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?

FUCSSUE. In which I read something I shouldn't have.

I read something that was not meant for me today.  I didn’t mean to, but I did.  It wasn’t like I picked the lock on someone’s diary—I am not twelve—or that I scrolled through their text messages—I am not jealous soul--but it was just... there and I just… oh whoops, read it. 

Of course you can’t “accidentally” read something, can you?  It reminds me of the Sandi Toksvig novel Flying under Bridges: "How do you get accidentally pregnant?  You don’t just fall off a stool and accidentally land on a penis, do you?"

Reading takes intention.  You have to focus your eyes and string the words together, your brain makes a choice to do that.  You could, at any moment, stop yourself after that first “oopsie” word; realizing it’s not for you, you could close your eyes, turn off the computer, throw your hands in the air and wave ‘em like you just don’t care.  You could.  But would you?

You see, Facebook chats being left visible; texts popping up, readable under the nose of someone they are not meant for; texts sent to the wrong person, it happens every day.   I have heard many of the Closests lament to me that they have sent or received or left messages visible for an Unintended.  And then they have laughed, or cried, or both.  Ah Technology!  You can be a cunning little fucker when you want to be. 

There’s a term for this Reader, it’s a Communicatory Fucssue: a fucking issue, that literally, “fucks you.”  I have never really been exposed to this kind of exposee.  Well, not in adult life.  As an annoying little sister it was only my duty to steal into my brother’s bedroom and try to read anything that was specifically not meant for me.  An invasion of privacy, certainly, but don’t worry, I was always on the receiving end of a sound beating after every reconnaissance mission.  How did he always know when I had been in his den?  How?  I was always so bloody careful!   I was like a seven year old pink ninja, in a leotard, ballet shoes and gloves.  That scene in Entrapment with Sean—GRRR—Connery and Catherine—Queen of Wales-It should have been me-Spartacus-Zeta-Douglas-Jones, sliding and crouching and planking through the security net of laser beams?  That was me!  Yet, every bloody time:  “ELEANORRRRRR!”  I would hear yelled with obvious I’m-going-to-beat-the-ever-living-shit-out-of-you-you-little-turd tone and I’d be up like a character in the Hunger Games listening for the direction and speed of his footfalls and sprinting in the opposite way as fast as my little pink legs would carry me—never fast enough—and I would always be apprehended, upended and tackled to the ground, my legs kicking uselessly in the air and screaming for Mum.  Yeah, ninja.  Completely.

Perhaps it was this early, painful punishment of childish curiosity that made me resolutely, vehemently fanatical about others’ privacy.  I have never read anyone else’s mail, email, texts or FB messages without their approval, or rather insistence, that I should for some reason.  In fact, I like to think that I veer the other way; when the Pavlovian conditioning, that makes me look to the cell display on the table as it illuminates and vibrates, is finally overridden by the realization “Oh shit!  That’s not my phone,” my neck almost snaps to look away in the opposite direction.  Messages are only supposed to be seen by the sender and recipient, right?  Right.

But this, this bait and lure left visible on my own computer was just too much. 

Let me set the scene.  Papa Smurf, known to some as Michael Caine, has been visiting his favourite daughter.  Well, his only daughter.  Oh we’ve been bonding (by that I mean eating and drinking) and aside from the pressures that a visit around my busiest work time of the year, multiplied by the aggravation of uncooperative household projects, we’ve been having a jolly good time, I think. 

But it’s hard, when you have lived independently from your P.U. (Parental Unit,) not to get a wee bit claustrophobic.  The '1's On The Ridge is hardly Wayne Manor; I can't send him to the east wing, the billiard room or the library.  I don't have a TV to plop him down in front of and distract him while I get on with things, so it's a smidgen awkward.  Writing this has been the most constantly-interrupted piece of all time.  I can only look at the screen for so long while he is talking at me before politeness kicks in and I have to break away again.  I have, however, put specific days and evenings aside to see my Papa—I was feeling very Good-Daughter-Cordelia-Smugface about this.

Dad has become reacquainted with the area and has been enjoying the company of my friends.  I threw a dinner party—okay, he cooked, but he likes that, and it was my idea; I threw another party, complete with St. Germain and champagne, and a veritable fromagerie of cheese—I may be crap at throwing balls, but boy do I like throwing parties; we’ve been to jazz at Bazil, Blues at the Back Yard Ale House, I took him to Gannon’s for beers and wings, what more could a darling daught do?  I did shit, People! 

And I was obviously doing a bang up job, because..."recalculating"... Papa Smurf 180-ed and decided that instead of buying a home and a boat in North Carolina, he will buy a home in NEPA!   I was rather surprised by this idea and the sudden geographical “U” turn.  Long have I thought about how nice it would be just to call my parents in the morning and say, “Let’s go for a trot around Lake Scranton and then out to lunch at State St!”  Many are the times that I have wished I was able to include them in a Bond Party, or Oscar Doodah, or seasonal shindig.  There are so many places I want to take them; so many people I want them to meet.  And yes, there’s always been that little silent speech bubble in my brain: where will you be if I have a baby?

But then the idea of North Carolina appealed too.  Oh, somewhere new to visit!  Somewhere warm!  Somewhere in the same time zone!

This new turn of events, therefore, made me quite discombobulated.  Did Papa Smurf really want to be here with the welcoming community I had fallen for; what about his boat, sunshine and retirement idyll?  Surely, thought I, both are mutually exclusive.

Yet, he is gung ho!  He has been salivating all over the property websites like I salivate over the cheese section at Wegmans.  He has been in cahoots with my darling friend Kathy Casarin from Coldwell and they have set up property viewings (without me)!  So, it's fair to say, Papa Smurf is serious.

It’s as we were discussing this around the kitchen island that he said, 

“Well, you mother has written me a long email about it.  She thinks I am giving up my dream of having another boat…” 

“Oh.  Well, round here it’s not really boating weather 9 months of the year.  And the local lakes aren't really, you know, the Atlantic Ocean.”

And that was that.  Papa Smurf went to the bathroom to continue the endless and soul-destroying many-layered wall paper stripping, and I clicked closed my lap top and toddled off to work.

Then it happened.  In my studio in Wilkes-Barre.  I opened my laptop, restored my Google Chrome and there it was: the email on MY Google Chrome.  Papa Smurf never uses my Google Chrome.  Papa Smurf always used the regular blue Windows Explorer internet dooberry.  But this time, he had logged in, and the tab was there, restored in front of my eyes.

I should have closed the tab.  It would have been easy enough.  But I didn’t.  After all, I was interested to know what dearest Mama had said.  I wanted to read her opinions on this sudden life changing decision.  And it was from Ma!  The person I know best in the whole wide world.  So, Dear Reader, Mum, Dad, I read it.

I won’t go into detail.  (I’m trying to make a point it was private after all.)  But, to read one's mother's carefully thought out opinions, including the concern that their daughter never has time for them and she probably will never have children anyway, made me realize five things:

• I must make more time for my parents.
• I really hope they move whenever they will be most happy, and if that is near me, I will be pleased.  We can always vacation somewhere warm with beaches and lighthouses.
• My eggs protest and heart fibrillates at such a death sentence.
• 2013 is going to be interesting.
• You should never use someone else's computer and leave your messages open.

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.