Thursday, February 24

Secret of the Universe

I feel like I’ve discovered the secret to the universe!

So, when I threw myself out last spring because I had decided to divorce Grimace, there were certain things to divide. Now, Grimace doesn’t have the income that I do, so in order to expedite certain things, I made some decisions that may not have been to my best financial interest. They were certainly to my best mental and emotional interest, but this is still paragraph one, and I’ve already digressed.

The FormerSpouse, while likely a perfectly decent individual, was not a participating member of our particular household. The puppies did more tidying up than did he. So, selling a house with him (including keeping everything spotless, the yard in excellent condition, and picking up after oneself) was going to be a MAJOR pill. To avoid having to do this, I sold the house to him for the balance of the loan instead of the value of the house. I didn’t ask for the equity from the house in the divorce settlement. In lieu of cash, I took his Mustang. (Just allow the joy of that moment wash over you. Heh.)

Selling the Mustang has been considerably less fun than taking it with me when I threw myself out. I’ve been putting it off since the moment everything was settled. Suddenly, with little or no effort on my part, it’s sold! The husband of VeryBestFriend was in the market for a play-car, and he and VeryBestFriend (VBF) decided to go for it!

Here’s where we come to the point of today’s entry. Well, we’re getting closer to the point, anyway.

My brother, Figgie Puddin’, whom I adore beyond reason, has been keeping an eye on this car for me for a few months. He’s had it parked in a garage downtown where he knows the attendant manager who has been watching out for it. (The Fig’s garage is full, and I live in an apartment, so this was the way to protect the car.) Before he parked it in the garage, he ran it into a curb. And flattened the tire. And ruined the rim. Goofball.

Anyway, VBF and hubby started the car-buying process with me on Sunday evening. I called the Fig Sunday night and told him to BE SURE TO have the car started (the battery had dwindled over the winter), out of the garage, very clean, and with a substantial substitute tire on it by Wednesday at 11:00 a.m. (VBF and hubby live two hours north of me, so either of them driving on a donut-spare-tire was not acceptable.) At 7:00 a.m. on Wednesday, my phone rings, and it’s The Fig informing me that he can’t keep the car running – the battery is just too dead. We had suspected this might happen, so I had given him my credit card the night before. I sent him to get a battery for it, so now it works fine; however, it still has the donut-tire. Not good.

Wednesday morning I spent far too much time on the phone calling around to try to make this all happen by noon. “I need a Mustang tire and wheel, and I need it by 11:00 this morning. Can you help me? Also, can you spot weld the muffler and tailpipe together?” Um, I have a DAY JOB that I needed to get to! So, I had to call VBF and hubby and tell them to give me another week. It was highly, highly frustrating.

Did The Fig have any idea where to get a substantive spare? Oh, certainly not. He had Monday and Tuesday off from work, but did he do any of that then? Oh, please.

The most frustrating portion of this story is the fact that I’ve KNOWN my brother for 34 years. I could easily have guessed that none of this would happen. Or, if it DID happen, it would be at four seconds to 11:00. But, hope springs eternal, and, silly me, I figured The Fig would come through for me. [NB: If I needed a kidney from my brother, I have no doubt whatsoever that he’d give it willingly – and in a timely manner!] Most everything else carries almost no value for him, though, and I could have predicted the delay. VBF’s hubby was really gracious, and agreed to pick up the car next week.

Oh, finally, a point.

Because I was SO frustrated, I called the folks. They know, understand, and love both The Fig and myself. I told them the whole sordid story, and then said to Dad, “It’s amazing how you’ll suspend reality to give the benefit of the doubt to someone you’re really crazy about.” He agreed.

Then I said, “I guess you guys learned way quicker than I did.”

“Noooooooooooooo,” he said. We laughed.

Then, it hit me! “THAT’S how people stay married for a lifetime! They are willing to suspend reality about someone they’re crazy about!”

Dad agreed. (He and Mom have been happily suspending reality for 39 years and one month.) Later, I talked to Mom about it, and we think I may have truly hit on something. If one person does something magical for your soul, you’re willing to totally overlook the fact that they have don’t know what a dirty clothes hamper is, that they constantly crack their knuckles, or have no idea how to do things earlier than the eleventh-and-three-quarters-hour.

While “brother” and “spouse/significant other” are not even close to the same thing, I thought you might enjoy learning how I discovered the secret to the universe. And sold the Mustang.

Wednesday, February 23


I like this template, but I can't add any more of my girls (or boys) over there on the side without jacking things up royally. So, hang in there with me while I learn more html.

And thank you for your support.

(Remember these guys?)

Monday, February 21

To Possibilities

Recently, Judd (of the JuddHole) posted a little something about the "list" we all have for everything in our heads. And I quote, "Everybody walks around with their own preferences, needs, and wants concerning just about anything. Depending on what you're looking for, be it a new car, pair of shoes, or Love, you have certain things that you are looking for that you are unwilling to compromise on." Sure, I might not have ended the sentence with a preposition -- but on the other hand, I only got intimate with this concept, the no-compromise one, say, last effing week, and it appears that Judd has had a grip on that for a while now. In any case, my grip on the no-compromise concept arrives a touch too late for Marriage Ver. 1.0, or Marriage Ver. 2.0. Thank God for second, er, third chances! (Sidebar: I know some of you are saying, "Stacey, don't you know never to buy a point-oh version of ANYTHING??? Always wait for the upgrade.")

So, I give you my list of non-negotiables for a partner and some commentary. (Thus working in both my love of the list, and my love of pontification.)

  1. He will be as smart as I am. Because, to quote Sissy LeBlanc, "Don't ever marry anyone who isn't as smart as you are. He'll spend the rest of your life making you pay for it."
  2. He will truly get it. There is unbridled joy in my life. It's splashing out every-damn-where. He needs to see it, know what it is, and participate in it. To be specific, he will be able to look at The Numbers and me while we're under the influence of each other, and just appreciate the giddy laughter. He will be able to sit at the dinner table with (my best friend) Beth's family and me and take joy in the fact that, even after all these years, Beth and I still sort of speak our own language, and it is a great little mystery he's witnessing.
  3. He will have a life of his own. There must be something he has that gives him energy and happiness. As much as he'll be able see my joy, I'd like to stand back appreciate him in his own life, as well. Sometimes, I'd like to be able to enjoy just the sight of him having a great time or accomplishing something stellar in his career. And sometimes, I'd like to hear about the fun afterward. 'Cause being there isn't always necessary, and is many times desireable.
  4. He will be extraordinarily alive. In this case, an example is far more effective than an explanation: if you've read Judd's blog over the last several months, you know he's a superb example of this trait. Somehow, he's hyper-willing to have, experience, and express emotion, be it good, bad, or suck-ass. Evidence of that level of passion in another person on this planet literally makes my chest ache. (Yes, literally.) Alive, even while being a complete assmonkey, is amazingly desireable. (Sidebar: The fact that he's on full-on hot motherfucker in the kilt truly has nothing to do with this.)
  5. There will be no need for me to trim my sails. One of the most difficult and precious things I learned in the last year is that the liklihood of my finding this person to be my partner over a lifetime is real damned small. Yeah. Rough realization. However, the precious part is this: I'd rather be myself and be alone than pare myself down so that I can be partnered. To quote Lloyd Dobler, "I'm looking for a dare-to-be great situation." Anything less will just never work for me. And I make no apologies for that.

All that being said, it would be fun if he was so physically beautiful it made my mouth water. But, since all "pretty" gets you is an interview, I'm good with almost any wrapping on the package.

Here's to the possibility of any of us really and truly knowing our own list of non-negotiable items, and the perseverence to say "no" to "pretty good" so that we can have "amazing" when it's time.



I forgot to mention that there are other things that will tell me "he's the one," including, but certainly not limited to, the ability to keep the hell up with my family; knows how to fight, share, and make up; understands the phrase "I'm running low on hit points"; and knows that dinner in a restaurant is a time to try new things... and share them!

Also, I stole "my love of the list" directly from Allie.

Wednesday, February 16

More of me-me-me

Or, a lazy-girl's blog entry.

  2. WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE ARTICLES OF CLOTHING? My sparkly shirts and any time I buy new shoes.
  3. THE LAST CD YOU BOUGHT? Joss Stone and Marc Broussard for my Dad for Christmas.
  4. WHAT TIME DO YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING? As late as I can. Usually around 7:30 on a school day.
  7. FAVORITE COLOR? Red, bright acidy green, black, purple, and this new blue I'm enamored with.
  10. FAVORITE CHILDREN'S BOOK? If You Give a Moose a Muffin and Velveteen Rabbit.
  13. IF YOU HAVE A TATTOO, WHAT IS IT? A beautiful crown with pink light shining on it.
  14. CAN YOU JUGGLE? Not even close.
  15. THE ONE PERSON/PEOPLE FROM YOUR PAST YOU WISH YOU COULD GO BACK AND TALK TO? This changes all the time. Today, I'd really like to talk to my great grandfather, John D. Moss.
  16. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE DAY? All of them.
  17. WHAT'S IN THE TRUNK OF YOUR CAR/TRUCK: Leftovers from my last roadtrip, and, amazingly, that's all! I finally cleaned it out before the Numbers Summit.
  18. WHICH DO YOU PREFER, SUSHI OR HAMBURGER? Hamburger. Or, more specifically, the pimento-cheese cheeseburger from the Vortex!
  20. WHO'S LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? I know where you live.
  22. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FLOWER? Stargazer lillies.
  23. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE MEAL? Ones that I don't cook. (I'm really looking forward to having the young man cook for me at my house!)
  24. WHEN IS YOUR BIRTHDAY? August 2.
  25. DESCRIBE YOUR PJS. My purty birthday suit!

Monday, February 14

So, my take on Valentine's Day, then.

Until now, I have hated this day with a superb intensity normally reserved for child molesters and rapists.

But, see, I don't anymore. And, while this post will probably wander into the slightly sappy, the outset I have in mind isn't sappy at all. I chose my position. Me. I did it. And I did a good job, this time.

My position is this:

I am single by choice.

Last year at this time I was at my Mom and Dad's in Florida. They had only just moved there, and I was helping my mother unpack boxes while my dad finished up working in Indianapolis. I was morose. I couldn't stop thinking about how really I should have been down there with my two little daughters, trying to keep track of them and laughing with their Grammy, my mom, instead of actually getting any unpacking done. I knew with my whole heart that I'd never have the girls with my former spouse (the McDonaldland Character), and I knew my marriage was coming to an end (though I couldn't admit it quiiiiiiiite yet.) When Grimace sent flowers to me at my folks' house for Valentine's Day, it was like a sad joke. I distinctly remember perking up a little bit and thinking, "Maybe there's still hope," because he was not famous for thinking of me once I had left the room.

I am exponentially less lonely this year than I was last year at this time. (Is it possible to be exponentially less something?) I wake up in a home where NOT ONE PERSON is ignoring me every day directly to my face. My bed is comfortable and warm and I've gotten a good night's sleep because I didn't have a large, hairy, snoring tornado in there with me. There is still milk and cereal and orange juice (yummm) in the house that I can eat for breakfast. (OhyesIsuredid have to hide cookies in my glove compartment just so I could have some.) Everything is where I left it. A reasonable amount of towels are used each week. The laundry is always caught up. Hmmm, it's starting to sound like I actually cared about the towels and the socks on the floor; I didn't. It's just a nice bonus.

What I do care about is that the main person in my life last year -- my husband -- is no longer in my face NOT offering love, not offering encouragement, not offering support, not offering to be proud of me for my little accomplishments, not offering to find me charming when I am. Hell, he wasn't even offering consciousness or rudimentary participation. You know, that kind of thing puts a real damper on the whole sex situation.

This year, I'm free to offer those things to myself, or to find someone else to help celebrate me. This works wonderfully. In fact, if I ever married again, (say when I was 57 or so,) I'll still depend on myself or people of my choosing to help celebrate what God and I are whipping up in my life. The bigger the party, the better!

So, party on, ye happily coupled. Good for you. I'm happy for you. And I mean that. Not only that, I predict that I'll BE one of you, one day. BUT FOR TODAY, I'LL TAKE MY CHOICE.

Having the best friends on the planet doesn't hurt my attitude, either. Numbers, queens, verybestfriends, and family: You're the force behind my being able to stay this happy. Because even the gleefully, blissfully solo still desire the love.

My Senior Year of High School


[What year was it?]1987

[What were your three favorite bands?]I didn't have any before college except for The Eagles. Ever the timely music obsession!

[What was your favorite outfit?]Probably some kind of jeans and a very long sweater with long "pearls" or a long scarf.

[What was up with your hair?]The whole bi-level thing.

[Who were your best friends?]Beth.

[What did you do after school?]Worked on the newspaper.

[Did you take the bus?]I drove The Magic Bus. Until I totaled it.

[Who did you have a crush on?]Senior year... um, David A., probably. Perry, maybe? Eric M. for sure. I swear I do not remember this very clearly.

[Did you fight with your parents?]naw.

[Who did you have a CELEBRITY crush on?]NO idea. That was a couple three years after my Scott Baio phase.

[Did you smoke cigarettes?]Nope.

[Did you lug all of your books around in your backpack all day because you were too nervous to find your locker?]No.

[Did you have a 'clique'?]Choir and Journalism and Youth Group. Are those cliques?

[Did you have "The Max" like Zach, Kelly, and Slater?]What's a Max?

[Admit it, were you popular?]and by popular you mean tormented, right?

[Who did you want to be just like?]Beth and my brother.

[What did you want to be when you grew up?]I didn't know. And still don't, for the most part. Though, I obviously wanted to be married enough to do it twice! Heh.

[Where did you think you'd be at the age you are now?] married, kids, dogs, house. I have NONE of these, and I truly have never been happier in my adult life.

(*stolen from april's blog )

Friday, February 11

Les A-B-Cs.

Accent: Horribly Midwestern.

Bra size: 44 or 46 DDD

Chore I hate: Toilet cleaning. You know this if you've been paying attention.

Dad's name: John Michael

Essential make-up products: Mascara

Favorite perfume: Aromatics Elixir by Clinique or Coriandre by Jean Courtier

Gold or silver?: Both

Hometown: Don't have one.

Interesting fact: I sing pretty well.

Job title: Security Analyst

Kids: None that I know of.

Living arrangements: Blissfully Solo!

Mom's birthplace: San Jose, CA

Number of apples eaten in the last week: 2

Overnight hospital stays: Two.

Phobias: None

Question you ask yourself a lot: I used to ask, "What's wrong with me?" But now it's "Could I BE any cuter??"

Religious affiliation: Your basic fundamentalist Christian nightmare, except different.

Siblings: 1 younger brother.

Time I wake up: As late as possible. Around 7:45.

Unnatural hair color: Once had some HORRIBLE red. I looked like hell.

Vegetable I Refuse to Eat: brussels sprouts, lima beans. UGH. (Though, I always TRY brussels sprouts, because I keep thinking I'll like them eventually!!)

Worst habit: Eating poorly.

X-rays?: As needed.

Yummy food I make: I make a mean breakfast.

Zodiac sign: Leo

Commence with the making out!

I have to hurry and get something up here before the other numbers have it all covered and I’m just sitting around going, “Yeah, what they said!” Not that that’s all bad, ‘cause those girls just rock, you know it? Who would have guessed that five grown up women would have found their soul mates after school was all over and we were in our mid-to-late twenties, and early-to-mid thirties? [See: Hedwig.] Seems like I’d have been friends with this group as long as I’ve been friends with my Beth, which is OVER 20 YEARS. (Oh, sure, we’re not quite as young as we used to be, but we’re still damn cute.)

Anyway, so there we were, Lola and I, driving up to the summer cottage (yes, that’s what it is when you’re vacationing at Allie’s) and there’s these two hotties flashing us their bras! With the big boobs IN ‘em! Now, I ask you, what says love more than a good flashing? Nothing, that’s what! Not a damn thing.

So, of course we all kiss and hug and cry and hug and cry some more and generally giggle ourselves silly ‘cause we’re finally in one another’s presence… except for the Rock Star, who is stranded in a lil’ place called Commerce because the WonderTruck has quit working. Ugh. You know the picking-Christel-Up Story from her account of the situation; except that I have to add she’s 100% spot-on regarding the extent to which Christel and I must laugh while in one another’s presence. Talking on the phone is virtually useless, because all that happens is the big happy laugh over and over again. Do you know anyone who is like a giant, sparkly, ball of light and energy? That’s our girl. Being in the same room with her makes my life better.

So, on the way to get the Rock Star in Commerce, I lie in the back seat of my own car, (which by now I’m frankly a little weary of,) and tell the girlies about my fabulous Thursday-night date. [That’s all the details you’re getting, dear reader, except to say that he’s, seriously, the cutest man I’ve ever seen and 24 is definitely not too young.] We meet up with the Rock Star, load her luggage into my car, and Sexypants Allie drives us on home, where the Ottoman Cake is waiting. I don’t mean a cake from the Ottoman Empire, people. I mean a cake the size of an ottoman. Good night nurse, that thing could kill something if hurled with enough force. But damn, was it good! Second only to the fried chicken that my very favorite Holly Homemaker on Crack cooked up earlier that day.

So, when we’re all in one location, we hug and kiss some more and then start with the stories. What good is being together if you can’t tell the stories. My favorite part about us is that the stories are about US. And occasionally about some peripheral character. See, when I was married to Grimace, he used to think we talked constantly about HIM. Um, not so much. Mostly we stand, sit, or lie around, eating yummy foods, drinking the Maker’s, and saying stuff like, “Could we BEEEEEEE any cuter?” (No, we could not.) Then we tell a story of how cute, or clever, or darling we are, and the rest of us cheer.

Then we rest up so we can be properly thrown out of a Tattoo Parlor the next night.

More later! Promise.

Thank you!

For your comments on the new templates... I'm under construction, and I have about half of my Numbers Summit typed up. Stay tuned!

Wednesday, February 9

Understanding Women 101: Lesson Two

[Yes, the Numbers Summit is still on the way... I just fired this off quickly this morning, and I wanted to post it before Mr. S posts toooooo many more things on his blog so that the whole 101 thing is buried!!!!!]

On to the lesson.

I swear, you're making this too easy, Mr. Savant.

I totally agree that there is truth in sarcasm. My comments here for your personal enjoyment and especially for your edification.

1. Please learn to work the seat.

Boys need it up, girls need it down. When no one is using it, it should be completely closed, which means you nasty girls leaving it up are just as silly as the nasty boys leaving it up! Who wants to see the inside of the toilet when they aren’t using it? Anyone? Anyone? Most men probably don’t care one way or the other. Therefore, I give you this important note: If you aren’t the primary caretaker of the interior of your home and your mate is the primary caretaker, he or she gets to make the rules on how the toilet is left. Guys, if you want to clean the toilets and the surrounding floors (and do all the other interior work) you get to leave the seat up with NO PEEP from the girl!

2. Crying is blackmail.

Crying CAN BE blackmail. But for the most part, it’s an expression of emotion: mostly frustration, frequently anger, and sometimes sadness. Any woman using tears for blackmail should be shot directly in the face on behalf of those of us who are genuinely expressing an emotion.

3. Please ask for exactly what you want.

Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it! Nothing, nothing, nothing could be truer than this! Most men are very literal creatures. Sadly, we women have this whole fairytale belief that if we have to ask for it to get it, it’s not romantic or some other bullshit. NO, NO, NO. Asking for what you want or need, in the man’s native language, is NOT unromantic. It exponentially increases the odds of us getting what we need. I ask you, girls, do you want your relationship to fit some fairytale thing you believed as a child, or do you want it to be satisfying? If you voted for satisfying, I welcome you to womanhood! Ask for exactly what you want. (Sidebar: I also recommend this approach in the sack! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!)

4. When you come to a man with a problem, expect his first reaction to be to try and solve it.

My dear girls, this is why we have each other. The sooner we learn to tell the right person for the reaction we desire, the sooner we’ll be at peace. So, if you want a solution, tell your mate; if you want sympathy, tell your girlfriends. There is NO CRIME in looking for what you need for a source other than your mate (um, except for sex). There is also no crime in asking your mate to reserve the “helping” portion of the program for a few minutes and just listen to your pain. That being said, if he’s no good at simply listening for a few minutes, get it somewhere else, and concentrate on those areas where he’s great! (Especially if it’s sex and/or toilet cleaning.)

5. Headaches that last 17 months are a problem, see a doctor.

YA THINK? I personally had sex with the McDonald-Land Character I was married to just so I could have SOME sex. If you can go 17 months without, I need to know your secret.

6. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument, especially if it is totally out of context!

Anything you said six months ago most certainly IS admissible if you never resolved it. If you didn’t resolve it back then, that’s the fault of both participants. If you’re both grownups, you know that nothing is ever really resolved, and what you actually do is learn to accept and love the differences. This approach requires two adult people who are highly conscious. Out-of-context arguments are for the woman who does not know how to argue. Or how to win.

7. If you think you are fat, you probably are. Don't ask for our opinion.

Once again, I must say that any woman asking the question, “Do I look fat in these pants?” deserves the answer, “YES!” Don’t ask stupid questions, girls. Please, please, dammit please love yourself enough to know how you look in your own effing clothes. (Sidebar: In my own personal case, I look fat in everything ‘cause I AM. Thankfully, I also look darling in everything, also ‘cause I AM!)

8. If you ask a question you don't expect an answer to, you will probably get an answer you don't want to hear.

I was confused by the construction of this question. (And I’m sure I’m not alone.) But, let me say this. If you’re a grown-ass woman, the following will be true: you really don’t need to know what he’s thinking at any given time. If he’s silent, he probably really isn’t thinking about anything interesting. (You really think he’s curing cancer or coming up with the next great way to give you an orgasm up there? No, he isn’t.) Leave him to his silence and you keep thinking about George Clooney or whatever makes you happy. Smile at him occasionally to reassure him that you’re fine.

9. You may ask us to do something, or tell us how you want it done, NOT BOTH!

All I know is if you have someone who will actually DO the stuff you ask him to do, then shut THE HELL UP about HOW he does it. Also, mister, get to steppin' on that project, will ya?

10. If we ask you “what's wrong?” and you say “nothing,” that's what we will go with.

This is corollary to the do-I-look-fat-in-these-pants question. If he asks and you say “nothing” he is off the hook. Period. If something is wrong but you don’t want to talk about it right then, you say, “I’d like to talk about it later. Thank you for asking.” Really.

11. Anything you pick to wear is fine, REALLY!

Awesome! I’ll be making with the green pants and purple shirt and the 4-inch earrings then. And you’ll give NO QUESTIONING LOOKS. Get me, men?

12. You have enough clothes, and you have way too many shoes.

You get to have an opinion on this topic if:

  • You’re the one buying the clothes.
  • You’re the one buying the shoes.
  • You have one, and only one, cordless screwdriver.

Uh huh. That’s what I thought.

Soon-soon-soon with the updating.

And the lowdown on the Numbers Summit.

Until then, let it be known that I am:

Fun Sexy

You're funny, quirky, cute, and sassy.Guys always have a great time with you, and that alone is sexy.You've got an upbeat, optimistic spirit that totally shines through.Any guy would be crazy to turn you down! What Kind of Sexy Are You? Take This Quiz
Find the Love of Your Life (and More Love Quizzes) at Your New Romance.

Thursday, February 3


I'm so excited I could just pee! As you have probably noticed, the NUMBERS are getting together at the home of #3GA/Bitchcakes. I am not sure I've been this excited since my voyage to the parade in Jackson, MS where I got kissed on the cheek by Gerald MacRaney. (More on that another day.)

All I can tell you is what the others have already said: stock up on beer and vodka, because we'll be having the rest of it, that's what. [Sidenote: I will NOT be drinking margaritas this time, because I think we all know just how painful my hangover was last time. As #3SC/TX said, I was S.T.Rugglin'. Thank God #4's Big Gay Husband fed me greasy breakfast foods.] You'll also want to stock up on cheesy and fried things, because we'll be having the rest of those, too.

Also, be very, very jealous, because there will be dancing in the den, making out, and picture-taking. (Allie and I have been threatening to take a picture of us kissing to frame for our respective living rooms for about two years now.) We're gonna laugh so hard we almost throw up, then we're gonna laugh some more. Then we're gonna cry (because that's what we do.) And, you know what? We're going to just be under the influence of one another for a few days.

Seriously, I'm probably going to break into tears at the sight of my Allison who has truly been the voice of humor, acceptance, encouragement, and quasi-reason (because who wants the serious kind of reason) over the last year of my life. I truly, truly do not envy the rest of the citizens of Atlanta, because the high-pitched squeals of delight are going to set the dogs to howling, don't you know!


Tuesday, February 1

As Requested: Understanding Women, 101

Actually, our dear #4 M'Ary* did weigh in on understanding women earlier, but I'll use 101 as a course number for now.

Understanding Women, 101 - Lesson One

Our dear friend Mr. Savant gave us some pointers on understanding the male of the species and his ability, desire, and flat-out need to flatulate. (Personally, that word cracks me straight up.) You're gonna need to read about that here before you proceed. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Now then, while I certainly do not mind a good fart discussion -- hell, I'm currently experiencing my second adolescence, which means that sometimes I'm a 14 year old boy who finds them hysterically funny -- I do wish to highlight the difference regarding farting, and, er, compliments. While I'm hardly offended by ye olde farts, I admit to being a touch irritated regarding the need for using them as a mating call. Please trust me when I tell you that I'm NOT disputing its natural part of food digestion. I mean, who am I to argue with universal design? I'm simply saying that a huge part of the understanding of women is found in this phrase: PERCEPTION IS REALITY.

Principally, for this discussion, if the woman next to you does not perceive the flatulence to be a compliment, it simply isn't one. Does this make sense? I am most definitely not doubting that it is intended as a compliment of sorts. In fact, I understand the intent; however, this is approximately the only area known to humans where we actually get MORE of you, rather than LESS of you once we make some type of permanent bond with you.

Allow me to elaborate, from highly personal experience.

When we're dating:

  • You're charming and chatty.
  • You'd never think of passing gas in front of us, because it isn't polite. (We think you're smashingly polite, as a result.)
  • You worry about how you look and how you smell before you come to see us.
  • You make plans for us to do things when we're together.
  • You call the restaurant and the comedy club for reservations.
  • You bring flowers or other small items to us to demonstrate that you were thinking of us while we were not in one another's presence. (Even if you didn't know that's what you were doing, that's what it is, because that's how we perceive it. NB: It's not about the flowers!)

Now, once we dwell in the same household:

  • You really don't chat as much. This is an indication of intimacy for men, and an indication of disinterest for women. (Look it up, any random Venus and Mars book will tell you it's true.)
  • You fart around us and think it's funny that you're impolite. Perception/reality, remember.
  • When you come home from work, you sometimes leave your icky work uniform on, and then sit on the clean furniture. You certainly don't shower or apply cologne, 'cause "We're not going anywhere, are we?"
  • You don't have any idea how to make dinner reservations, though, the phone seems to be working.
  • You no longer bring flowers. NB: But, it's still not about the flowers!

So, allow me to explain something else. Not so bitterly, now. The lists above are just little reminders of what we (and by "we" I mean "I") got less of once I married Grimace. However, I'm still willing to -- someday -- consider a permanent bond with an adult male human. Please understand: well-adjusted women know that men and women demonstrate intimacy differently. Therefore, we don't need to declare "You pig!" when you pass gas if, and only if, we are both making an effort to demonstrate intimacy in the other's style. Here, Moose and Squirrel, I give you the examples.

  1. Men do not usually need much of a warm-up for the sex. Women usually do. We don't mind that you don't, just REMEMBER that we are different than you are. Make an effort to come toward us on this.
  2. Men don't need to relate crap from their work day, usually. Women usually do. Just remember that we are different than you are. Make an effort to come toward us on this.
  3. Women don't think farts are hilarious. (Well, except for sometimes.) And men usually do. We need to remember that you are different than we are. We need to make an effort to go toward you on this.
  4. Men tend to talk less as a sign of comfort within a relationship. Women talk more, almost as a rule. We need to remember that you are different than we are. We need to make an effort to go toward you on this.
  5. Men tend to talk less as a sign of comfort within a relationship. Women talk more, almost as a rule. YOU need to remember that we are different than you are. Make an effort to come toward us on this.

I think you get my point, here. And that is, if you want to understand women, understand that a compliment is only a compliment if we perceive it as one. Oh, and that we're just different. And that's okay.

Eh, not as funny as I'd hoped, but informative, nonetheless.

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