Don't Let A Dicktard Dangle You, Old Sport!

This week, I want to discuss a particularly frustrating, fickle foible of the Dating Players' Game.  It's a strategy which I have entitled the 'I don't want you, but I continue to randomly text you, just to keep you dangling, because I am a... Dicktard.'

I'm sure you are familiar.  These specimen tend to have options and they know it!  They also let you know it.  On Facebook or out-and-about you will see such him or her, photographed in the arms of the non-you.  These Players are cautious about entering into an actual relationship with actual feelings, placing all their eggs or squirmy semen in one life raft!  Much better to drift and send up a flare every now and then, to see if the eggs or semen of the rejected castaway, come whooshing back for more.

It's definitely a trend I am seeing and hearing of more and more, and guess what, it is by no means gender specific, women throw out that text lasso as often as men.  So what does it say?  What should we do, how should we react to this?

Let's break this down.  It's just a wild stab in the dark--pardon--but if someone of the opposite sex, who you may have had a dalliance with at some time or another, is contacting you, it is generally not because they are concerned about your happiness quota, or to discuss the weather.

Textual comms. are usually resumed because Mr. or Mrs. Dicktard Dangler wants to know if you are still 'on the hook'.  Do you still give a damn?  I guess this is a power and control thing.  It's part of their game: will they/won't they respond?  Maybe he/she is lonely and misses the witty textual repartee.  Maybe, but either way, this re-connection is more about them than you.

But your reaction says a lot about you.  Perhaps the 'ping' and glow of one's phone revealing the name of him/her and their inane sentiment, sends you breathless with longing, delighted that, though spurned, you are not forgotten.  (It is, after all, horrid to be easily forgotten.)  Maybe, as tortuous as it is, you would rather be stung by remembrance, than shrivel with neglect. And if you've been more stung than little Macaulay Culkin in My Girl, then maybe re-evaluate why you are attracted to someone who persists in hurting you.  You are a masochist.  Seek help.

I have a dear male friend, who was kicked to the curb recently by the gal he'd been dating.  She revealed she was dating someone else--TA DAH!--and that someone else was not him.  Booooo.  So--because he has a spine--End Scene.  He was actually fine with it; he's buoyant like that and can't be kept down for long.  He sulked for a few hours and then got on with things--chaps can do that compartmentalizing so well, can't they?

Well, he is going about life, setting up dates and then BAM!  There it was...like kryptonite glowing green from the face of his phone:

Ms. Dicktard Dangler                    6.09PM
Hey!  How are you?  I miss you!

Well, that's as maybe.  She might very sincerely give a crap, she might honestly care as to his well-being--I'm sure that's what she would say to him if he asked; but odds are, she just misses the attention and her Texan-sized Ego wants to know that she's still got it and could get him back if she chose.  But when you choose someone else, you relinquish the right to feel lonely and tell the one you jilted about it!  It's not sweet, or thoughtful, it's selfish.

I'm all for remaining friends with past flames, but to fan them just for one's ego, makes you an Arse-onist.  Certainly, you may be thinking, "Well, surely if you don't want to play the catch and release game, if you have been rehooked and gaffed enough to know that that shit hurts, then block their number!  Simply don't respond.  Ignore.  Delete.  Move on."  But when you care, it's really hard to give up, Jay Gatsby never gave up.

I wonder how The Great Gatsby would have ended if Daisy Buchanan had had the ability to text.  She would have been the prime example of a Dangler.  I imagine her in her sheer, gauzy, draped world, languishing on her chaise, tapping idly on her I phone:

Jay, darling.  How are you?  I miss you!  (She's sad for herself of course, but rather oblivious to all else.)

Daisy!  Old Sport!  Come away with me.  Jay would reply, sucked back in, as hopeful as always.

Oh darling, I would if I could.  It's just impossible!  And there, reassured, she would go back to... what?  Lying on a sofa, playing with her drapes, being fay and slightly pathetic.

Maybe that's harsh, maybe Daisy just annoyed me because here was someone wanting to give her the moon on a stick, someone she loved in returned, but she was too spineless to communicate that.  She just kept Jay dangling... promising much and delivering nothing.

So what am I saying here?  When you end things, chatty check-ins are not on?  Well, poor Jay Gatsby doesn't get the chance to find out, but for the rest of us... heck, we are adults in this crazy communicating circus.  I think it would be pretty sad if former flames did not communicate, but maybe there needs to be a period of time, a statute of limitations, during which there's a text ban.   This gives Danglee time to galvanize spirits without the passive aggressive, emotionally-regressive influence of constant texts, designed to whip, lasso and reel him/her back to heel.  Then maybe, when a season of other deliciously awful, or--hopefully--awfully delicious dates have pushed disappointment into the darker, distant whorls of memory, maybe, just maybe you can be friends.  Though whether opposite sexes can ever truly be platonic friends... well, that's a whole other blog, isn't it?

The Conversation... In which I discuss Exclusivity (and die a little inside).

Overheard in the ladies bathroom of a well-known Masonic building, an enclave of slightly well-beered and overly-blurry females:

“Sweetie, you owe him nothing.  Nada.  Nicht.  He may think what he likes, but unless you’ve had the conversation you are just dating and therefore you can see who you like, when you like.” 

I cringed as I hovered silently over the toilet seat.  It’s hard enough to pee in a public bathroom, but throw in a juicy conversation and a gaggle of on-listeners and it’s urine shut down.  I emerged, sheepishly from my stall, wanting to look up, but English repression forbidding it.  Hurrah for many mirrors!  It was as cliché as it gets: one holding the glasses, one the purses, one taking her turn in the mirror and smearing her come-get-me gloss lavishly across her lips. 

Under the loud flow of the faucet I missed a bit, but never did a pair of average-sized hands take so long to dry.

“But you’re missing the point!”  Said the one who had now reinserted the wand to the gloss and was wiping the smudges of shimmer off her lip lines.  “If this were two weeks in, fine!  I’d agree with you.  But it’s not and I’ve slept with him.  That redefines everything.  There may not have been the conversation, but there was conversation alright.”

I ferreted in my purse—my Mary Poppins hearse purse is enormously useful for such time-stalling situations; it takes minutes to find anything in there it is so cavernous—and finally drew out my hairbrush.  I began to fuss and count the strokes.  (I wasn’t really, of course.)

“DIS-A-GREE!” The slightly more looped of the three, triple-fisting the glasses returned, “No conversation, no exclusivity!  Sex makes no difference, it’s neither here nor there.”

“No, believe me.  It wasn’t here.  But it was definitely there, and in the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room …” They cackled, gave one last nod to the mirror, and the three drifted from the basement bathroom and back into the hubbub of the Brews.

I looked at myself in the mirror: I was not meant for this harsh, unfeeling world of dating.  I brushed my locks and considered the issue.  Had anyone ever broached the conversation with me?  No.  Relationships had just… happened.  Organically.  There had never been any verbal contract of exclusivity, I had just—rather foolishly I realized then—assumed it.  If someone wanted to spend their time with me, it had really never even dawned on me that they would on the other nights—while I toiled like a dung beetle—be other with other women at the same time.  It never occurred to me that there needed to be an agreement made, insisted on.  I was wide-eyed at the thought that one could be sleeping with one and dating many others—that just sounds exhausting.  Of course, I know people do, but I was thinking of it in relation to the anti-romances I had had.

Is this, The Conversation, something that one should insist on?  If so when?  And what—oh dear God—if one wants to say “no thank you very much, I do like you, you’re a jolly nice bloke, but actually I rather want to consider other penises right now.  No offense!  Tally ho.”  

Or what if—Heaven forfend—a chap says to you, a lady, “Sorry there Toots, but I want to explore my… options.”  Does one smile, shrug shoulders and continue, after one has been so snubbed?  My mind was a whirring cosmic fire of unrest. 

I just find the whole topic unsettling, because it is so far from my romantic ideal.  To use James Fleet’s expression, from Four Weddings and A Funeral, I rather hoped it would just be “Thunderbolt City,” and he would forget all ideas of anyone else, as I would.  And nothing would corrupt this mutual feeling of yearning, not conflicting schedules, not friends of the opposite sex, not long absences, not all the little fucking stupid things that are thrown up by the projectile vomit of our past; that there would be this mutual acceptance. 

I suppose that’s what happens when it is Thunderbolt City.  Maybe the ones that get so easily derailed, and need such contracts and verbal reassurances, are the ones that were never headed anywhere anyway.  Regardless, it makes me sad.  Sad that I've never asked for this conversation, but that maybe it would have saved many hurt feelings.  This oral tornado would blow in and sweep misunderstanding up and away. 

I have discussed this with a few friends this week. 

“So…Shera, Princess of Power, what’s your take on exclusivity?”

“Non-negotiable. I sat He Man down and said, ‘Look, Mister, are we together, or are you screwing every underage cutesie at the Backyard Ale House on a Saturday night?  Because if you are, ding ding, stop the bus, you are getting off.  And not with me.’”  I applauded her bravado, but knew I could not be so forthright.  Mainly because, I am not sure I would like the answer.  If one asks, but is told there are others--gulp!--is it so easy to walk away if one is invested?

I asked my dear male friend on his take, “Absolutely, there needs to be a conversation.”  He said adamantly.  “I wasn’t always like that.  But I got burned, and that means now I’m not putting all my eggs in one basket, so-to-speak.  I can date more than one woman at the same time with no remorse.” 

And then there was a third and final take on it, without me even asking he told me clearly where he stands, because he will not even allow the female he is dating to have male friends—even if her intentions are well meaning and she only has eyes, lips, heart, longing for him.  He has little trust in her, because of his prior experience.  Can a partner not have friends of the opposite sex?  Can she/he not meet him/her for an uncontracted, but understood, mutual friends drink?  Do we need to classify every interaction we have just to make sure intentions are interpreted correctly?  "Hey, Will, Buddy-oh-friend-of-mine, fancy meeting for a beverage and a non-sexual-interaction-because-we-are-friends-who-don't-share-bodily-fluids?"  Not every male-female friendship turns into Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis reaping the benefits!

GAH!  I would that we could start every relationship as if we’ve never dated.  As if this is new and we haven’t become jaded, mistrustful, cynical and sad.  Forget what has gone before, damn it!  That's not to say don't learn from experience, but don't assume the new partner will be like the old. We are individual, different human beings, who strive for success and make mistakes; we are largely just as confused as each other, because, guess what, we are not mind readers!

Trust, jealousy, longing, contracts.  I suppose, the conversation--however unromantic it is, as much as I’d prefer to plunge my fist down my throat and rip out my heart as more eloquent proof—is necessary.  Maybe there are so many mixed signals these days that one simply can’t trust the organic process.  Maybe there needs to be that clarification that both are singing from the same hymn sheet.  That one is not getting overly invested in a heart that is overly invested in many other mutual funds.  And maybe the triple-fisting girl, swaying slightly in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, was right all along, her unromantic, practical negotiation stamping on my open heart.

Ding Dong, I love your Pong! In which I discuss Pheromones.

Imagine: you met him on Match, or Eharmony, or wherever.  He has teeth, a job, and likes animals.  You arrange to meet in a public place.  He suggests that chic, fine dining place that you know you shouldn’t really afford, but what the heck! 

He is there, waiting at the bar, with his neat amber measure bathing on the rocks.  He looks good, better than his picture, and you start to wish that maybe you hadn’t hurried straight from work, but had stopped to tame the humidi-fizzed nest on your head, that maybe you had spritzed with your perfume and sucked on a Listerine tab, reapplied the lip gloss that feels like a weight in your pocket. 

But the date goes off well.  He compliments you, asks you questions, orders the wine with alacrity; suggests a couple of appetizers to start.  He waves the waiter over and speaks with bon homie, like he’s been there a thousand times before and he and the waiter are great mates.  You notice the way he treats people and acknowledges them with a raise of his dark brows and a Cheshire Cat beam.  He is confident.  People like him, and you like that. 

You share dishes.  It’s surprising, this sudden coupling, but you go with the flow and enjoy his attention.  At the end of the date, you see your reflection in his eyes.  His focus is all for you and it’s consuming.  You know you shouldn’t, but you do want to kiss him, to feel his hot lips on yours, the rhythm, the taste of him.  It’s a long unawkward kiss as you hover by your car—knowing that you should get in and drive away, but that kiss! 

The next dates pass just as the first, but the kisses are deeper, longer.  He’s full of stories!  So entertaining!  He wears charisma like a leather onesie.  He makes you feel special.  And then IT happens, x number of dates in, maybe after three-too-many white lotus martinis: the frantic peel of clothes, the clash of flesh, the flail, the push, the pull, the thrust, the pneumatic motion as your bodies writhe in unison, pumping to catch that elusive wave that will bring both of you to shore, beached.  You fall asleep a tangle of sweaty spent limbs.  Morning comes early, you roll over and inhale the daylight, and UGH! GOOD GOD, WHAT IS THAT STENCH?

Hereeeeee's... Stinky Pete!

Just imagine.

Now, you are pretty sure he didn’t consume a double bean burrito last night.  He shared your flatbread and salad and drank from the same bottle of wine you did.  And you don't smell like a toxic wasteland.  No, you smell of vanilla and linen and sex.  He has not been poisoned by some dreadful unholy explosive gastric virus.  You are sure.  He sleeps.  You sniff.  You tent the sheets over your head.  Dear God, is this Auschwitz?  You rotisserie-chicken yourself over, not to disturb the slumbering form that was, pre-coital, quite lovely, but now… noxious.  You tentatively nestle back into that nook beneath his armpit, your flushed cheek burning through his cool contracting and expanding chest.  Maybe you were wrong.  You inhale again.  It’s not deadly farts, or inexplicable breath, it’s just... him.  He has a smell, and ain't no Gucci.

Pheromones.  Tricky little fuckers.  The scent that can drive a woman uninhibited and legs akimbo, or… sorry Chaps, running for the shower, or her keys, or the door.  Or all three.    

Scents are used to influence the senses.  This can be done defensively, ie: my brother pinning me to the ground and farting on my head; or as a lure, to turn a head just as a peacock tail, a six-pack, a delicious raucous laugh, a red Ferrari.  Scent can be key in sexual selection.  And I suppose this topic appeals to me because I can’t figure out how a chap, who could not be a good match in any way, shape or form, but—nice one Evolutionary Biology—has a smell so delicious to you that the bitter-sweet inhalation as your nostrils fill with the scent emanating from his skin, the waft of his manliness as you brush your cheek next to his in some faux display of civility, JUST GETS YOU, like someone has stabbed you in the intestines and twisted the knife like a Sicilian.  What is this Sense and Olfactory Captor?  What is this elixir that can drive us buck wild or headache-bound? 

Humans possess three major skin glands: sebaceous, eccrine and apocrine.  Apocrine glands occur in greatest concentration on the hands, cheeks, scalp, breasts and body hair and they are thought to produce this sexual elixir.  Interestingly, male apocrine glands are larger than women’s.  Women’s olfactory receptors are greater than men’s, and when women are ovulating their sense of smell becomes heightened.  It could be because the parental investment of women is greater than in men—we have to put in 9 months at least—so sniffing out a suitable mate has more consequences to a female.  Yup, the onus is on us.

So, Ladies, whilst it may seem like we are just suckers for Aqua Di Gio , Hermes, or High Intensity, we are not.  The underlying odour our nostrils are pulsating for, has deeper and greater significance for our offspring.  No wonder the perfume industry has been trying to bottle that bewitching ‘Love Spell’ for years.  Sadly, slaughtering deer for their musk, tigers, or goodness know what other poor creatures.  But it is not a fruity, oriental, musky, woodsy headache-inducing synthetic pong, it’s sex-smell from skin and hair that tells a potential partner about your DNA profile, a sequence of genes that broadcasts info about your immunity, and has us ovulating women snuffling for pheromones, as if for truffles!

In research on mice, females were found to choose males whose gene sequence least overlapped their own.  Ie: she wants her offspring to have as broad DNA and immunity profile as possible, so ensure a greater chance of survival.   In mice, the female sniffs out fitness by smelling her suitors urine.  In monkeys, they they rub urine on their feet to attract mates, advertising their immunity and therefore sexual fitness.  Now, I don’t know about you, but I have never sniffed my potential chap’s pee or rubbed my urine over myself.  (Hmm... maybe THIS explains why people enjoy golden showers?  Weirdos.)  However, I have made some shitty choices, so maybe I should.  Dogs waste no time in crotch-whiffing.

“Hey, I’ve just met you, and this is crazy, can I sniff your crotch please, and call me maybe?” 

There has been extensive research, not just on rodents, but I—a young college-attendee En--was part of such a project when I had to sniff male ‘T’ shirts and rate them for attractiveness—oh Phil Le Pelley and Dr. David Goulson, I remember—and women do prefer scents exuded from men whose MHC (major histocompatibilty complex) differs from their own.  And in terms of offspring fitness, that makes a lot of ‘sense’.  Lordy, innate instincts are clever. 

But there’s a twist—oooooh—yes, oral contraceptives can screw a female’s olfactory senses.  Since the contraceptive pill fools the body into thinking it is pregnant, it reverses our natural preferences.  So maybe if he smells irresistible, and he is a prize Bastardly Dicktard, it is just because you are being betrayed by your daily baby blocker.  OH NO!  To really get a sense of him, you, ladykat friend, should take a break and give him a good old whiff around a more hairy area.  If you want to puke, you might want to question your choices; if he smells like sex and desire wrapped in a weirdly attractive non-six-packed body, then maybe he’s for you.

Maybe he nuzzles your neck to get to those scent releasing factories behind your ear.  His olfactory receptors are not as receptive as yours, but he can, according to research, subconsciously detect the pheromones females release when ovulating, and accordingly, testosterone levels in men are higher during these times and lower when not ovulating!  Way to go, Evolution, conserve manliness for times of need!  Yup, LadyKat, he is inhaling you there, because he knows you like his warm, whiskeyed breath behind your earlobe, it's because he's sensing your fertility, like a rutting buck.  

Soapy cleansers and perfumes make it harder for humans to detect true histocompatibility, but in the morning, sans contraceptive pill, when the Gucci has disappeared with the stars, take a good inhale of him.  If you click, if there is chemistry, if his stench and your waft make a nasal cocktail of chemical desire, that sends loins into overdrive, then tally ho!  If not, perhaps it's another biological siren that you should heave ho.

Caveat: I am not necessarily recommending sniffing crotches or asking for urine samples on a first date.  Second date?  Well, absolutely!

(And, if you do happen to take a contraceptive break, I am not responsible for the consequences.  Thank you.  PONG ON!)

Your-fertile-smell-is-affecting-my-testosterone-levels

The-smell-love

Break Ups and Break Downs. In which I find my internal GPS.

Oh it’s funny how art imitates life.  The little fucker.  Just as I had romantically, poetically, lyrically ended things with Blogette and driven off into the sunset; just as I had watched out of my rear view mirror and told Self that those were not pangs of regret, but a dodgy piece of sushi; just as I had looked wide-eyed and I realized I had no effin' clue where to begin with this vast expanse of novel lit-scape to chart... there it came!  A dawn chorus!  Voices, melodic and mellifluous to my ear, a caramel-coated clamour that cut through the confusion.  It was as if my internal GPS had finally found it's satellites and could, at last, give me direction.  Recalculating...

I was merely putty in the palm of the Writing Gods.  Praise.  That’s all it took.  A little bit of praise.  A few echoes of “don’t go,” “we’ll miss you,” and a “what will I read in my bath tub on Sundays?” and my pace slowed.  Then, an almost annoyed, 

“Typical!  I just nominated you for the Best Blog in The Weekender!”  

You did?!  

And the final siren, flaring from the comments of my Break Up Blogette: “Ummm...is this a bad time to mention that we've decided to feature your blog as the NEPA Blogs Blog of the Week, to be shown on WBRE's PA Live! on April 16?”

After I had perfected a litany of swear words--perhaps in the manner of a deeply religious Tourette's sufferer, or my Dad--two very different but almost simultaneous notions, spaced by seconds in observation, crested my cerebellum.

First, that one little bit of praise, that just a smidgen of acknowledgement, can mean the world to someone ready to give up.  In my pink and perky world--no, my other job is not in porn--we are told all the time that most people give up when they are inches from success.  I didn’t really want to give Blogette up. I thought it would be a sensible thing to do.  I could save my verbage for longer verses.  And, I didn’t really think anyone would notice if I shut up for while.  

A writer friend tweeted that I should carry on blogging as it "keeps the writing sharp."  And it’s true, two weeks without Blogette and I can feel my little Walnut Whip of a Brain has atrophied.  My writing muscles are as sharp as a sock.  I don’t claim to be a literary best-selling author with an MFA and an 'in' with Oprah.  I just love writing, wordsmithery, creating images and committing acts of ungodly grammar.  I am a card-carrying Word Nerd.  Yesterday, I discovered this page of awesome obsolete words: 18-Obsolete-Words and I haven't stopped trying to use each and every one.  I mean, "jirble"!  It's even onomatopoeic!  It makes me want to take on a part-time bar gig just so I can jirble liquor whilst chatting in brogue to the fine folk of Scranton!  I digress, but writing, language, literature make my "beef-witted" brain tick and my pulse race.

Praise is a gift we can give and it is amazing what a simple nod of encouragement can do, in life, in artistic or scientific endeavours, and relationships.  I have thrown the romantic towel a few times over the last three years of Singledom.   If I had been given just a word of encouragement, praise of strengths rather than criticisms of my weaknesses, the Blogette might not have been the only break up that lasted less than a week.

Colliding into this positive bubble of empowerment and bursting it like an overworked grimy white balloon of gum, was the pointy, disapprovy finger of my conscience.  The pointy, disapprovy finger waggled furiously at me.  I was being swept away by the romantic ideals of readers wanting me back!  I was not staying the course, standing firm, I was not taking my own advice! 

Wasn’t it me who huffed and puffed a lot of guff about letting go and moving on; putting away what doesn’t serve you; donating it to the jumble sale and not looking back?  Aren't I the one that blusters, that verbally struts a wordy marmalade of saucy abrasiveness, that adds tang to one’s tongue and clears one’s senses?  Haven't I chastised dissatisfied partners from going back and expecting different results?  Yes, dear Reader, ‘tis I.  *Hangs head*

It appears in the light of breaking up, I can breathe through it, I can clench my teeth and bit down like any British bulldog, but when I hear the disappointment, when I see effort made, and praise given, how can I not lean into that palm for a scratch?  I hope that doesn’t make me a hypocrite, but rather a human who is learning what or who she wants.  Sometimes, it’s okay to change your mind, if you can be principled and honest and true to YOU without hurting others.  So JellyBe-ings, my point is, we are human and we have choices; everything we do is a choice: to put time aside to blog, or not; to spend time with someone and try to get to know their core, their chords, maybe even their cords, or not.

And I realize I have been harsh, with the dating world and with Self.  I saw it all so clearly, in high contrast: he is making an effort; he is not making an effort, and, if the latter, life is short, so click your heels, take flight and hope to land upon something more conducive to your ideal.  I have been plagued, in writing and dating, with these ideals.  I have not been able to look beyond the inflated monochrome visions in my head: that prospects should be judged lacking if they are not the exact agent, publishing house or fella, I have imagined.  

However, just because we have envisioned life a certain way, doesn’t mean it can’t be just as good, or better, with something or someone else.  And I have, I realize, been weighing my options with some pretty funky weighing scales: not based on actual enjoyable interactions, but some snooty ridiculousness that rated a reputation and pressed suit over good manners, effort and kindness; that mistook attention as love, not control; that thought a divorce, or a not-ideal living situation, or a pair of beautiful children too much baggage to fit into my head compartment.  Aren't the unplanned, improvised bits always the best anyway?

So, I’m back.  Thanks for not giving up on me.  I’m a writer, so I’ll write.  I’m a romantic, so I’ll keep trying.

'E' is for Effort. The Cautionary Tale of Smidgen and her Yo-yo Man.

Oh, we got trouble.

Right here in Datin’ City.

It starts ‘T’ and it ends in ‘E’ and that stands for … TERRIFICALLY-EN-noying YO-YO MEN!

Yes, Dear Reader, my hackles have been raised like rabid wolf mother, caught in the midday sun, kicked in the ribs and stung by a wasp.  Not on account of my own misadventures—well, not that I can disclose here—but on behalf of my great friend, Smidgen. 

It is worse than Samantha’s “Friday Night Soup-making-Date-with Mother.” Not So Souper!  Far worse.  In fact, think of an awful date.  Let’s say… being stood up.  Imagine, if you will, the painful scenario: there you are, sitting all gussied-up, your uncomfortable knickers jammed up your crack, your boobs launched skyward, and he still hasn’t arrived.  The restaurant is bustling and the couples beside you giggle, and paw, and order.  You ask for water and play solitaire on your 'I' phone.   Appetizers grace other tables, but you try not to notice; you try to pretend you are not bothered that he hasn’t arrived because you are sure, absolutely positive, that he must be caught in traffic, or off saving the world, or something.  The entrees are served beside you and you regret that all you have had to eat today was a Luna bar.  You’ve been sitting alone for an hour now.  You realize, with an ache, you have told all your friends, nay, the entire Facebook World that you are going on said date.  Shit!  You even told the mouthy hairdresser who spent three hours getting the new shade, cut, blow and curl just right for this evening!  And then, as the table beside you clears and is reset, in walks your Ex, as smiles, as is his way, parading some little bit of Non-English Muffin, who wears the same dress you do, only better.  He waves at you on your own and immediately starts laughing, ordering with largesse, including a drink for you—oh how noble--and they start kissing, nauseatingly, sharing their appetizers as well as their saliva. 

That didn’t happen.  I’m just painting a picture.  But you have to admit, that would be a pretty darn shitty date.  My heart goes out to anyone who has gone to dinner with expectations, has been left dangling, neglected, forgotten, emotionally and mentally crushed.  But that kind of mean neglect is short-lived.  It ends at that non-date.  What happened, no, what  IS HAPPENING to poor Smidgen is worse. 

*Gasp*

*Intake of breath*

I KNOW!

What in this vast Universe could be a worse slap-in-the-face-with-a-smelly-week-dead-fish than that?  (If you had a worse dating disaster, I’m sorry.  *Head tilt* *Pout* Do share it below so Smidge can feel better.)

Well, Dear Reader, I’ll explain.  You see, Smidgen is being emotionally stood up EVERYDAY.  She is dating a… Yo-yo Man.  He is not a rapper, or a chap who is addicted to mint chocolate biscuits from the UK, or even a fellow talented in the arts of string and spool dexterity, but he is a classic yo yo…wind her in, let her drop, wind her in, let her drop.

Hard hats ON!  Hard hearts? Woof,
Smidge will never have that.

She adores him, she won’t say a bad word about him, but Yo-yo Man is starting to really piss me off on her behalf.  Smidgen is a darling.  It’s an apt name because she is just a sweetie!  She is cute and little, and you just want to give her a hug.  There’s no side to Smidge, everyone loves her.  (She is also: clever, funny, she smells great, she blows at time management and is a sucker for small animals—namely cats.)  She makes her own way, independent is Smidge, and any man would be lucky to have her.

Yo-yo Man seems … okay.  He is not drop-my-knickers-have-my-lovechild funny or handsome, but he is rather nice.  I can see why she might date him to start with, but now?  Now, I am rather at a loss.

You see, he makes no effort.  She is on a string, dangling, waiting for him to roll on in, dazzle her with the charisma she says he possesses, wrap her up in his mighty grip and then, just as things are getting friendly, propel away again, leaving her reeling, feeling inadequate that she can’t keep him for longer; discouraged that he doesn’t want to stay; heart-heavy that he would rather sleep alone than nestled into the soft, clean sheets beside her and her new Victoria’s Secrets purchases. 

We met at our favourite Sunday brunch spot, State St: Smidge, The Empress, The Goddess, The Nymph and me.  It had been a wee while since the five of us had met and news came flurrying from all angles, excited rapid fire of tales of love, of work, of cats, of life.  All angles except for Smidge’s. She was unusually reticent.  It wasn’t until I had finished my eggs benedict, and she had pushed away most of her house salad, that she spilled her sorry state of relations and admitted things were not going as well as she had hoped.  Largely, that her chap had indeed, become a Yo-yo.  A day would go by without even a “hello” text; whole weeks would pass without seeing his face; things that would not seem so bad if he had been aloof from the start, but he hadn’t.

“Think of your relationship as a pie chart.”  I said, trying to present the emotional shituation logically.  “Divide the pie into the slices of time he makes you deliciously, soaringly, climatically happy, and the slices of time he makes you look as sad and forlorn as you do now.  Because I have to say, you look about as pale and puffy-lidded as a Halibut.”   (We are close.  I can say things like that.)

“It’s not that easy.”  Smidge wailed, stabbing her fork futilely at an escapee leaf of argula.  “Because this is a new thing.  He didn’t do this at first.  He made an effort and I felt special, but now… it’s not a happy pie chart.  It’s a shitty poo chart!”

The Empress, the Goddess, the Nymph and I collectively sighed.  Our friend had regressed to high school and he was the cause.  You see, we know what she is worth, we know what she deserves, but Smidge is so distracted by the rose-tinted memories of their romance initially, she cannot make a logical, dispassionate decision.  She will not give up, she will not let go of this man who clearly only wants her at his own convenience, because she’s a naïve trier.  And good for her.  I’d rather be a trier than a wimp, a fighter than a flee-er, an optimist rather than a pessimist; but, if she is making all the effort, if this is all one-way traffic, if he has lost interest after just a month, it doesn’t exactly bode well for a future happy harmonious relationship, does it?

She should be with someone who actively wants to be with her; who wants to do things with her and for her, EVEN if he doesn’t particularly like those things.  He should be so friggin’ blinded by Almighty Cupid that he would do them anyway, and would human torpedo himself to her side at the slightest suggestion of ripping her clothes off and getting her naked. 

To make Yo-yo Man’s distance even more alarming, was the stark contrast to the Empress’s new beau, a sterling chap who is the very opposite of Yo-yo Man; he’s a No-Don’t-Go Man.  Their nascent relationship is already years old in couple comfort; they look and act as if they have been together for decades.  They know each others’ flaws and love them anyway.  They shop together—looking rather like a prima donna and her Body Guard; when she dances, he will, without eye-rolling, hold her purse; he will—on occasion—dance with her; he will cook meatless meals for her, although he is a committed carnivore; he makes an effort.

And I think that is what shocked everyone around the brunch table, especially Smidgen.  As we listened to these contrasting tales of togetherness and separation, I saw Smidge’s eyes well with tears (or dust and allergies), and I knew that she got it too.  It’s about trying, about effort, and Yo-yo Man just didn’t care enough for her to make an effort. 

Maybe she’ll give up soon, cry a little more, hold her head up and get on with things.  We did converse just yesterday, as cities away we both lay on our respective couches watching Jerry Maguire, text-commentating on when Tom Cruise got weird and about Renee Zellwegger’s character’s lack of fashion sense, and she texted with many exclamation marks that she had completed assembling a flat-pack desk thingy from Target.  “I did it all myself!!!!!!!! I did it without *****.  I don’t need him to complete me.  I complete me.”  That’s the spirit, thought I.  But my Romantic Self spasmed with sadness, I don’t want Me to be the greatest love of my life, and I know Smidge doesn't either.

I know she’ll be fine, but it is an interesting concept, don’t you think?  Being constantly left dangling, without plan or agenda, is far more hurtful than being stood up as one’s Ex and his Muffin exchange bodily fluids an arm’s reach away; it’s mentally more demoralizing than a couple’s Christmas squabble; it’s there, chipping away at her confidence with every hour of every day he doesn’t bother.

So remember Datin’ City Folk, if you truly like this one, make the effort.  Go out of your way to bring her/him a coffee; text her to ask how her day is going/text him to ask if he has eaten; make plans; do things that you wouldn’t normally do; meet her/his friends.  It shouldn’t be hard, it’s easy, because you will want to.  That drive, the desire, that pounding in the depth of your stomach that scares and delights and fires you to make someone happy, makes even difficult tasks a pleasure.

Post Script: In researching whether to spell yo-yo with or without a hyphen, I stumbled upon the Urban Dictionary's version of Yo-yo: abbreviation of "You're Own Your Own."  How apt.  Poor Smidgen.

Gone With The Optional.

A dear friend reminded me of some old wisdom this week: Don’t make someone your priority, if you are just their option.  I had heard it before; I’d seen it as one of those e cards that decorate my Facebook feed daily, yet apparently I had failed to apply this sage advice to my own life.  Perhaps seeing the words wasn’t enough; they had glazed over my pupils without actually penetrating my retina.  Hearing it though, in a voice intended solely for me, the unavoidable words finally pierced my eardrum and the harsh syllables seeped into my addled brain.  The blinding, deafening fog that had swirled suffocatingly around my cerebral walnuts like ambien-in-vapour-form, was sucked out of my cranium and down the vacuous telephone line.

Click. 

My head was clear. 

I had merely been an option.

And.  That.  Felt.  Shitty.

Now, Dear Reader, you know I have a Scarlett O’Hara complex, and no one is cheering as loudly as I when Scarlett finally, FINALLY gets it, and realizes she has been wasting her late teens, twenties, early thirties, and three and three quarter hours of my life, on spineless Ashley, who never bucks up enough balls to tell her straight he just isn’t interested.  No one wants to take ol’ corseted Katie Scarlett by the hand as much as I, and sprint her along, through the fog, to get to Rhett before he packs up and leaves.  No one is as inconsolable, when Rhett—who does have balls, mighty big ones judging from his Civil War escapades—tells her it’s too late, delivers his “frankly, my dear” line, sets his hat on with finality, closes the door and leaves Scarlett a weeping soggy mess on the crimson velveteen carpet—sniffling snot without a handkerchief.  And all our beloved, flawed anti-heroine has left is her home and a little smidgen of delusional hope.  But shit!  Her head is clear!  She knows what she wants now!

Well, sucker punch!  What took her so bloody long?  Having sat through this film countless times, having read my mother’s hardback 1960’s edition, how is it, why is it, that I and countless of my LadyKats, prioritize the “Ashleys”--the wrong people--and why do we let “Rhett” slip off to Charleston?

Why do the “Ashleys” do it and why do we “Scarletts” fall for it?  And why does it hurt so much?

It’s not simply a case of falling for the bad boy.  “Ashley” could by no means be called that.  He is the not the villain of the piece, he is just confused.  Actually, I think a lot of men I meet are confused, bemused, disenchanted and discombobulated.  So when “Scarlett” thrusts herself upon him, throws down the relationship gauntlet, he freezes like a cornered animal and does nothing.

 Now, I cannot pour myself into any male brain and dissect it’s inner workings—that would be like ice-skating blind-folded through a maze, possibly with David Bowie moving walls and unleashing goblins to trip me up and shit.  All I can do is make an educated guess: I think Ashley likes the attention; I think he doesn’t know what to do with it; I think he wants to keep his options open; I think he is scared of the outcome should he tell her the truth, that’s he why he doesn’t give her a definitive answer.  I think perhaps he likes the idea of someone fun and exciting to flirt with, perhaps she makes him feel good.  But so does a foot rub, a 2007 Chilean Merlot, a roller coaster.   He chooses when he uses those.  He controls when to start and when to stop.  It’s harder to do that with people. 

That’s the problem with them, you can’t just pick them up and put them down, unless there has been a conversation, an agreement.  I do know couples that agree to keep things loosey goosey, partners of convenience, fuck buddies, come-panions.  How fabulously grown up and uncomplicated!  But when one does give a damn, and the other doesn’t, that’s when such a laissez-faire relationship starts to bite. 

Conversations involve talking about feelings and futures—subject matters most chaps would swallow live eel to avoid—so I understand why most would probably opt for the “do nothing, say nothing” school of Ashley Wilkes.  I mean, Scarlett makes it pretty bloody obvious, and yet he just toils in the woodshed, sighs, blathers on about the past and continues to lead her blindly down the garden path.  However, it only keeps her on the hook, the lure ripping more of her insides.

“Hey, I really like you.  I think you are rather awesome, but I am going to pick you up and put you down when I feel like it, okay? ” Translation: I am not committed to this idea; you are NOT my priority; I want to keep my options open.  OH!  Pink fluffy hearts and cuddly rabid bunnies, you’re an option!   That’s so… nice.  And yet, even with this type of conversation—which, I feel I should attach one of those popular, “said no living man, ever” tags, I can’t imagine this frankness would keep many partners interested.   Hence, I can understand why calling a spade a spade, or rather, calling an option an Option, is avoided.

 I am yet to meet a woman who is content to be just an option.  Actually, I am yet to meet a man who cares little about his pecking order, and in my recent blog one reader commented: "the undivided, undistracted, and un-preoccupied stare of a beautiful woman in our arms makes us feel, well, pretty frickin' quacktastic." http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2012/10/gloria-steinhem-sunk-my-ship-in-which-i.html#comment-form  So men, just as much as women want to feels special and lie in the arms of someone, without either checking their i-phones.  So why do we put up with it?  Because we are victims of our passions: when the spark is ignited, it can take a ridiculous amount of neglect and abuse before the flame burns out.

Now, of course, I can’t speak for all womankind.  Many of my LadyKat friends don’t stand for it.  At the first sign of being optional, they cut communication and never concern themselves with someone so undeserving again.   Alas, I cannot.  But I am trying.

 If I could just switch my brain off; if I could just attend yoga for once in my life and actually manage to empty my mind and not think about such-and-such, and all the wonderful things he said and did, before he was a Michelin five star shit sandwich; if I could allow his behavior to speak for itself, and not try to excuse it, interpret it, or explain it away; but the cogs continue to turn, and thoughts produced are foggy and selective.  My rose-tinted memory prefers to remember the times of priority: of relentless text messaging; the space under the shoulder that seemed designed to fit me; the ridiculous terms of endearment; and, so fogged, sometimes a brain can’t focus on the present less-romantic reality.  

Perhaps, when blinded, we make it easy to be an option.  I know I have said, “Sure, that’s fine.  You go and do whatever is more important.  I don’t mind.”  OF COURSE I MIND!  I HAVE JUST STRAIGHTENED MY HAIR!  I have freed my time for you, you buffoon!  We don’t like it and yet we accept it.

No!  Stamp foot, throw expensive ceramic straighteners!  Being an option, ladies (and gents), shouldn’t BE an option!  Just say, no!  So, maybe it is us, we, les femmes, who need to be honest and tell such-and-such or whoever just what we expect, without being a diva or high-maintenance, just giving chaps a few easy to follow “directions for use”—and we all know, men won’t ask for directions, but they really, truly NEED them.    I know I have previously harped on about being direct--and how I find that as appealing as a lobotomy—but, as my friend counseled down the telephone line: “relationships work better when expectations are defined and not merely hinted at.”  Yes!  Amen to not being left dangling!   This would solve so many of the mind games and paranoia-inducing text silences, if terms were simply outlined.

I’ve written before, and I’ll type it again: telling people straight and potentially hurting their feelings is a courageous thing to do.

This serves for any kind of interaction with another human being.  I know I have pussyfooted around telling a girlfriend I don’t have time to see her.  It’s not that I don’t want to see her, she’s tons of fun, but we have completely opposite schedules and our stomping grounds and social circles are very different. 

She invited me to a dinner party once, and rather than my usual, “Samantha, I can’t, I’m busy,” I decided to appease her and said “yes, I’ll really, really try to get there at a reasonable time.”   Well, wouldn’t you know, that was the evening when the audience was late, so my presentation ran over and then they had questions… and I had answers and … I arrived three hours late.  The dinner party guests had departed.  The dishes were draining on the sideboard.  And one very pissed off friend sat arms-crossed at the empty table, eye brows raised and stare indignant.  I had kept her as an option, I hadn’t made her a priority, and she knew it.  I should have said straight off, I can’t come, but I didn’t want to let her down.  And that is exactly what I ended up doing, x100.

She’s given me some tough love too.  Samantha thinks I should take time to make friends a priority.  And I wish she understood, that I do make time, it is just that she is working when I am not!  So maybe, making something or someone a priority is just more complicated than the adage makes it seem.  Relationships always have back story and baggage, so filing people away in column a) Priority and column b) Option, is “not that easy, Scarlett.” 

Yes? 

What am I saying?  Bollocks, no!  The truth is unavoidable, if you are important to someone, if they treasure you, they will make time for you, whatever the baggage and back story.  So I’m off to juggle my schedule, to call Samantha and meet her for a drink and a long overdue catch up.

 Have you optioned someone who prioritizes you?  If so, life is short, maybe they deserve your attention.

The Love Boat Sailed without Me. (Bugger.)

”I find it immensely incomprehensible that I have such beautiful and talented children both of whom are totally charming, who have been given everything we could afford, not to mention time, effort and a fair amount of dedication, and neither of them can find happiness at 33 and 34 when your Father and I had been married for 10 years by the time we were your age.  Is it really so much more difficult these days or are your expectations so much greater now?  It's a puzzle for which I can find no solution.”

This was the email from the Motherland that got the cogs a-turning this week.  The words swam in front of my eyes—no, I wasn’t drunk—and have been grimacing at me like ever-buoyant synchronized swimmers since.  “IS IT REALLY SO MUCH MORE DIFFICULT THESE DAYS OR ARE YOUR EXPECTATIONS SO MUCH GREATER?”  It is a puzzle, isn’t it?  Not just a personal one, but I look to my fabulously single, independent, go-getting female friends and we are much in the same boat, rowing as hard as we can against the tide, and still the good ship Happy Union sails further off into the sunset, every month more of our few remaining egg passengers jumping overboard.

Egg Overboard!

It’s not that we don’t want to catch up, climb aboard, be thrust against the rigging and sail away.  We are willing.  We are capable.  So what keeps us anchored in the row boat not the Love Boat?  And have we had enough of this metaphor yet?

Lordy, this whole discussion make me a Milestone Failure!  Is this like when Paediatricians monitor a baby’s progress: the motor skills, the cognitive skills… all that stuff that I have caught strains of when mothering friends hum over their child’s development.  Do I need remedial class to get me up to speed?  Am I… a relationship retard, doomed to never graduate?

*Gulp*

I think not.  So, in my defence Mum, here’s my take: 
Greater Opportunities + Risen Expectations x Social Media Misinterpretation + Fear = ...........................................Relationship Fail.

It isn’t 1962 before the contraceptive pill was widely available; or 1968 when the Civil Rights movement gained the vote for African Americans; or the 70's, 80's and 90's where few women could ever dream of earning salaries like their male equals.  Sure, did women have jobs?  Did you have jobs, Ma?  I know you did, I know you worked hard, but the options available to you were limited, weren't they?  Teacher?  Nurse?  Receptionist?  Retail?  Things HAVE CHANGED.  There's Oprah!  

Seriously though, the playing field is evening out and women can be million entrepreneurs too.  I know, I work with largest group of female self-made millionaires in the US.  I think too, there is immense pressure to be self sufficient, to fly the nest, to "make it in the world," to escape the unenviable label "Gold digger."  Was there so much pressure then?  There certainly wasn't Kanye West.

I do know some who rely on parents or partners, but most of the women I know don’t have that luxury, and frankly, I wouldn’t take it if I did.  I feel it is a matter of honour to be able to support oneself, and on the dating market, does a man really want to shackle himself to financial dead weight?  A woman certainly wouldn’t.  In fact, a potential date having a job is an essential criteria for many of women, myself included.  Not to support me, fuck that, but having someone in your boat who doesn’t help row makes being an Olympic team hard frigging work.

So, as career women, we do have other focuses that sometimes—and I know this is hard to believe—do not revolve around a penis.  Now, I do think this can hinder relationships.  Some want to feel needed, but instead feel unnecessary; some are intimidated, instead of impressed; some view it as a competition, and not a team sport; and that is sad.  Come on guys!  

Personally, I love a hard worker.  I believe if a chap puts effort into giving his best at work, he is going to be primed to achieve at all things, and will put effort in with you—of course, this notion can completely backfire if he uses up all his “effort” and saves none for anyone else, but I think of effort as a renewable fuel.  

There are some jobs, of course, that are mutually exclusive to having a relationship, that is a choice.  That is about priorities, and when man or woman excludes a potential partner over work, well he just didn’t care enough to make a change.

I do work bloody hard.  I do have obligations, but if you ask me out, or invite me over, and I want to date you, I will move heaven and earth to be there. 

Opportunities are not just limited to career, either.  The World is that much more accessible now.  We travel, we adventure, we meet people far, far away; all those years parents were busy getting settled down, my generation has spent traveling, working, damaging their liver, possibly picking up a strange tattoo or STD.

And in seeing this bigger picture of the world, in being more connected than ever, our horizons have broadened and expectations have risen.  I don’t think my expectations are unreasonable, but I do know what I won’t put up with.  I have seen and read of relationships of my parents generation and back further, that were certainly not happy marriages, but partners settled and put up with it.  My generation doesn’t have to.  Life is too short.  Unhappy?  Fix it by all means, but if it is unfixable, move the fuck on.  I sound very laissez faire there don’t I, like marriage is something you can dispose of like a lemon of a car?  I don’t wish to.  I think marriage is a wonderful thing.  The Parental Unit have been going strong for 42 years, and *nausea alert* are still each other’s best friend.  Aw.  But there were rough patches.  I remember sitting up in my fleecy pink nightdress listening to them, and I wonder, if divorce hadn’t held such a big stigma then, if it wouldn’t have caused such an almighty, unacceptable family stink, would they still be together?  I know I don’t settle with mediocre, because life is a waste if you wake up every morning next to someone who doesn’t even see you anymore.

Then there is the added naughty little pixie: social media.  Now, I love social media, I do!  For reaching people and maintaining contact, for building a platform, no writer could, or should be without, but can that naughty pixie bite you in the arse?  Oh baby, I have the scars!  Writing a blog, can be an effective way to scuttle trust, intimacy and commit relationship suicide.  I have perfected the impossible: serial suicide!  

Blogging has also helped to identify those who really support me and those who don’t give a shit.  When someone I am dating, but might not be on a sure-footing with, comments about my blog, it is such a wonderful feeling to know that he has taken the time to actually read what I think!  Maybe he's just scanned it to see if I have mentioned him again.  I don’t care!  He’s read it!  Or bits of it.  And I could just kiss his face off!  When he doesn’t read that’s a sure-fire sign, he doesn’t want me enough.

Texting has got me into an unnecessary black hole of miscommunication.  How can it be that a service that is designed to help one communicate, only seeks to royally misfire when it is in my hands?  A cell phone in my hand is a bit like a grenade. 

In my mind, Texting Eleanor is hilarious!  She is witty!  She can be ambiguous!  She can be sexy!  She can, with just a little diminuitive on his part, unravel her heart and surprise herself for doing it.

What I have been told by recipients: Texting Eleanor is cold!  She is disinterested!  She will die alone with a collection of ferrets, scary porcelain dolls and a drawer full of battery-operated appliances!

HOW CAN THIS GAPING CREVASSE OF MISINTERPRETATION OCCUR?  I had to chuckle when a friend, with whom I had a brief dalliance, posted this on FB. 

Comedy Central Stand-Up
Get More: Jokes,Joke of the Day,Funny Jokes

Had it not been for gross misintrepretion of text silence, and general assumption of disinterest, we might have rowed together for a lot longer than we did.

For all the “time, effort and fair amount of dedication” that my wonderful mum put in to training me into a socially acceptable individual, she did teach me to keep my heart guarded, and you know what, sorry Mum, but I think this has only succeeded in confusing and infuriating.  

From an evolutionary angle, if a male is surrounded by females and he has to work hard for the attention of one, versus those who don’t “play hard to get,” it’s not worth his time to convert one when he could be having relations and furthering his genes with the others.

The Southern Carrie Bradshaw, Mandy Hale, The Single Woman, said, in an interview to YourTango.com this week,  "I think men really are as simple as they proclaim to be and women want to make them more complicated, because we tend to be more complicated. We tend to be over-thinkers and over-planners, and we always have something deeper going on that we may or may not be willing to share.”  

Maybe we, as women, need to shuck this corset of mystery and just bloody well say what we mean!  I know I don’t ask out right.  I hint and cross my fingers that he will pick up on a cue, because it's more romantic.  But, Oh dear God burn my macaroons and fill my shoes with puppy poo, he may NEVER get it!  I may die old and alone, and out of batteries, because I am waiting for him to interpret my subtext.  So, Mother, I am going to start asking for what I want.

For some, learning to ask and diving in, can get easier with age—I hope so for me; for some it gets more difficult, due to age-related FEAR.   Let’s face it, at 30+ we’ve heard the horror stories: the so-and-so or whoever being raked over the divorce court coals; the spouse who turns into Mr. Hyde; the philanders, the cheats, the home-wreckers, the traitors, the pool boys … all these ghouls described with relish around the bar, or café, or camp fire, to inspire caution and fear.  But it’s a Catch 22 isn’t it?  At a time when you really biologically need to be giving it all, pulling those oars with all the strength you can muster to track down that ship on the horizon, you stop rowing.  Because wouldn’t it be awful if you tried and failed?  Wouldn’t it be tragic if you didn’t catch up with the boat and everyone saw you miss it?  Fear is paralyzing.  It's better to look cool, right?

Wrong!  I am casting aside fear *wipes hands* *throws over shoulder.* I'm blocking my ears to the horror stories *la la la, I can't hear you* and I’m making my own story.  And there will be great career advances, adventures and, I am sure, miscommunications in between.  However, if I can try to be direct, forget the fear, and just keep my eyes wide, my heart open, my intentions honest and efforts renewable, maybe my little row boat will eventually catch up.  And when it does, maybe it won't be such a puzzle, maybe every piece will fall into place, exactly as it should.

Not So Souper! In which I discuss, Lame Game Consomme.

Lordy, how I’ve missed you! I know, I hang my head in shame, but I’ve been AWOL--Avoiding Words on Love--for a reason, because reading my current Saga of Self-Sabotage would be like taking contraceptive, birthing, or etiquette advice from Snooki.  It is bad for your health.  Don’t do it. 

So I removed Self from commentary, but then something happened, dear Reader, something that so incensed, so infuriated, that my livid life-paddles charged and jolted my rotten, ruined writer’s heart into action!

She has a pulse!  Yuppers.  My pulmonary pumps again and has sent emergency supplies to the dark, neglected, wordy whorls, flushing the cobwebs of unused adjectives into the rapids of my mind;  rafts of inspiration hurtling dangerously throughout and coursing straight to my fingertips. 

“What the Fuck?  What the fuck?  What the fuck?”  I didn’t say that they were eloquent words gushing to my digits.  They were, however, incredulous ones, fitting for commentary as to the actions of species Unbelievable Neanderthal. 

Here's the back story... I tend to work weekends, just as much, if not more, than weekdays, but still, even I feel that Pavlovian conditioning when Friday night comes around: that yearning to be out, to be doing things, meeting people; exercising elbow and jaw in perfect social unison.  It’s a beautiful, beautiful thing.  I am not 90.  Or 60, or 20.  I don’t need to “party,” but neither do I need to crochet or study my eyelids.  OR MAKE TOMATO SOUP!

My friend, “Samantha” is very much of the same mindset, if not more, so when Friday night rolls around... whoa there Shep!  Samantha heartily believes that life is for living; that you should do and see and experience all the world has to offer; that you should seize the day, or the man, NOT THE FRUIT DISGUISED AS A VEGETABLE.

Samantha is dating a man, let’s call him “Norman.”  I have not met Norman.  I like to think that Norman is a swell bloke, that he appreciates her joie de vivre, that he is chivalrous, charismatic and kind.  (I have not seen or heard evidence of this, but I hope.)  

So here's the scene: it's a sticky Friday night in August; the outside bars are hopping; festivals and fairs are boasting their usual summer fried buffet of ethic oddities and curious cover bands; pools are open; lake-lounging is commonplace; in short, there's shit to do!  Imagine, therefore, my incredulity and fist-thump to the pulmonary when I listen to a pained, wince-worthy, message from mi amiga at 7pm on such a Friday. 

The Pained Heart or Sigh No More, Ladies. Arthur Hughes

“Hey E.” *sigh* “So… guess where I am driving?” *Heart-heavy, disappointed voice—v. unlike Samantha.*  “I’m driving to Norman’s mother’s house, to MAKE TOMATO SOUP.” *insert embarrassed titter bordering on hysteria.* “Yes.  Soup.  I promised I would make an effort and spend time with him and I said “Sure!  Let’s do something Friday.” He told me he had plans, but I was welcome to join.  PLANS!  He said he had PLANS.  Since when does making tomato soup with mom constitute PLANS?”

It’s a very good question, Reader. 

I laughed as the unleashed torrent of words surfed through my brain, and then came the guilt, because my fabulous friend was so disappointed.  This was the guy with whom she really wanted to make it work, but he was, indeed and in fact, LAME.  I sighed with her.

I’m not writing to bash anyone, but to ask an important question in the hopes that we Singletons can evolve and learn from Date-Foolery: is “cooking” with mother an acceptable Friday Date Night?

 Now, before you think me a hideous Date-Snob, let’s talk about what a date is supposed to be and what most women, and men, want from a date. 

A “date” according to the Free Dictionary is, amongst other things, “an engagement to go out socially with another person, often out of romantic interest.”  EXHIBIT A.

A “date” according to the Urban Dictionary is, “two people” uh huh, not three, “getting together for an activity when the possibility of romance between them has been broached but not ruled out.”  EXHIBIT B.

But let’s say, you chose not to go out socially, because your pet Chihuahua has separation anxiety, or you haven’t been paid, or you’ve indulged in a Food Network marathon and now have mad cooking skills, and a tantalizing new recipe for creamy chicken and asparagus risotto.  You can impress and entertain your date with a nice intimate evening at home!  Or maybe, it’s your date who is tonight’s menu feature and you just want to be at home so you can refill glasses, drain inhibitions and get cosy!   

MMMM!  Sounds divine!  Yes, I accept!  I love to be cooked for!  There are fewer, more intimate dates one can be asked on.  Preparation and execution!  Creating, tasting, seasoning a dish and feeding your beloved is quite the act of love.  Or like.  Or lust.  Whatever.  It is some expression of care and is, to me, extraordinarily sexy; so a chap who knows and loves his food, and wants to share it with me, immediately earns kudos.  Bonus points if it's an interactive date where I can help, and lick things.

Food Porn, by Chala Jan

Once Upon A Time, long, long ago, there was a Beloved who decided he would take me on a date to Mexico in his kitchen.  He blended frozen margaritas, we chopped and sautéed, we fed each other, we danced around the kitchen, guacamole flying to the ceiling as he swooped me up in his arms and licked sour cream from my cheek.  It was all quite 9 ½ Weeks.  It was Caliente.   But, two important factors here, Reader: firstly, no parents were involved, and therefore none harmed, in this Food Date; secondly, tomato soup does not a sexy entrée make! 

“Hey Baby, I make a mean…tomato soup.”  It’s just not sexy.  It makes me think of fingerless-gloves and ugly sweaters, not lusty longing and new third date lingerie.

And I do love soup.  In January.  When there is fuck all else to eat, but really?  Dude?  On a Friday?  In August?  My Inner Gourmand keeled over and just died.

Now, sure, a “date” is supposed to be to get to know one another, and I suppose crushing, stewing, simmering and canning tomatoes is an “activity” so it is bona fide, but is it sexy?  Not unless you are Anthony Bourdain spicing it up with a glug of vodka and inimitable style.  No.  It is not.  It is ordinary.

Oscar Wilde wrote, “Never love anyone who treats you like you’re ordinary.”  

I adore a man who shows up at my door, wine in hand, who will sweep me up into his arms and be pleased to see me.  He does not have to take me on an expensive date to impress me; we could go to Jitty Joe’s for ice cream, or a hike, or to the lake, a beach, get cosy watching a movie; or he could surprise me with paint samples and help me reach the places I cannot; or catch me on the ladder; or flick the loaded brush at me and tackle me to the drop cloth.  But we’d be together, just the two of us, a team, perhaps doing ordinary things, but making them extraordinary. 

I can only hope he wants to make the effort beyond the first fistful of dates.

So maybe I am being unfair to poor Norman.  Maybe tomato soup-making on a Friday night isn’t so very awful.  Maybe he had plans of Lycopene-Lovin’ with the fair Samantha.  But sharing with mother?  ON A FRIDAY NIGHT?  Let’s just say, the soup would need to be damn good.  Or, I'd have to be sick.  Or drunk.  Or both.

See, she clearly already deranged.  Don't let this happen to you, Reader.

Have you ever invited a date on a soup-making soiree?  Or have you been invited on a similarly surprising and perhaps bemusingly ordinary date night?  

If there is a next date, I really hope Samantha invites Norman to help her cut her grass.  On a Saturday night.  With her Dad.

And, if that doesn’t give Norman the message, my inner Mary Poppins has a special word to teach Samantha.  It goes like this:

"Soup-dates-can’t-be-vag-permistic-they’re-just-Mommy-focused.

Um diddle diddle diddle, um diddle aye…"