Resisting the Beast Is Hard: First You Have to Acknowledge There Is One

My daughters with Princess Belle

When my daughters were small, we’d play the princess game.  I’d make up little quizzes about each Disney princess and they would guess which princess belonged with which trait. I also played this game with Goddesses—but that’s another story.

I always told them that Belle from Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast” was my favorite for two reasons—she loves books and she sees the beast for who he really is. And hey, it worked out for Belle, didn’t it?

I think a lot about myth, story, and fairytale. My girls and I never miss an episode of “Once Upon A Time,” which is a modern-day mash-up of fairy tales. I also loved the “Beauty and the Beast” show that was popular in the 1980s. The “beast” lives beneath the streets of New York City in this fabulous underground space full of books and antiques. So romantic. He was another beast that had that softness underneath him.

I love that kind of man—sort of rough and bristly on the outside, but a real sweetheart underneath. Part of the deliciousness of a relationship with this kind of man is that very few people know him like you do. My own husband is kind of like this. There’s something about a man who is confident, in-charge, and knows what he wants—and feels good about taking it.

But the danger in falling for a beast type, of course, is that sometimes a beast is just a beast.

Which leads to the arduous trial of trying to separate the real beasts from the crusty on the outside but soft on the inside ones.

So much of that can mean years of sorting through our own personal mythologies where we tell ourselves things like “boys will be boys,” (or Goddess forbid) “If I give him one more chance, I know he won’t drink/cheat/hit me again.”  These are the kinds of beasts that deserve no second glimpses. Maybe someday he will change, but probably not, and who has time  for that crap?

Move on, sister.

On the other hand, a cool part of the story is that Belle overlooks the beast’s horrific face to see him for who he is. And this is a great lesson. I can point out several men that I’ve been attracted to immediately; then they start talking and reveal they are sexist or stupid, and suddenly the attraction is gone. I’ve had it work the other way, too, where an attraction grows as I get to know someone. This is definitely, for me, the best way.

So as the mother of two daughters who love story, I use the “Beauty and the Beast” story sometimes in my parenting. My oldest daughter is almost fifteen, and she flits from crush to crush and boy to boy. But every once in awhile, a boy comes along that she falls hard for—and most of the time, he’s more of the “beast” variety.

For example, her current crush is a high school senior. (She is a freshmen.) One minute he seems to be leading her on, the next minute he acts like a jerk. Of course, I took the opportunity to point out that, first of all, he’s too old for her. Secondly, whether he really likes her or not is not her problem. You judge people on how they treat you. Period. Okay, he’s basically a kid and maybe a bit confused himself. I get that. But his confusion is not my daughter’s problem. She needs to believe that.

I also took the opportunity to point out that he may be very cute on the outside, but may be a beast on the inside. It’s so hard to see people for who they really are. In truth, I still struggle with this in my own life. I wish I could see my own friends, colleagues and so on as clearly as I can see hers. The cute guy on the outside really will do nobody any good if the inside is beastly.

Sounds very simple doesn’t it? But the truth of the matter is we are emotional creatures, responding to attractions on base levels at times. I’ve made those mistakes where I don’t listen to the voice in my head, but instead I follow the more fun lusty voice that made me feel sexy, even for just one night. Or two. Hell, maybe even more than a few years. “He’s not really as bad as he seems.” Or “I will be the one who can save him.” It never led me to a good place.

I’m not exactly Belle, who ended up living in a castle with a prince—most of us are not. And while I find myself wanting to sharpen my swords and cut down the beasts in my daughter’s lives, I know it’s futile. They will each have to find their own way, learn their own lessons of the heart and body. I can advise, but mostly, I will have to watch from the sidelines, open mind, open heart, open arms.

But I’ll keep my swords nice and sharp—albeit tucked behind my back. You never know when there might be a real beast to take down.

One is Not Enough: Why Men Cheat

With all the drama surrounding politicians and celebrities who cheat, one might gain the impression that cheating is pretty pervasive. And it is. Psychologists estimate that more than 40 percent of all married relationships have at least one partner sneaking out on the other. That number jumps to over 50 percent for non-married committed relationships.

Don’t misinterpret this as a judgment call. I honestly couldn’t care less if Bill Clinton came on Monica Lewinsky’s blue dress, if Anthony Weiner sexted sexually explicit photos to young women, and whether or not Tiger Woods needs more than a Swedish blond to keep him satisfied. To each his own.

But I do wonder a little about something…and that is, why seemingly perfectly decent men in seemingly perfectly happy relationships cheat on their wives and girlfriends. Not that women don’t cheat, too. They do. Some estimate that as many women are cheating as men. And it may be true.

This may draw some flak from female readers, but I actually can understand, if not necessarily condone, a man who cheats on a partner because she’s no longer having sex with him or the relationship has staled to the point that neither party takes much genuine interest in the other any longer. The right thing to do would be to get a divorce or break up, but statistics also show that men are pretty complacent. Under a third of divorces are initiated by them. Much easier to cheat. You don’t have to pay alimony or child support or risk not having a warm body to come home to at night.

What baffles me, however, is how so many men married to or in long-term partnerships with beautiful, charming, and generous women who intellectually, emotionally, and sexually thrill them still feel compelled to step out. As a rule, a woman will be utterly devoted to a man who satisfies her on all these levels…so incredibly rare is the find.

A friend of mine whose long-term partner cheated on her repeatedly, says, “Once a man discovers that more than one woman finds him attractive, it becomes like a drug. He just wants more and more.” Even, ladies, if it might cost him the fantastic woman waiting at home in his bed. (Because remember a lot of women, unlike most men, will leave a dead-end or troublesome relationship…or a man who cheats on them. Women aren’t as inclined to “settle” as their male counterparts.)

So what’s up with the male compulsion to constantly scope for greener or just different pastures?

Some anthropologists will argue it’s basic biology, that humans aren’t actually wired to be monogamous. Some psychologists will call it sexual addiction. I’d like to call it something far simpler, however: an easy ego boost.

Who doesn’t like to be admired by the opposite sex? I won’t lie. I like the fact that perfect strangers will open doors for me, lift my luggage into overhead compartments on airplanes, or give me free drinks just because they think, in that particular moment, I look pretty hot. It reminds me I’ve still got it and, to be quite honest, gives me greater confidence with the man on whom I have exclusively placed my affections if I’m in a relationship.

But I can’t say as I have a compelling desire to jump the bones of the mixologist who gives me a complimentary glass of his latest concoction or the random guy in tango class who offers to give me a private lesson in the figure 8. I smile, soak up the ego boost, and go home.

A fair number of men, however, push the envelope on female attention and go as far as the attending party will allow if they feel they have a good chance of getting away with it. (Though admittedly, the “getting away with it” concern often doesn’t enter their heads till after the deed is done anyway.)

But the sad truth is just about every man with whom I’ve been in a semi-serious to serious relationship, save my ex-husband (so far as I know anyway), has cheated on me in some form or another, whether emotionally or physically. And I’d say more than half of my female friends and acquaintances and their female friends and acquaintances have had similar experiences. And I know some of these women are far from duds in the bedroom, on the dance floor, or at a cocktail party. They shimmer with life, and intelligence, and confident sexuality. Yet…the men in their lives still cheat….

A friend of mine explains it this way: “Men go through this thing where they need to feel validated by other women even if they don’t care about those women.”

She has a point. And I, like a lot of women, have been both the “cared about” woman whose romantic partner is off “validating” himself as well as the one doing the validating for the man.

Neither position is one any woman wants to be in, trust me. Because a man who is feeling a need to sow his wild oats is not a man who has your emotions in his line of sight. It’s not that he wants to hurt you. He just doesn’t consider the implications of his actions on people with feelings—i.e. the women who have made the mistake of caring for him.

Unfortunately, all too many men have competing desires of wishing for the stability and security of a long-term relationship while also wanting the excitement of painting the town red every weekend…with a different woman each night. Too often they try to have both…at the same time.

Of course, I realize nothing here so far is providing you any insight on how to prevent that man in your life from cheating. The reality is, I’m afraid, you can’t prevent it if it’s something he is prone to do or is in a place in his life where he feels compelled to do it. It just isn’t in the average guy’s mental makeup to consider long-term, widespread implications of actions outside the boardroom. They are compartmentalizers. They really do believe they can do A without affecting B.

It’s the old “have your cake and eat it, too” scenario. Of course, we all know how that usually works out. And the guy who is running around validating himself will learn how it works out, too, but usually only after he’s lost everything he didn’t realize he valued.

Why I’ll Never Leave My Husband…and How Hardship Can Strengthen Marriage

Jorge and I caught in an early spring snowstorm in Cappadocia, Turkey

My husband and I are at the divorce-affair-midlife crisis stage. Not for ourselves (fingers crossed) but for what feels like way too many people around us.

I won’t pretend to know what each couple that split is dealing with, and I don’t really know how bad it can be, how deep the cuts can go, how emotional neglect and ambivalence can sear the soul, and how words and deeds can cause such fragmentation. But as anyone who’s been hitched for more than ten minutes knows, marriage is a process, a long journey not meant for the faint of heart–some days it’s a summit with a breathtaking vista, and other days it feels more like a jagged, treacherous rock scramble.

After more than 15 years of wedded bliss (wink, wink), I do have weeks or months where I feel like we’ve hit a rocky path, a rut, or at best, a relationship plateau.

Sometimes I wonder what keeps us going.

Honestly, we both can be kind of oblivious, living our lives of kids and work, on-demand TV, and Facebook. What snaps us out of it?

The strange thing is that it often takes a bit of hardship, sprinkled with emotional angst, and peppered with the ‘laugh or sob’ hysterics (‘hysterics’ all mine) that get us out of the rut or off the precipice. These so-called ‘hardships’ work to fill in the cracks and smooth over the ruts of what was once a blindly hopeful relationship. We struggle through, and in the end, we are a little closer, a bit stronger, and a lot more deeply rooted.

Where do we find these experiences?

As much as I hate to admit it, it’s not during the constructed date nights and pampered getaway weekends that we grow closer. Instead, it’s in the challenging experiences that we learn to really see each other again and remember the days when we were so stricken with love that we were able to think of little else but each other.

Maybe that’s why we love traveling so much. Traveling provides a crucible for relationship testing. It puts us outside the everyday experiences of the “go to work, do errands, keep the kids from bickering” lifestyle. On the road, as we figure out how to get from point A to point B, when, where and how to eat, keep hydrated, where to sleep, and who to meet, we get to see each other’s strengths (and weaknesses) in a new light.

Many of the best stories are a bit adventurous and hint at danger:  hitchhiking in a blizzard in Hveragerei, the eight-hour cliff-edge ‘hike of death’ in Phuket, shady men in suits plying us with drinks in Istanbul, paperclip door locks on rooftop shacks in Jerusalem, the finger-snipped Japanese Mafia man in Hokkaido. 

It’s the retelling of these travel stories of struggle, frustration, and success (or at least some level of completion/survival) that maintains that awareness of one another that once came so easily as newlyweds. They help remind us what each of us brings to the table when it comes to the smooth functioning of our marriage and family.

Adding kids to the mix, our story list goes on and continues to grow, though generally with slightly less real danger. But just the same, like a butterfly unable to survive without the death-defying fight out of its chrysalis, the clarifying power of these ‘uncomfortable at the time’ struggles are essential to our survival as a couple.

This past summer when we were traveling through Central America for nine weeks with our kids, we noticed a distinct pattern that whenever we were at a more luxurious hotel or an all-inclusive resort, Dylan and Abigail were at each other’s throats. Sit them for four hours, three or four to a seat, on an un-air-conditioned chicken bus where the location of their next meal remained questionable, stops seemed to occur randomly along the road, and the evening’s accommodations were still up in the air, and the kids worked together like a well-oiled machine. They discovered power in teaming up to achieve a common goal, particularly given the numerous times their non-Spanish speaking parents had to rely on them to communicate with strangers.

Maybe Antoine de Saint-Exupéry said it best: “Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.”

Gazing intensely at each other, as new lovers often do, eventually leads to uncovering glaring faults and inevitable dissatisfactions in one another. After all, no one is perfect, regardless of how exceptionally they present themselves initially.

Looking out in the same direction though and focusing together on a goal helps avoid this pitfall.

So Jorge and I look at the map, stick in pins, and plan our next escapade—making sure to leave room for a bit of hardship.

Together, hell or high water, we make our way, take risks, and make the memories-turned-family legends that remind us to keep the focus on how we work together, not how we fall apart.

And then we wearily come home and look at pictures, and write, and tell and retell stories. We laugh and shudder at our recklessness and sometimes even glimpse the hand of God in our survival.

Most importantly, we take a step closer to each other in this combined journey of discovery, love, and struggle, all the while having one foot out the door toward our next odyssey.

The Truth About Lying

A friend prompted me to write this post. A few days ago when he was asking for my insight on why his girlfriend was acting the way she was and wondering if all his distress was really just stemming from his own baggage, he said, “By the way, can you write a blog post about lying?”

“Well, heck yeah,” I responded.

I can’t imagine there are too many people who know as much about lying as I do. Not because I’m into lying myself. I’ve never been very good at it. I think perhaps that’s why my women friends don’t take me shopping very much because when they’re standing in front of a three-way mirror, asking, “Does this dress make my rear-end look like a stagecoach?”….well, I’m gonna tell the truth.

I know a lot about lying because I’ve been lied to a lot…mostly by men. So it was a strange thing to have a male friend ask me to talk about lying in relationships. I kind of thought lying was the territory of men. I have an encyclopedia full of stories about men who lie, men I’ve loved and trusted and men my women friends have loved and trusted, too. Like the guy who told his wife he was going to be home late because he’d be out cutting hay till dark. What he failed to mention was that after he’d cut the hay he’d be rolling in it, too…with a woman not his wife.

But lying isn’t just the purview of men. Everybody’s doing it. So much so that when my aforementioned friend and I were competing on an emotional baggage weigh-in, lies told by exes was the dead weight taking both our scales to the ground.

So what’s up with all the lying, and why do people do it, particularly in romantic relationships?

I’m probably not the best person to answer that question given that I’m actually notorious for brutal honesty. (If this blog isn’t a testament to that, I don’t know what is.) I have frequently and injudiciously told the truth far too many times, and I’ll often take the measure of a date based on whether or not he can handle it. It might shock you to know that many a man will freak when you honestly tell him he’s handsome. Maybe this sets up expectations for routine shaving of the five o’clock shadow or regular changing of the underwear. I don’t know….

But what I do know about lying is this: it’s usually committed by people who are reluctant to live in reality. No surprise there, huh?

So when my friend told me he felt “emotionally compromised” by all the baggage he carried from women lying to him, I had to make a correction. The people who are emotionally compromised are the ones telling the tall tales. They are incapable of dealing with reality, so they lie in an effort to avoid it and create “realities” they can cope with.

Allow me to give an example….

Once upon a time, I knew a man so polished in the art of deception that he had almost convinced himself the person he was pretending to be was, in fact, real. He was that good. He could lie to himself and believe the lie. Hence, when he lied to his family and friends, he was highly convincing. No liar is better than the liar who can convince himself. The man was so unhappy in his reality that he created an alternate universe where he was a kind and attentive romantic partner, a brave and committed man, a considerate and passionate lover. And that is the universe he escaped to when reality was too much for him.

The result?

His disconnection from himself and his true reality was so great that one day when his wife was sitting across the table from his ex-lover in a restaurant, holding her hand while the two cried together, he texted his spouse, completely disconnected from what was really happening, “Honey, when you’re on your way home, can you pick up cat litter?”

Little did he know reality was about to hit him hard and square in the face…along with the cat litter delivery.

Hence my sometimes frightening dedication to truth. Truth can hurt. Truth can piss you off, as Scott Peck says. But truth is freeing. It allows you to live in a world where people love you for who you really are, not for some absurd façade you create.

And if you find yourself in the company of someone who can’t cope with truth, beware. These are the types who “need a break,” when caught in a lie, want “baggage-free” relationships, and who ignore your communications for three days after you’ve made some reality-inducing gesture.

Watch out for these Mr. or Mrs. Containment types. They’re the ones struggling with both hands to plug up all the holes where they feel like shit is coming out…or might come out. If they can’t deal with your baggage, chances are damn good they can’t deal with their own either. And trust me, the last thing you want in your life, no matter how gorgeous she is or how charmingly he behaves, is someone who lacks coping skills. Because they’re usually the first ones to lie…in a desperate effort to save themselves, not you, when they think the ship is sinking.

Watching for the Proverbial Red Flags and What I’ve Learned from Dating Crazy Men

“The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them.” –Maya Angelou

It would be a mild statement to say I’ve been burned in relationships. The fact that one of my girlfriends suggested the other evening that she ought to head up a committee for screening my dates is testament to this fact. Over the course of my two decades of adulthood, I’ve dated, lived with, or been married to men suffering from chronic depression, borderline personality disorder, compulsive lying tendencies, and codependency.

Someone once asked me, “Do you attract crazy men, or do they become crazy after being with you?” Actually, it was one of the men I dated who asked me. (He later turned out to be codependent and a liar.)

I was not offended. It is a question I have often asked myself.

You would think a writer trained in English literature, historical research, and psychological maneuvering would be better at choosing partners. I know how to tell if a subject I’m interviewing is lying. I know how to discern from body language and eye contact if someone is nervous, afraid, or stressed. So why is it I have missed critical red flags in my relationships with men?

Well, I haven’t exactly missed them. Let’s just say I’ve offered one too many second chances. Like who gives a guy who gets up and leaves after he’s “satisfied,” even when you’re not, a chance at another meeting? Who gets in a relationship with the same man twice expecting things to be different on round two? And who lets a man who has proved himself a coward back into her life on a promise of brave commitment?

Um, yeah, me. Guilty as charged. Crazy shit doesn’t just happen in the movies. My life is proof.

And yes, I’ve read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Maybe I need to read it again.

I believe it was Oprah Winfrey who said you will have to keep repeating the same life lesson over and over again until you learn it. I hope I’m ready to learn it this time—learn that the day a man (or anyone for that matter) shows me who he is to believe him and run like hell while I still can if I’m not immediately impressed by the showing.

I can still hear myself saying to the man I believed to be the love of my life, “You are a selfish coward” well into a doomed relationship I had resolved to end. A few months after the ending, I had taken him back on a promise of courage even though I had apparently already decided courage was not in his skill set.

Can someone please bring the cast iron skillet into the room and hit me over the head with it?

Yes, I’m into self-abuse these days. But the reality is I’m real, for better or worse, and forgiveness is part of who I am. I don’t like to expend a lot of energy holding grudges, particularly not against people I love. If you want me to really, really loathe you, it’s going to take some work…. And yes, there have been a couple of people who have accomplished it, but I wouldn’t recommend joining their club. (I do exercise the power of the pen, you know, combined with ample access to the public forum. I’m just sayin’.)

In the meantime, I’m trying not to scare off potential romantic interests by seeing red flags where there are none. A guy said to me recently, “I noticed you’re a little sensitive” after I asked him for the seventh time or so if he was okay when I perceived a distant attitude as a sign of disinterest instead of what it really was—seasickness and a concentrated attempt not to vomit in a rocking boat.

There is definitely a delicate balance to walk between listening to your gut and following your heart. Hearts are prone to flutters of fancy even when your large intestine is telling you that butterfly looks more like a moth ready to dive into a flame.

Sometimes the answer to whether or not this or that guy is “the one” is as simple as listening to what he says on those first few dates and not glossing over obvious signs of trouble just because you think he’s the handsomest thing you’ve seen since Antonio Banderos in an Iberostar commercial.

Realize if he lies about his age on date one, he’s probably going to lie about far worse things later. Don’t forgive him. Bail before you’re sucked in.

But if he’s sheepishly honest about how anxious he is dating a woman who writes a blog about relationships yet he’s still sitting there across the table smiling with faith that he’s decent enough not to end up the subject of some brutal poking fun later, he might just be courageous enough to warrant date number two and then some.

Where Have All My Movie Nights Gone?

When I was single, I loved living alone. I wasn’t one of those people who jumped at every noise outside the window or complained of being lonely. I relished my independence. I decorated with all the flowers I could stand. I watched a movie and ate half a gallon of Blue Bell ice cream without a shred of guilt. I peed with the door open. Ah, the single life.

When my then-boyfriend and now-husband moved in with me, I mourned the loss of my freedom and unbridled personal expression. And I don’t have to tell any of you who have cohabitated that the first few months were rough—“What do you mean you don’t like this painting?” “Um, what exactly is this in the bathroom sink?”

But I soon learned the joys of living with someone I loved were well worth the effort. I had my best friend around every day. We developed more inside jokes than a CIA open mic night. And we started creating a family through a bond of intimacy that stretched far beyond the bedroom.

After we were married and decided to have children, the old loss-of-freedom fear returned. Actually, I’ll be honest. I was pretty sure I was too selfish to be a mom.

My solo movie nights were still treats, but now I also luxuriated in long dinner dates with my husband. If we wanted to spend an entire Saturday doing nothing but watching TV or wandering around the museum, we could. We traveled to places like the Bahamas, Mexico, and France. We had couple freedom—a slight variation on single-gal freedom, but freedom nonetheless.

Every friend with kids told me the same thing: Enjoy it while you can because when you have kids, you won’t be able to travel/go to the movies/get your nails done/shop/wear white/pee by yourself.

Haha! I laughed at their warnings behind their backs. I mean, get a sitter, people! What do you mean you can’t travel? Take the kid with you! Geez.

I am now the mother of a loving, talkative, and courageous two-year-old. And I have to say, my friends were mostly right. There are exceptions. We see movies—but rarely together. We travel—but rarely out of state. And I shop—but I do it quickly.

The good news is I found that selfishness wasn’t so much the problem. Meaning—that was the problem.

I’m a writer, so I always have a project that I’m passionate about. I find great meaning in my current manuscript or feature article. But I’d never give up movies or vacations or nail salons for an article.

I would, however, give up just about anything for my son.

That kind of deep meaning arrives with an equally profound amount of responsibility. That’s what I was afraid of—not so much the loss of my freedom, but the inadequacy to meet the challenges that accompany great meaning.

But one of the mysteries of life is that we don’t get the courage to face something new until we’re actually faced with the new thing itself. The challenge brings with it a key that unlocks reserves in ourselves we never knew existed.

We buy diapers instead of manicures. We wear white on days we have a sitter. And we travel to places that are kid-friendly because watching the joy on our children’s faces as they discover new worlds is a trip unlike any other.

I sometimes wonder what my single-gal self would have made of my life today. I’m pretty sure she would have winced. But as nice as her nails were, she didn’t know what I know and what Janis Joplin sang so well: Freedom is just another word for nothin’ left to lose.

9 Rules of Dating for Clueless Men

It occurred to me after returning to the dating circuit about eight months following my separation from my ex-husband that dating in one’s 30’s is a good deal different from dating in one’s 20’s. However, some things never change. Men remain, to a large degree, clueless about how to genuinely impress a female…or, at the very least, get her to want to ever go out with them again after date number one.

So I decided it was time to give the guys a “fly on the wall” view of the unspoken rules women carry around in their heads on those first few dates. Please note, however, these rules apply only to high quality females (i.e. not the type who smokes three packs a day and sports a tattoo across her chest that reads “Only God Can Judge Me”).

1) Pay for dinner. It befuddles me that I even have to note this rule, but you’d be surprised how many guys don’t get it. I don’t care if you’re dating an executive powerhouse of a female, pay for dinner on the first date. Now, in the interest of politeness, she might offer to half the bill, but trust me, 99 percent of women expect you to decline the offer and pay for that first date meal. If you don’t, you will look like a clueless schmuck, and, I assure you, she will never return your phone calls or texts. (If you want to make the argument, as I’ve heard some guys do, that you can’t afford to pay for the meals of the 20 women you’re taking out a week, then be more selective, or be a jerk, and don’t pay for the meals of the women you never want to see again—but before you do that, make sure you don’t want to date any of her friends or acquaintances ever. She will tell everyone she knows how clueless you are.)

2) Open doors. Another “I can’t believe I have to tell you this” rule, but there are men who fail on this one, too. Opening the door for women and elderly folks is just plain courteous, and it shows you have at least some breeding.

3) Please wear a clean shirt. You will be judged by how you look, and I don’t mean you have to be drop-dead gorgeous to get a gal’s attention. But make it look as if you put some effort into getting ready for this gig. The three-piece suit isn’t required, but crisp, clean clothes and well-groomed hair and nails are. Show up with that lunch spaghetti stain on your shirt, and you’ll be lucky if you make it out the front door with her…if you do, she is incredibly generous and polite. Nothing says “I’m a sloth and I don’t care about you” more than rumpled, stained, or uber casual attire.

4) Talk about something or someone besides yourself. There is no bigger turn-off than a guy who can’t shut up about how awesome he is or who dominates the conversation. No. 1—it communicates you’re insecure. Confident people don’t feel the need to talk incessantly about themselves and their accomplishments. No. 2—you will bore her to tears. You may find your job enormously interesting, but chances are, she doesn’t. Plus, who the hell wants to talk about work on a date? Not me. I get enough of that in my own office….

5) Don’t ask if you can do your laundry at her house. This is not college, guys. Fix your washing machine, or buy a new one. And if this is some lame excuse to stay over, trust me, you can come up with something better.

6) If you’re interested, let her know. Suck up some courage, and ask if you can call her or go out again. I know your ego is fragile, but if she turns you down, what exactly do you have to lose? That’s right. Nothing. So take a risk, and let her know you’d like to see her again. There are a few women who will pursue you, but most figure any guy worth having is one brave enough to walk a little ways out on a limb for them.

7) Please learn how to kiss. It is beyond shocking how many men do not know how even after a decade and a half of marriage and five years of dating. Trust me, bad kissing is a deal breaker. Call us ladies shallow, but it’s true. No one feels like being deep throated by your megaloglossia on a first date. Chill on the probing tongue action, and learn to kiss like Romeo. You can salvage a lackluster date with an incredible kiss for reasons I probably don’t need to go into….

8) Do not make a move for sex on the first date, the second date, or the third…. Unless you are going out with the aforementioned lady with the tattoo across her breastbone. No. 1—it makes you look like a prick who is only interested in one thing. And while that may be the case, be aware that it’s not likely to win you any bonus points with your date who much prefers the idea that you are charmed by her sparkling personality. No. 2—first time coitus is almost always mediocre at best. Let’s face it—she’s a new partner, and you have no idea what drives her wild. Do you really want her first impression to be that you are, at best, a mediocre lover? She will forgive mediocrity later if she’s in love with your character. And she might even teach you a thing or two….
9) Before you ask that attractive, smart, and successful woman out, make sure you like arm candy with a brain. Sadly, far too many men, even incredibly intelligent and powerful ones, have trouble with women who can hold their own in talking stocks at a cocktail party even while being the hottest number in the room. If you can’t get over yourself and realize you must be pretty awesome to attract such a female, don’t even bother wasting her time. On the other hand, you might keep in mind that every guy in the room is not only going to be jealous but perhaps even wondering how you landed such a prize. Of course, I don’t have to tell you what conclusion they’ll draw about you….and your…ahem, abilities.

“Where’s My Yurt?”: The Failure of the Home Office

“What a circus act we women perform every day of our lives. Look at us. We run a tightrope daily, balancing a pile of books on the head. Baby-carriage, parasol, kitchen chair, still under control. Steady now! This is not the life of simplicity but the life of multiplicity that the wise men warn us of. It leads not to unification but to fragmentation. It does not bring us grace; it destroys the soul.”—Ann Morrow Lindbergh

A simpler way of putting this would be “Honey, I love you, but get the eff out of my space. You’re destroying my soul.”

Okay, maybe that’s just my interpretation.

When I thought about my efforts, as a writer, to create a home office, a space for myself, I thought about that quote from Virginia Woolf. You know–the one about women writers needing a room of their own. How lovely. How romantic. But it simply didn’t work for me. It didn’t have the right flavor and feel for my more Erma Bombeck-ish life.

Unfortunately, I found no quotes from her about etching out space and time to write while mothering, taking care of her house, and so on. She was probably too busy living that reality to really think, let alone write about it.

Come to think of it, I don’t read much Erma Bombeck these days because if I want to read about dirty houses, piles of laundry, and the ups and downs of family life, well, this is my reality and I lost the fascination with my “exciting” domestic life years ago.

But I do keep Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s famous book Gift from the Sea close at hand. She inspired many women in her generation to follow their dreams and gave a voice to their emotions and struggles. She also struggled to maintain her own identity–both literary and personal–in the immense shadow of her husband, Charles.

She was a mother and a well-respected writer. Her “circus act,” of course, was probably helped by the fact that she was wealthy. She probably had nannies for her children, maybe a few maids.

Most women writers don’t have that option. And for most of us, writing is more than a trade—it is a compulsion and a passion. So when you don’t have the time to write because say your children are taking up most of it, it’s not only a professional but also a deep personal sacrifice.

My husband and I purchased our three-bedroom home 14 years ago. With one baby, 1,400-square feet seemed plenty. One bedroom for each of us and an extra room for an office. That lasted about a year—or until we knew another baby was on the way.

Then I moved my desk into the dining room, where it stayed for awhile. I remember slipping Emma in the baby bouncer and dashing off a quick column or article to my editor to the bounce-bounce-bounce rhythms of the contraption. I also remember trying out the playpen and a dog fence while I worked and Emma played. As wily then as she is now, she eventually escaped.

And she stopped napping when she was about 18 months old. So working during naptimes wasn’t much of an option for me either.

The next step in my quest for workspace was a groovy desk/armoire in the living room, where I could work and sort of watch over both girls playing. We could close the doors on my computer and papers so the girls wouldn’t mess with them, and we could have some semblance of a normal living space when people visited.

In the meantime, we had decided to turn our sun porch into an office for me, with a little space for my husband, who, after all, has a rather large office where he works. Renovating the sun porch was no easy task. Between our lack of time (toddlers) and dwindling funds (one-income household, basically, with an unsteady freelance income on my end), it became an issue of a physical, financial, and time balance in our household. I remember a vivid conversation with an editor while I was in the middle of painting the walls. Finally, there was heat, flooring, and even lovely pond-moss green walls.

But as we finished the room, I began to worry. My husband liked it too much and was becoming enamored by this private room of many windows, books, and music. There was a gleam in his eye as he looked over my space. Okay, I told myself, hey, he’s worked on this room, too, and he works at an office, so he won’t spend A LOT of time in here, right? This was just another one of those compromises in a long marriage full of them. I’ve had to fight softly to maintain my space to write and think.

Well, at this point, a few years later, the office is the room he spends the most time in on the weekends and in the evenings. He loves it and now has a huge rocking chair in the corner where he sits and listens to music on his headphones. Every time I step around that chair to get to my desk, I think one word: yurt. Yep. you read that right. I am now longing for a backyard yurt.

You see, it’s not just him, but also my daughters who have taken a shine to my office. Many times, we are all crammed in the office together—the smallest room in the house. And I am not writing. It’s such a nice space that the whole family gathers there. This is a problem. In my quest for space to work, I find it’s also a search for acceptance and acknowledgement that my writing matters in my own house, to my family, as well as to the outside world.

So I eek out my space. However I can. And I won’t give up.

Sometimes the guilt sets in, and I adjust my writing schedule and tell myself I don’t need to be working when my family is home. On the other hand, when I’m on deadline or have an important phone or Skype meeting or interview, I give them fair warning. The door will be closed.

Sometimes my balancing act veers to one side or the other. Sometimes I spend way too much time writing and lift my head and wonder what the hell is going on in my own house. Doesn’t anybody else know how to unload the dishwasher? Other times, I’m on top of the house and the family schedule, and my writing suffers. Did I really send that to my editor?

This summer my balancing act is working by getting up earlier than the rest of the family so that I can write in peace. It doesn’t always work out. Even as I write this at 5:38 am, my husband is in his rocking chair, reading, and he just let loose with a loud sneeze. “Bless you,” I say. But what I’m really thinking is “Yurt.”

Operating in Full Survival Mode: How To Find Your Way When the Shit Hits the Fan

There is this funny thing about life you have probably noticed: just when everything seems to be running along smoothly and happily, the shit hits the fan really hard just to remind you that shit is out there…in case you have forgotten in your oblivious bliss that bad things happen to good people all the damn time.

Does this mean you should always be on your guard? It is a question I have been asking myself a lot in the last 48 hours because, for me, the proverbial excrement hit the spinning blades a couple of days ago.

As I was discussing this latest episode of flying gunk with a girlfriend at dinner last night, and she was reminding me that an emergency room visit is cheaper than a funeral (nevermind that the dead person is never the one paying for the funeral), her nephew called. As custodian of this handsome 16-year-old frame of hormones and funk, my friend had recently found herself up till all hours of the night trying to track down his whereabouts.

When she hung up the phone after an extended conversation about where the kid was going and when and for how long, I remarked how impressed I was that she was semi-successfully juggling the raising of a toddler and a teenager. She laughed and replied, “All I care about is survival. Are they dead or alive? That’s about the best I can manage right now. If everybody is alive, things are good.”

And I began to wonder…is this really what life has come to? Survival? Just basic survival?

The other friend who joined us for dinner seemed to think so, remarking to me as I relayed how torn up I was with grief, “Look, you’re just gonna have to get through the next five minutes, and if you can make it through that, then work on getting through the next five.”

Somewhere back in my 20s, I thought life was about hope, love, and happiness. But that was back when I was single, childless, and the most responsibility I had outside my career was remembering to feed my dog.

Here’s the thing: you think once you attain all your dreams, life is gonna be really good. But dreams have their cost. Children are work. Successful romantic relationships are work. Successful careers are work. Building a house is work. Taking care of it all is work. Taking care of aging parents is work. Rebuilding your life after divorce and disappointment is work. And maintaining the level of income and sanity required to keep life running with some semblance of smoothness is work.

And when you’re juggling all this with only two hands and one brain, sometimes things fall through the cracks. Okay, a lot of things fall through the cracks. And pretty soon the cracks are gaping wounds. And pretty soon there isn’t enough joint compound in the universe to plug them all up. Shit is oozing from everywhere.

And you begin to ask yourself, “Is this what I signed on for?”

A friend of mine who is a divorced father of three told me recently when I was asking if life was going to be one pile of shit hitting the fan after another, “There’s always going to be serious shit. And someone somewhere will both cause it and help you out of it.”

Only a man juggling a career, the raising of two teenage boys and a daughter, and his own efforts to go back to school could possibly say something so profound. And I listened….

Because it made a lot of sense. Pretty much every person who has ever wounded me, intentionally or unintentionally, has also brought me to some powerful crossroads, more often than not because the pain forced me to change my way of thinking or doing, made me drag myself out of a rut and onto a new and, ultimately, more productive path.

The trouble is, when you are in the midst of grief and pain, the new path is often hard to see through all the tears and hyperventilating. Sometimes you just have to sit back and let the mist lift first. That’s called “survival mode,” waiting for the minutes to pass, day by day, staying alive until the fog dissipates.

And don’t mistake hope for your rescuer. As my single dad friend added that day I talked to him about despair, hope really isn’t what’s going to pull you out of the mire. “Hope is a fragile gossamer thread,” he remarked. Rather it’s getting to the point “where your eyes are not crowded with the bullshit of the world,” and you can see clearly the path that is yours, the one that has been waiting for you to discover it.

“There Will Always Be Richard”…And How You Know It’s Time to Bestow Honorary Girlfriend Status on a Guy

I love my women friends. They are like my family except for the fact that they don’t make me want to climb the walls and hang from a chandelier when I’m around them. They are also my most trusted advisors, my personal cabinet. Whenever an important issue comes up, I go to them for perspective and guidance, whether the problem is my latest mommy meltdown or the most recent ‘what on earth possessed me to tell my S.O. THAT???’ crisis.

But what’s especially wonderful about these women, three of whom I place at the core of my advisory, is that I know them so well that sometimes I can consult the girlfriend trifecta without actually consulting the girlfriend trifecta.

The other day was a case in point. I was debating whether or not to accept the casual dinner invitation of a guy I had dated a handful of times, wondering if it might send my current romantic partner over the edge to imagine me eating creamy truffle risotto and a chocolate ganache tart in company with a man other than himself. It was not, mind you, that I had any latent romantic interest in this potential dinner partner. It’s just that a writer like myself occasionally likes to interact with someone who can carry on an intelligent conversation about Charles Dickens and William Faulkner, something I knew from experience this potential dinner partner could do.

As I am wont to do with any decision that could potentially screw up the rest of my life, I started to dial my deeply devoted friend of 38 years who has come to my rescue on more than one occasion, holding my hand when I gave birth to my daughter, hosting me for a Christmas Eve meltdown, and handing me her cell phone one day at O’Hare and telling me to just “please shut up and call the love of your life.” So tuned in is she sometimes to my psyche, she often knows what I want or need more accurately than I do.

But before I could finish dialing, I already knew what Sarah would say. She would advise me not to play with fire.  Because she is my mother hen and protector, the woman I can count on to make me feel safe in the most dire of circumstances.  When life becomes too much to bear, it is Sarah who invites me to her wonderfully chaotic house, where I am comforted by the frenetic activity of her chef husband, her energetic two-year-old son, and her teenage nephew who likes to advise me on all the benefits of owning a Droid over an iPhone.

Of course, I also knew Sarah would speak her trademark tagline after providing her advice: “I love you, and I support you no matter what.”

Hmm, no need to call. 

On to the next girlfriend. Shiloh.  Outspoken, adventurous, and irreverent, she is not too difficult to predict either.  I knew without even thinking about it too much that Shiloh would say, “Go for it!”  Ever open to the next adventure, experiment, or big thing, Shiloh has no qualms about risk-taking, even when there is no clear potential benefit. Her life has hardened her against getting wound up about consequences. Though she will admit herself at times, “There are days I consider shots and a round of tennis a viable option for problem solving.” 

Sooo….no need to call her either. I had both ends of the spectrum.

That only left Susannah—the practical psychology major whose husband has repeatedly accused her of having more divorced friends than anyone else he knows.  She is the one worth calling no matter what, at least so says Sarah, who admits, “You know what Shiloh is going to say.  You know what I’m going to say. Call Susannah. She is the only one left with a practical, rational outlook on things. And besides,” she adds, “then you have three different opinions, so likely whatever choice you make will be the ‘right’ one in someone’s view.”

I never called any of my three most trusted advisors that day. I ultimately came to my own decision not to mess with any men’s heads or to potentially play with fire all on my own.  Okay, well, not all on my own. I had the voices and perspectives of those three girlfriends heatedly debating in my head. 

This is the reason why a wise man not only works to win the heart of his lover but also the hearts of her girlfriends. They may be the ones who determine whether he gets ditched or forgiven one day down the road when he responds to a life crisis one too many times with “I love you. I’m eating Go Lean Crunch now. What are you doing?” Um, having a crisis in case you hadn’t noticed.

I know I can count on the women in my life to still be my friends no matter what crazy trouble I get into.  They have this otherworldly power to surround me with a net of kindness and support even when they aren’t actually there. There are occasions when I will call one of their number at 3 a.m. when I wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, but more often than not, my awareness that I can call if I need to is really all I require.  I know they’re there, and I will eventually go back to sleep, assured that no matter what happens, these women will be there when things get so bad I have to call.

Men do not always understand this sisterhood among women. Raised to be lone wolves who interact with their BFFs on a whole different level than we do (i.e. intimate friendship means you’re not afraid to get totally toasted in front of the guy and then go play a round of golf and score badly), they may find the close emotional ties the women in their lives share with other women confounding if not downright threatening.

Once when Shiloh and I were jointly in the throes of nasty break-up blues, we seriously discussed the feasibility of buying a farm, inviting other disillusioned women friends, and raising vegetables in company with our daughters and ditching men at least from our day-to-day lives forever. When Shiloh mentioned this idea to a date one night after an especially long “wine flight,” he was appalled and wanted to know if this really was her “five-year plan.” “Don’t you need a man around?” he asked.

His incredulity could only be matched by our own, I must say.  What man asks a woman he’s been dating less than two months what her five-year plan is?  And who discusses a five-day plan, much less a five-year plan, with a woman he is driving home because she has admitted she has imbibed too much wine to drive herself safely?  A man without much experience with women…that’s who.

And so the poor schmuck got what any more experienced gentleman would have known better than to bargain for.  Shiloh responded (and forgive my more formal language here; I’ve been banned from subscribers’ servers because of my occasional use of four-letter words), “There will always be more (ahem!) Richard; good girlfriends, however, are a lot harder to find.”  Richards, you see, come in all sizes and with various levels of proficiency attached to them. But a female friend who will stand by you through everything—if you find her, hang on tight.

I should know.  It’s taken me more than 30 years to assemble my core group of rock solid women friends.

This is not to dismiss the men with whom I am (as this blog attests) so endlessly fascinated. I love men. In fact, I think that is a good part of my trouble.  I grew up the only girl at the babysitter, and once in high school, I found the company of boys far more satisfying than that of silly, boy crazy girls.  Plus, it was my father, grandfather, and great uncles who made much of me when I was a child.  The women were always too busy for me.  All in all, I feel incredibly comfortable with men, far more than I do with women unless those women are confident, smart, and sassy gals whom I can admire and respect and who aren’t threatened by a loud and outspoken woman like myself.

But at the same time, I don’t always understand men (hence the fascination perhaps) anymore than they understand me. I love Mr. Go Lean Crunch with all my heart, and, in the end, it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t always know the right thing to say. That’s what my girlfriends are for.  What matters is that even in complete bewilderment (and sometimes terror), he has stood by me, rock solid as…well…a woman.  I am thinking perhaps we should bestow “honorary girlfriend” status on men like this.

They are more than Richards. In fact, if we want to get truly derogatory, and why the hell not?  They are not Richards at all.  They stand much taller and do not feel the need to flee when things get tough.  They know how to brace for the punch.  Where they learned to do this, I can only guess…probably from a woman.

There will indeed always be Richards. 

Foolish is the woman who risks the trust or gives up the friendship of a solid and committed friend, be that friend male or female, for a mere Richard.  As Elbert Hubbard says, “A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.” Banish such a friend from your life, and you may indeed be a Richard yourself.