don’t feel creative.  There are nights that I watch the elapsing clock in the wee small hours of the morning, wondering if we’ve got what it takes to keep going.  (Of course, starting those mornings with a good piece of dark chocolate does make it all seem a little easier.)

Finally, here’s a tricky one to put out there.

We have to put out a little more.  We’re all they’ve got.

You’re his Hershey’s bar.  And just like I eat chocolate on a pretty regular basis, he’d probably be glad for a bit more action.  An occasional reluctant nod in his direction is not enough.

I know—he doesn’t deserve it.  You’re annoyed that he made a snarky comment when you asked him to put his dirty socks in the basket, totally messed up your last anniversary and apologized only after you pitched a fit, worked late all week and then went to poker night, didn’t help put the kids to bed or bring the trash cans in.  And then when he did unload the dishwasher that one time, he expected his reward should be you on your knees thanking him.  There’s never a lack of legitimate reasons to say no.  And there are lots of blogs about men behaving badly and needing denial discipline.  Sometimes it’s the only behavior modification tool we have.  And it goes without saying that a woman should never put herself in a compromising situation where she’s disrespected, abused, or used.  But I’m not talking about dysfunctional, unhealthy relationships or about exhausted women who work full-time with three children under the age of four.

For the rest of us in stable, healthy relationships, I’m merely putting it out there that instead of examining sex as a pawn, a means of manipulation, or a punishment, realize we’re all in this together.

Maybe I’ve taken this whole analogy a bit too far, but it comes down to this: Men love sex.  Women love chocolate (or food in general).  Both are arguably biological drives.  I’m not suggesting that we all need to have sex on a trampoline (that actually came up in the conversation at about 11:30 p.m. one girls’ night with a few too many French Martinis).  And as it goes with chocolate, we don’t always need to be having peak culinary experiences.  (Though I’d never be one to rule out edible body chocolate if the opportunity arose).

My point is merely that we may all have a bit more in common than we realize.  Monotony and denial are our enemies.

Finally, if you made a terrible mistake and made your faithful promises to chocolate dipped sweet and sour gummy worms, Butterfingers, or those waxy white chocolate bunnies you can pick up for a dollar around Easter, my musings are null and void.  I’m so sorry.   It’ll take more than some high quality chocolate every day to solve your problems.

And to my single sisters—let this be a lesson to choose your candy wisely.  Consider an upfront, solid version with few artificial colors or flavors.   Look for honest packaging with clear labels so you know what you’re  getting.   Most importantly, make sure your candy is sourced in a way that aligns with your values and moral code and that it can adapt to a multitude of combinations, while remaining classic and steadfast for a lifetime.

How I found Room in my Life for his ‘Model-Upgrade’ Affair

To be a bit catty, I’m often shocked at who people pick as their lovers. You do have to wonder why someone like Peter Cook would cheat on Christie Brinkley. What were you thinking, Pete? You had the woman that every man (and, truth be told, quite a handful of woman) would put on the top of their ‘list.’ How is it that stars who are married to super models have affairs with frumpy women?

And let’s not discriminate here–women are just as guilty.  On our forays into the cheating hearts club, it’s not unusual for us to pick tubby men with receding hairlines.  They’re nice guys, of course, but lack a little in the looks department.

The reality is that the idea of the object of one’s lust always being a visual ‘model-upgrade’ is a deeply held myth, perpetuated by the big screen.  In Hollywood, the ‘other woman,’ whether prostitute, prom queen, or housewife, is always shamelessly hot.  But we all know in real life, we lie in bed at night with our partner, pondering a friend’s recent marriage demise, and admit to the darkness, “I can’t believe he wrecked his marriage to fool around with her.”

Obviously there’s more than physical appearance that motivates a philanderer.  Neglect, loss of a dream, being locked in an emotional wasteland, lack of appreciation….  Everyone can claim his or her own fill-in-the-blank rationale.  But since volumes have been written examining these less-than-superficial reasons, I’ll revel in the shallow red-light.  If you’re going to have an affair, don’t go for a fixer-upper when choosing a lover.

And this is where my story begins its twisted cord.  The wandering heart in my household took my advice and went for a ‘model upgrade.’

In my case, it was simply that unmet needs and building tensions undermined what was a previously pleasurable shared experience.  I remember how it used to be when my husband and I spent hours doing things together. Some of my fondest memories center around the adventures and misadventures of our road trips: reading West with the Night on a road trip to Maine, waking before dawn to skirt the I-95 traffic to Florida, a New Years’ trip to Asheville to camp in a snowstorm.

I think it’s the hours traveling together that have always been particularly special to me. I’d sit in the passenger seat, map on my lap, camera in hand, bag of snacks at my feet, and love in my heart. My number one job was to navigate, though I catered, photographed, and helped my husband to stay awake on those long, late night drives. I thought I was an all-around chipper travel companion, commenting on the scenery, anticipating our next stop, and reading informative quips from the travel book.

But as the years passed, things began to deteriorate. I joke that we have our best fights in the car, but it’s not always so funny. Though we also have our deepest talks in the car, we seem to have our most intense arguments, too, often tipped off by my navigational skills (or lack thereof). Although I’d like to blame him for his impatience or pin ‘fear of making mistakes’ on his psyche, I know that I have a severe deficiency in ‘map reading.’

It starts out simply. He asks me something like, “Is this our exit?”

I answer, “I think so.”

He retorts, “Are you sure?”

I start to panic, as we have a few hundred feet left, and say “Yeah, take it, on the right. Take it. I think that’s it. Just take it.”

He says, “What? You ‘think.’ What exit number were we supposed to get off on?”

The exit passes; we miss it. I tell him he doesn’t listen to me. I confirm that it was the correct exit. He says I didn’t seem like I was sure. Then I spiral down to tangentially pinning every emotion, insecurity, and quibble we’ve ever had in our marriage to this one interchange. For the next hour, I go on and on and end in a hyperventilating mess, forcing me to completely re-do my make-up before we knock on the door of his roommate from school that we’ve been driving in the car for seven hours to see.

Perhaps I have conjured up a bit of sympathy for him at this point.  No wonder he looked other places to get his needs met.  Who wouldn’t–married to a catastrophizing woman like me.  I would drive anyone crazy.   I will be the first to admit that we all, including me, have space for improvement.  Nonetheless, like any wife will say, I was still shocked to find him in the company of another.

And here continues the sad tale of how it all crumbled in my hands.  How he showed complete disregard for my feelings, practically flaunting her in my face.  It was as if he wanted to get caught. As I came out to the car one day, I could see her silhouette through the front windshield. She was trim and, well, obviously well-endowed. Not being one to go down without a fight, I confronted the situation.

I was immediately struck by how sexy her voice was. Even in an awkward situation such as this, she maintained a steady, confident voice. It was as if she was completely unthreatened by me, knowing she had nothing to prove. Her quiet calm was in great contrast to my escalating panic.

My husband said his friend Peter had a woman like her that spoke to him in French. I merely raised my eyebrow at this. As if Peter’s behavior would excuse my husband’s cheating heart.

After a snarky comment, I went back into the house, making sure the front door slammed. I felt old, worn out, and replaced. As you can imagine, lots of soul searching occurred.  As time went on though, I began to think about the situation in a more level-headed manner. I like to think of myself as a relatively progressive woman and recognize that I am not able to meet all of my husband’s needs. Though you may not agree with me, I resigned my initial fury and told him that there may be room for all of us in this marriage.

Blame it on the prevalence of shows like Big Love, but I was ready to find space for this other woman (and her sultry voice) in our lives. I soon could see why he had such an attraction to her. She was confident without being bossy.  She never cowered to a mumble when being challenged.  And she maintained a rare quality in a woman:  even when it was obvious that no one was taking her advice, she  refrained from escalating her tone to a painfully squeaky pitch, as she repeated herself for the third time.   She was an endless font of patient information.

And even better, she is amazingly low-maintenance.  Not only is she willing to hang on the windshield for hours with a mere suction cup, but she considerately displays a polite warning if she’s running low on energy.  Now how’s that for an unusual quality in a woman?

Now she goes with us everywhere.  Whether we’re fearlessly flying down Route 66 or meandering through narrow streets in Arcos de la Frontera in Spain, we always include her in our plans.  And our marriage is actually better for having her as a part of it.  Although we struggle in many ways to keep technology from overwhelming our lives—too much TV, texting at the dinner table, cell phone calls on date night—we’ve found that relieving me of my navigational duties has freed us to find more joy in the journey.  I can’t meet all of my husband’s needs, as it would be foolhardy to expect him to meet all of mine. Where we fall short, we can always depend on friends, a bit of wine, and a ‘model up-grade’ now and again.

And I’m not threatened in the least by her trim figure or confident voice.

After all, she sleeps in the glovebox.  I’ve still got the bed….

 

Dance Halls and Cat Calls: The Art(?) of Male Communication

Being a good seven years removed from the dating scene, I am perhaps not the woman most suited to commenting on how men communicate with women. After all, once you are married, you’re lucky if you get a couple of grunts of affirmation at the dinner table or a passing glance if you walk through the living room with no clothes on. It’s not a lot to go on for figuring out what the man in your life is thinking…though he will claim, if asked directly, that he’s thinking nothing at all.

But that’s doubtful. While the figure has been thrown out there that men think about sex an average of every seven seconds, recent research has shown that’s just urban myth. Men only think about sex an average of 19 times per day. The rest of the time they’re thinking about food and sleep (but sex still tops the list).

So perhaps it’s true men are simpler creatures than we are when it comes to what’s going on with the gray matter, but still, do you ever wonder just what the heck they want? Because if it’s just to get between the sheets, they have an often complicated (and sometimes downright stupid) way of going about it.

A couple of recent trips seem to prove my point because there is nothing to put a woman in the crosshairs of male notice faster than traveling sans male escort. One gets winked at by waiters, kissed by cowboys, and cat called by British subjects at train stations. Is all of this some form of expressing a desire to take a roll in the hay, or is it just a ploy for bigger tips?

If you know, please weigh in…because I’m still trying to figure it out. And sometimes even more intriguing than trying to determine just what it is the guys are after is trying to figure out what it is they don’t understand about the very blunt art of female extrication.

Here’s a case in point: While a girlfriend and I were traveling in Venice, we experienced a fair share of “Mama Mia!” and “Hey baby!” while walking the streets after dark, but it was not until we sat down to enjoy some live music and gelato at a restaurant in St. Mark’s Square that things became really interesting. Just as we were about to leave, an overly jovial middle-aged Italian male came out of nowhere, and he and his more sober companion began begging us to stay for drinks. We politely declined and began gathering our coats.

“No, no, stay!” he says in remarkably good English.

“I’m married,” my friend says quickly.

“Me, too!” exclaims the accosting Italian as if he has just discovered, with delight, that the both of them play golf.

“I have to go,” she says. “I need to call my husband.”

“Let me call him for you!” he bellows undeterred, and then he grabs her around the shoulders, plants a kiss on her cheek, and my friend begins a disentanglement attempt that looks shockingly like Penelope Pussycat trying to escape the embrace of Pepé Le Pew.

“Check, please!” I cry to the waiter, slapping down a handful of Euros, grabbing my friend by the hand, and hurrying out into the streets, where we begin a brisk walk to the water taxi that will take us, along with a wide array of drunken consorts, back to our accommodations. As an American college student heaves over the side of the boat, my friend turns to me and says, “What was that all about? Did he really think that kind of aggressive behavior was attractive?”

I shake my head, “He was drunk.”

But that still doesn’t answer the question of what the man wanted ultimately—a drink with a pretty young American? A one-night stand? A few minutes of Tom-foolery? A shot in the arm of his deflated middle-aged ego?

Some men are more subtle and, in some ways, even more difficult to decipher. While in one of Nashville’s honky tonks on assignment last week, I had no qualms about dancing with anyone who asked. After all, I love to two-step, and my husband is tone-deaf, has two left feet, and wouldn’t be caught on the dance floor if his life depended on it. A woman does what she has to do.

An older gentleman in a beige Stetson and camel-colored leather jacket approached me gallantly toward the end of the evening and said, “My dear, would you do me the honor of dancing with me? I have to go home to Oregon tomorrow, and it would make my night if you would dance with me.”

Well, that’s almost like making a last request before final unction, so, of course, I agreed. But I wasn’t in his arms more than a few seconds before he pulled me as close as if I was his dearest love and had been for years and years. There was no graceful extrication from this tight embrace, so I endured it, grateful there was no rousing in the gentleman’s nether regions, and let myself be twirled around the dance floor for the length of a gratefully short song.

When it was over, he hugged me close, kissed me hard on the cheek, took both my hands in his and thanked me profusely. Then away he went.

What was that?

And what did it mean when the tall and handsome cowboy from the Netherlands who stood near me and chatted on multiple different occasions only inches from the dance floor declined to ask me to dance? And then when I finally asked him if Dutch boys didn’t dance, he grudgingly obliged me on the dance floor with an anxious grin as I made a vain attempt to teach him the two-step. When it was all over, he gave me the obligatory “cowboy kiss” and never danced again with anyone the rest of the night, myself included. It was obvious dancing was not his forté, but did he really think there was any chance of picking up a girl in a Nashville honky tonk while standing on the sidelines with a beer?

All of this leads me to the question not just of what do men want (even though researchers claim it’s mainly sex, food, and sleep) to do they even know how to get it? And I’m afraid, ladies, the answer is a resounding “no.” They have not the slightest clue and are willing to stare opportunity smack in the face and screw it up or turn it down, leaving women struggling to understand.

Because we will struggle. Unlike men, we won’t walk away and shrug and figure it was never meant to be. No, as my oldest friend pointed out to me last night as we sat awake talking, “We decide to punish them for their infractions by not returning their calls or e-mails, and they think nothing of it. We lie awake stewing while they sleep peacefully and clueless.”

And then when we break up with them, they are surprised. They have no idea anything was wrong, oblivious to the mixed messages they have been sending—their expressions of desire and then their pulling back from it—intent only, apparently, on what’s for dinner, when they get to sleep, and whether or not they’ll get sex the next day.

And we envy their simple-mindedness at first, wishing we ourselves could be satisfied with so little. Until we remember, of course, how tragic it would be to stand on the sidelines of life with a beer for company, to never dance again, as many times as we possibly can, to every song the band is willing to play, before the dance hall closes for good.

“Your Eyes Don’t Look Bloodshot From Here”: The Truth About Female Patience

There is a fair amount of misinformation out there about the female capacity for understanding and patience. Somehow we have become known, even among ourselves, for our willingness to lend a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on, and a plethora of sound advice on everything from birth control to how to handle mothers-in-law. But all things have their limits, including female patience.

What exactly does a woman do when she has reached her wit’s end when it comes to offering consolation? Well, she starts acting like a man.  No kidding.

Ever notice how when a guy is down the first thing his buddies do is offer him a beer?  Why women don’t start with this logical step, I’m not sure.  We tend to use it as a last resort, as if the consumption of alcoholic beverages is only for the completely disconsolate, those too far gone for reason, reassurance, or even hope. 

And perhaps that’s why I’m a bit reluctant to admit that I was offered the alcoholic beverage ticket last night.  Just how far gone was I?  Well, what kind of person devolves into a fit of crying while sitting on an expansive deck overlooking blue fjords plunging into the Adriatic Sea while on a cruise a world away from work, spouse, and children? 

Yes, my point exactly—a very far gone one. 

It was my friend, Dorothy (a contributor to this blog), who was the victim of my sudden onset of despair, and after repeated attempts to console me with hugs, commiseration, reasoning, and even cheesecake, she finally threw up her hands and said firmly, “We’re going out to get drinks.” 

“No,” I said, “I can’t. I look like hell.  My eyes are bloodshot, my hair is a mess, and I’m dressed for hiking, not going out.”

She gave me her cool blue-eyed look of death and said dismissively from her position across the room, “Your eyes don’t look bloodshot from here.”  And then she launched her attack even further, reminding me that the cruise ship’s late night entertainment included a guest trumpet player fromAustralia—hard to resist since my first crush was a trumpet player. (And trumpet players can kiss, too, not that I had any intention of kissing the Australian trumpeter—he was twice my age.) 

But she coaxed me to do what Susannah (another contributor here) always advises—“if you can manage nothing else, at least put on some mascara and lipstick, for heaven’s sake.”

So I did, as Dorothy instructed me firmly on the agenda for the wee hours. “We’re going to get drinks, and then we’re going to the show,” she said. “And if you start crying again in the middle of the show, I’m going to dump my drink on your head.”

Enough said.  Nobody wants to walk around smelling like a martini.

And the truth is, the whole plan kind of worked.  I hate to admit it, but I think the guys are onto something.  Because after you’ve had three margaritas and watched aghast as a 70-year-old trumpet player unbuttons his tuxedo shirt, pretending he’s Julio Iglesias when it’s obvious he hasn’t worked out in at least 40 years, you start to feel better.

I’ve never been one to advocate the use of controlled substances to soothe away pain, but they can be a proper band-aid at times when the point is just to get through the next hour, the next day, the next moment until things turn around, and you’ve had enough sleep, sustenance, and exercise to face your fears without freaking out.

So hat’s off to the men for knowing, better than we, apparently, how to shortcut the blues. Though it’s true denial is not a river inEgypt, it’s a handy tool when life gets to be a little bit overwhelming. One should always take the truth in small doses for best results.

What else do the guys know that we don’t?  Well, based on the ever decreasing neatness of our cruise ship cabin, I’d say we’re also learning the male art of not getting too hung up on disarray either.  I knew the degree to which we had finally devolved when I picked up a pair of black socks from the floor (no small feat when lit to full tipsy following a three for one cocktail offer at the bar), tossed them to Dorothy, and said, “Are these yours?”

In true male fashion, she looked at them briefly, nodded her head and said, “I wonder if they are clean or dirty.”  Hold to nose: sniff, sniff. “Yeah, I think I can get another day out of them.”  Toss back onto floor.

Can’t blame her.  I’m rather sick of washing socks, bras, and panties in the bathroom sink myself, particularly since the stateroom attendant has a mildly disturbing habit of collecting the clothes lying about the room and displaying them in an alluring manner on the bed at night for evening turndown.  Maybe he’s hoping for a big tip.

As for me, I’m hoping to learn whether or not the male denial and avoidance tactics work for the long haul. I’m thinking not, at least not where the female brain is concerned.  We’re hardwired to face reality full on, stinky socks and all.