Why Men Love Women

Lost in the tumble dryer of life is the number one reason men love women: you are different from us.

You: are the pink thong we found amongst our load of whites.

You: are the bird of paradise we discovered bunking in with our chickens.

You: represent the bouillabaissein a world of canned soup. 

YOU: are the blue-cheese stuffed olive that magically appeared in our whisky.


We recognize parts of ourselves in you. There's the day-to-day stuff, like breathing, eating, sleeping, cutting your toe-nails. They're all clearly recognizable.

Then there are the bits and pieces that we understand, but don't do ourselves: the endless fussing with hair, the individual driving style, preoccupations with inconsequential celebrities, capri pants. And of course there's the shit we simply sit back and watch in amazement: anything reproductive up to and including childbirth; catfights; multi-tasking and the complete mystery/wonderment that is the false eyelash.

Important to understand here is the subtlety of these things. It's the way you approach life that fascinates us. Your emPHASis is all different; up when ours is down; inside when ours is out; blended when ours is on the rocks. Fascination stems from the slight eccentricity of a view of the universe 15 degrees removed. And by eccentricity, I mean adorable quirk.

So if anyone tells you that the way to a better world is to be more like a man, think about this beautiful harmony we have with each other, and wonder why anyone would want it different.





Bottoms Up, make-up appliers in traffic.

That's Not a Killer Whale, Tommy, That's An Orca.

Married male friends enjoy it when I ask:

So, how's life in captivity?

The usual response is some form of personal insult.

Now, I'm not foolish enough to think that married men are unhappy, because the evidence is that they're not. They're wealthier, healthier and likely enjoying a more fulfilling sex life than any singleton. And if they're not benefiting from better and more regular sex, it's their own fault.

My captivity jibe contains just a tiny amount of truth, in that the natural enemy of the single man is his married friend's wife. Wives dislike and discourage single buddies for the same reason men obsess over chickweed in the lawn - exotic species are insidious reminders of the wild kingdom.

The way this tension often resolves is that men gradually give up single buddies. Given the choice between justifying a night out with single men and avoiding explanations to the wife, most will choose the latter. It's a mistake, to the extent that man's mental health is improved by the companionship of other men. The decision to avoid single guys altogether can lead to a decline in all kinds of male friendships; obviously a bad idea.

I think the real trick is to keep the single guys on a restricted venue basis. No titty bars, no big boozy nights, no questionable fellow travelers - and that's up to married guy enforcement. I'd suggest that finding a way to graft a prior single life onto married life before you actually get married is worthy of serious thought. Otherwise you'll find yourself feeling as if you're an exhibit at Seaworld, pretending to enjoy living in a bathtub eating frozen mackerel.



Bottoms Up, Seaworld Dwellers.

Underbody Rustproofing and Free Floor Mats

In the car game, they call it The Grind.

You sit in the salesperson's office while she pretends to cut you a deal. She - please call me Dee - makes you think that the dealership is about to give you the car by way of a special low price. The sales manager must be consulted. News returns that you've been blessed by the boss's largesse. Sadly, the company is making only making twenty-five dollars on the deal, but that's your good luck. Dee wants you to know she's struggling to make this month's quota, so a sale is a sale.

Now, let's talk about those extras. We recommend the underbody rustproofing and special paint protection. Buy those and Dee will throw in some floor mats.

Dating is the same. You fancy a particular girl who makes you feel right. She might be somewhat out of your league. You have prospects, a decent personality and no priors, plus you want kids. (Never underestimate this thesedays.) You make your play; a bid for her affections, with a view to marriage. She will get back to you.

We're all familiar with this dance. The difference between The Grind and dating is that women used to consult with their mother and/or father about your long-term suitability. I'm not so sure this happens any more. My feeling is that ladies will ask girlfriends or siblings or Miss Cleo. Or they'll say "screw that" and decide for themselves, taking charge of their own car dealership. 



Bottoms Up, Grinders. 

What Kind of Person is Google?

If we had the power to turn search engines into people, what kind of person would we shake hands with if Google turned biological? IMO, he'd be that guy who sits off to the side of the party, close to the door but away from the kitchen. When people ask "Where can I put my coat?" or "Is this beer cold?" he answers immediately without looking up from his smartphone. An Android, natch. He's dismissively inclined, dispatching we unclever mortals without even a smile.

Google IS a male. He LIKES direct questions, and issues direct answers in response, taking a kind of smug satisfaction in being right. Right is a relative concept in Cyber. Mr Google has no filter for the crass, nor discernment for subtleties of certain kinds of search terms. In that way, he's like a savant - knowledgeable without being smart. Like an immature male. Master Google rather than Mister Google?

And I wonder about his name. Master Google isn't Andrew or Tom or Stavros. He's not Shamal or Riccardo, and he's definitely not a Buddy. I'm tempted to call him Neil. As in Neil Armstrong, another emotionless numbers-butt who did amazing things but looks like a stiff in a bar. Master Neil Google.

I don't know.

What I DO know is that we need a female Google. Girl Google is a more emotionally-grounded and nuanced Google who tends more towards asking how you feel about the answer. We should call it Booble. Miss Booble is the girl-next-door who won the scholarship to a fancy university and ended up turning her pep into $600 per share. Miss B is probably hosting the party. She's catered amazingly - including Inuit appropriate snacks for her friends from Far North Canada - and gets to talk meaningfully with all her guests.

Miss B is totally the girl every man wants, but she is oddly attracted to the moody loner in the corner engrossed in his phone. He's short and cool. He's achingly aloof. He ignores all but her most direct questions. And she wants him with all her being.





Bottoms Up, Searchers.

Twenty Questions

I keep discovering that if you're going to be the kind of person who asks questions about strangers' private lives, it's best to have a ninja approach to the matter.

For example, from Sunday:

Me: Hello, my name's Wombat.

Middle-Aged Woman: Hello, I'm Liz.

Me: So you and Ray are a couple? (Motioning to man standing next to her.)

MAW: (Slight hesitation.) We're married, but separated.

Me: But you look so cute together. (Lying through my teeth)

MAW: (Looking at Ray, standing at her side smiling like a goof) It's complicated.

At which point she launched into a surprisingly detailed description of why their three-year old marriage slumped to its current state of them being cocktail companions, but neither sexual nor domestic partners.

Two points:

1. Age does not give people wisdom.

2. If you're going to ask personal questions, just launch into it. They're dying to tell you.




Bottoms Up Non-Sexual Married Couples!



Photo of Hayley Tamaddon pic from here [link]