Chaos and Cupcakes

Madalina Ghenea

I need help completing the following:

The way to a woman's heart is.....

I raise this in the context of that old simplistic generalization:

The way to a man's heart is via his stomach. 

Let me be clear that I'm not about to defend - even in jest - this kind of  aphorism. To do so thesedays requires sixty-five pages of exceptions, eight declarations about domestic stereotypes and a dozen portion size disclaimers. What I will say is that any woman who presents me with a hot plate of beautifully roasted chicken, fresh green vegetables and a small serving of garlic mashed potato might find herself the object of my (relationship-appropriate) affection.

Just sayin'.


Here's one possible answer to my question.


Bottoms Up, Food Networkers.

I Want to Buy You Shoes. Not Really.

People are such sticklers for what's right and wrong to say on a date. Or what to/not to wear. Enthusiasm for strippers creates contempt. And honesty gets you ejected from the train one stop short of that.

Then again, there might be a reason why women react poorly to all of the above. Plus they hate manboobs.

Worth a read.



Bottoms Up, Over-Reachers.

Disinformation

Intellectualizing relationships makes for awesome dinner party schtick. Two reactions stand out:

I know! That's so true!

or

Silence.

The latter indicates that someone's feeling flushed-out or guilty.

Whichever.

We make mental lists of ideal qualities. She/he should be like this, look like that, think like the other. I'll know her when I meet her, she'll stand out like New York in Las Vegas.

In real life we meet prospects who kinda sorta fit our perfect template, and depending upon our level of desperation, we'll ignore whatever doesn't.

* shrug *

This is real life, baby, it ain't no fantasy. Eighty percent compatibility feels like it's the most we can hope for. That prolly goes for life in general.

However. There's always the however. Because the urge to be with someone (read: continue the species) overpowers everything, we are supremely adept at ignoring warning signs in prospects. He's a drug-using philanderer with a history of unemployment and using prostitutes. But he's my John now.

Settle. Go for it. Go on. But don't then expect your day in court when it doesn't work out.





Bottoms Up Deniers.

The Anvil

Gina Bellman photo credit.

I wouldn't have believed it had I not witnessed it with my own peepers. Some things are too jarring and discordant for contemplation, but here it was in front of me: proof that women are just like men.

Let me back up. In a bizarre twist of life, I find myself involved in an activity new to me, namely car-pooling. A new guy arrived in the pool last week - I hope he showers before donning his trunks just a lame 'pool' joke there but I have to do something to keep my sanity - joining my friend and I for a joyous two x forty minute ride. Every day.

To look at him is to be impressed. He's six-three or four (around .00057 Eiffel Towers for you internationalists) and big...by which I mean he's probably 300 ellbees. He is blessed with good looks - even I can see that - somewhere between a corpulent Colin Farrell and a gone-to-seed Clooney. But his looks aren't my point (even if they're his.)

An hour-and-a-half a day sitting in a car with a bloke pretty quickly leads to a character assessment. Is he serious or flippant, calm or emotional, a doer or a dreamer? Conversation leads to conclusions. I'll tell you what this dude is; he's an anvil. He's heavy, metallic and really not much good for anything. After a week, there's a lot of silence on our drive.

So it was with interest that I observed him out on Saturday night. He likes ladies, and even went so far as to offer that he is picked-up more than he picks, which I am shocked to reveal is true. In the course of a couple of hours I saw two women approach him and flash their interest. He is like an irresistible target for rogue women cruise missiles. They all want to blow him....up.

Once again I'm faced with having to question my thinking that women are more refined than men. Nope. They want tall guys with looks. That's it.





Bottoms Up, Ironsmiths.

He's a Sociopath, She's Quirky.

I had to look up the definition of 'sociopath'. Tossing around psychiatric terms with no knowledge can land you in Blogger Court, where there's no right of appeal. Better to bluff your way through or hire The Juice's legal team...which would be fine except that most them are dead.

In any case, never plead guilty - Blogger Jail is full of lying bluffing sociopath writers who know the real meaning of giving someone a cup of 'sugar'.

The qualities of a sociopath are so wide-ranging that not having one of them would disqualify you from the human race. And the most obvious skill is not mentioned, namely the ability to have six concurrent girlfriends and never call one by another's name.

That's truly superhuman.

Sociopath Profile from here [link]

# Glibness and Superficial Charm

# Manipulative and Conning

# Grandiose Sense of Self

# Pathological Lying

# Lack of Remorse, Shame or Guilt

# Shallow Emotions

# Incapacity for Love

# Need for Stimulation

# Callousness/Lack of Empathy

# Poor Behavioral Controls/Impulsive Nature

# Early Behavior Problems/Juvenile Delinquency

# Irresponsibility/Unreliability

# Promiscuous Sexual Behavior/Infidelity

# Lack of Realistic Life Plan/Parasitic Lifestyle

# Criminal or Entrepreneurial Versatility


Tell me you have none of these.




Bottoms Up, Empaths!


Pic of Lorraine Bracco from here [link]

Friends With Benefits

Her: I thought you wanted to be my boyfriend?

Wombat: I do.

Her: When?

Wombat: Not right now.


Expectations kill relationships. They're the rocks that wreck super-tankers and sailing boats alike. No relationship is safe from them, and no chart shows them all. GPS works perfectly most of the time, but without knowledge of where not to go, metre-accuracy will only tell you precisely where you ran aground.

The ocean called "Friends With Benefits" is one with an unusually jagged coastline. As enticing as the concept appears, I fear most of us compartmentalize the 'friends' and the 'benefits' as if they can be. Like a watercolour Venn Diagram in the rain, those two can only bleed into each other with potentially messy results. Art is rarely the outcome.

Doc30ty highlights my point in her post. [link] Her male FWB half clearly didn't include exclusivity in his mental image of FWB. His thinking was more Benefits with a Friend, dare I say an expectation at variance with that of our beloved Doc30ty.

There are three ways to find a FWB relationship:

Friends first -> add benefits.

Simultaneous creation of friendship including benefits.

Beneficiaries first -> add friendship.

Is one way better than another? That's not for me to decide. What experience tells me is that my expectations will differ from my lady friend's, and the problem with that is that we both think there won't be any complications arising therefrom.

This is the temptation of the FWB deal: the simplicity of it appeals mightily, but it's impossible for any of us to not expect stuff beyond the raw acronym. We set sail in light winds and smooth seas but wake that night to the sound of crashing waves on gnarly rocks.



Bottoms Up, Landlubbers!



Diagram from here [link]

Edited for tense and incorrect plurals, as well as overuse of 'variance' - the usual thesaurus of Wombat idiocies.

Rock Her World.

At first it's amusing, this habit of porn stars taking nominative determinative screen names. There's Anna Malle (RIP), Chesty Larou, Busty St Clair, and Shy Love, to name a few women. Nothing malign in that, of course, the history of false nommes is long and illustrious. George Eliot's successful books were written not by a man, but by Mary Ann Evans, who, amongst several other reasons, wanted to keep her affair with a married man secret.

Even bloggers sometimes choose to supplant their real-life tag with something more evocative. Ahem.

So it's not the fact of taking a fanciful name that plants the seed of doubt, it's the quality of the name. Really: John T. Bone?

This whole field speaks to how The Industry looks upon us, the end-users of porn, or 'mooks'. That's how they refer to you people who like a bit of video filth, by the way, which leaves even the cynics and manipulators from Hollywood looking like soon to be beatified saints - at least they call us 'the audience'.

The difference between The Valley and Hollywood is only a small range of hills and a slight shift of attitude. They're both after your wallet. One takes what they think is the high road, and the other one shows you the pussy. One makes you go to the movie theater, and the other has the decency to allow access from your computer. One says "...fuck you, this is the way you should think..." and the other one says...well, just choose your preferred hole.

Which brings us to Mr Seymore Butts. First negative: that name. Had he chosen 'Seymour', we might assume a modicum of cleverness. But he didn't. Which is the nub of porn's problem, that it's a caricature, a two-dimensional medium just close enough to possibly reflect real life, and yet it so obviously doesn't. He's a porn star of some standing apparently, boasting over six-hundred notches on his bedhead. That gives him more insight that the average mook, and he chose to let us all know how much insight in his recently published 'Rock Her World: The Sex Guide for the Modern Man.'

Mr Butts' book is a how-to for guys wishing to become as good a lover as its author. It's his way of giving back, I suppose, but giving back in the same way that the IRS gives back tax refunds; it's all your dough to begin with. Yes, he steps out in logical style running through the equipment and various techniques in the three sections of the book: About Him, About Her and About Sex. Diagrams and humorous quotes pop up at odd times (reflecting a porn shoot perhaps?) but the Kama Sutra this ain't.

His description of the Missionary position "Allows for total access to both her pussy and ass, plus it is perfect for eye contact!"

Or in About Her: "3. Knowledge of Your Anatomy. The more you know about your body and how it works the better!"

Frankly, I did not read every word in this opus. It's the same principle I use when playing Russian Roulette with a loaded revolver. Sometimes less is more. This is sexual information written by someone who has literally seen it all, but seen it all through the mindset of a thirteen-year old. And a myopic, anal-obsessed thirteen-year old at that.

Which is pretty much what porn is. It's Warner Brothers with an orgasm, Saturday morning cartoons on Viagra, or two-dimensional voyeurism watched on the basis that VH1 is only showing repeats today.

Seymore Butts? No thanks.



Rock Her World, The Sex Guide for the Modern Man, by Adam Glasser, AKA Seymore Butts. Published by Gotham Books, a Division of Penguin. ISBN 978-1-592-40447-6



This review is part of the Blogger Critics Network. (Note the name change from Blogger Review Network.) Next to review will be 30ty, of her Life Begins at 30ty blog.[link] Yes, I know this is a book designed for men, but you never know, she might pass it on to a male blogger after she's critiqued it for us.

Send me a good real-life mailing address, Doc30ty, and I'll send you this magnificent work.


Bottoms up! (Quietly.)


My pic.

Hot Clusters

Friends and acquaintances know that I had a stock reply to the the question:

Wombat, why did you leave Australia and emigrate to America?

I used to answer:

To find an American wife.

Perhaps it's my sense of humour, but my flip approach didn't ever work on the audience. Occasionally married guys would mutter:

Please. You can have mine.

I dropped that bit from the routine.

For some reason this thing about finding 'someone' features in conversations lately. Do I look like a need a woman to prop me up? Am I leaning? Do I look incomplete on my own? Is it last call for girlfriends?

Florida's the problem. Two kinds of single women inhabit my town.

1. The rich singles, who don't want to be 'A nurse or a purse.'

2. The not rich singles, who are looking for the (man)purse.

As a healthy, independent bloke neither of these archetypes holds any kind of appeal.

It's understood this is that kind of place. Men, therefore, and some women tell me of other cities they think would serve my purposes better. Lots mention Atlanta. Some (including ladies here at KnB) tell me the DC area is chock-full of lovelies. Honourable mentions include certain suburbs of Denver, New York City and coastal Southern California. (Hello Newport Beach!)

Single guys mention one place time and again. It pops up on internet searches and peripheral stuff like this [link]. Scottsdale, Arizona is the underground hottie capital of the United States. To think; a dry climate. What a wonderful change from Florida that would be.







Arizona Wildcats picture from here [link]

Mr Clean

With a couple of hours to spare around noon today, here's what I did.

1. Grabbed my caddy of environmentally friendly cleaning products (which, by the way, I keep close to me at all times.)

2. Collected, from my 'cleaning' drawer, micro-fibre squares, sponges and polishing cloths.

3. Entered the bathroom.

Working from the top down, I cleaned the tiles first, shower and tub. Then on to the vanity, which is probably the easiest part, although faucets can be tricky. Toilet next, making sure to get to all those idiotic curves at the base that those dumb toilet designers create specifically to confound us. Then on to the floor, where you would have found me on hands and knees with an old toothbrush cleaning the grout. Lastly, the mirror, door handles, towel rails and the shelves of the medicine cabinet.

I stood up after about thirty minutes and looked upon my work with pride.

A (woman) friend opined recently that, had it been her bathroom, I could have expected a blowjob at that point. Is this a common reaction, and should I start a high-end cleaning business?





No, that's not my bathroom pictured. [link]

Male stereos. Sorry, stereotypes.

Advertising is where we find the stereotype clearly defined. Here's how we men are dismembered by those high-priced creative types.

The hero. Powerful because of self-delusion - there go I, but for a few more gym sessions, and a bit more cardio.


Outdoors man. Control over nature...likely from the comfort of his car, looking at his wristwatch. Dubious.


Urban man. Narcissism plus money. Probably not getting as much pussy as he'd like.


Family man. Sweet. Hopelessly unrealistic.


Breadwinner. Misnamed. Should be called 'Branded-goods-loving trust-funder.' Who lives like that?


Man at work. Funny, they never romanticize cubes or horrid bosses or disgusting office coffee.


Erotic male. Ha ha. He's gay.


The Consumer. As long as he has some disposable income and isn't filing for bankruptcy.


Quiescent Man. Weird, that's on my to-do list. Right here. It says 'Buy Canali suit.'

At least they don't go down the path of men as semi-literate sports-mad drunken morons.

Wait.



Edit: Thanks to Doc Annie, here's how men can get all the women.



Thanks to these folks.

Stereotypical until you're not.

Characterizing people by way of a generalization works like any generalization - it must be accompanied by the rider that it is being used to communicate a big idea, and that individual cases will almost always vary. If you know anything about quantum mechanics, you'll see the connection here. In general, we know what an electron is doing, but we can only specifically nail down one of its two properties. We know either its momentum or its position, but not both.

It might be stretching matters to equate (perceived) human characteristics with quantum effects but it forces us to see a couple of points.

One, that language is important but imperfect.

Two, that language isn't what's real, it is merely a one dimensional snapshot of either a specific or a general idea.

So, what's this got to do with stereotypes? Well, they're useful, for a start. We all know what we mean when I refer to someone as a 'Jock'. But there will be considerable variation between each of the individual cases we conjur in our brains. (Many of us will be relying on the media here, specifically Hollywood, as a Jock is a peculiarly American case.) The Hollywood reference is important, because only in movies does the perfect Jock exist. In the real world, he's a mix of many different characteristics.

Stereotypes are valuable as long as we understand they work despite possibly having no examples actually existing. Our brains are agile enough to get that, in my opinion, because we recognize that matter is infinitely more complex than language, but that language is essential for communicating the complex.

Relationship Chemistry 101

Chemistry was my favourite class in high school. Lessons about electrons, valency and stoichiometry demonstrate how complex and how intricately beautiful our universe is. Plus there was the thrill of sharing the fume hood with Heather Peters. But I feel the knowledge of how matter works can be taken one step further.

Behold, the periodic table:



Incredible how the stuff that makes up everything you see can be so tidily summed. It's awesome, a statement which I suspect will toss me into the nerd hopper.

Notwithstanding, I believe we can use the periodic table as a cipher for human relationships. Let's start with the simplest transaction, that which powers the stars. Hydrogen, the simplest element, combines with more hydrogen to make helium AND lots of energy. We use that energy from our sun to get skin cancer and make summer. Does the idea of one and one making something special ring a bell? That's two people combining to make a family, right? (Note my PC stance please.) The sum of the parts is greater than the whole.

Here's another example: carbon. Carbon is the backbone of the human world, for we are carbon creatures. Carbon is getting a bad rep lately, but that's because it has the worst PR firm in the universe. Carbon is very stable, kind of like parents. They don't change much, always take our calls, and will be there when we need them. Without carbon we'd be nowhere.

Oxygen is a special case. Oxygen will bond with practically anything, making it the slut of the periodic table. Oxygen likes coupling - a quickie with hydrogen results in a sweet bang; an encounter with iron is a long, slow affair; and when she comes across carbon, the result is a great big political mess.

Elements combine in myriad different, but mostly predictable ways to create new entities called molecules. I wonder if humans aren't the same, combining all kinds of 'elements' in different and colourful ways to become the individual and distinct molecules we are.

Then again, I might have spent more time in the chem lab than was good for me. Boy, did I ever want to combine with Heather.



More on this topic: Stereotypes Part One, Stereotypes Part Two.

Nerds, Goths, Jocks, Dweebs, Motorheads and Geeks.

Attracting persons of interest - in the romantic relationshippy way, not the FBI way - is a perennial problem. Despite millenia of evolution and generations of practice, lots of us still struggle, and matters appear to be getting more complicated. Finding the right partner thesedays is like peeling an onion; there are many layers, and it sometimes ends in tears.

Miss Min elegantly describes her onion:

"I go for the nerd, hands down. But not the ones that still live in their parents' basement, have a lifetime subscription to World of Warcraft and list "Klingon" as one of their native languages. I like the ones that are slightly enigmatic, slightly socially inept, disgustingly intelligent and can match my aptitude for conversations in randomness."

This definition is remarkably well drawn. Having a clear picture is both a blessing and a curse, a little like eating the same thing for lunch every day. Nerd sandwich might be filling and nutritious, but when something really tasty and new pops up on the menu, you might not know it. However, having a starting point is, well, a good start.

That's my train of thought for this week: can we stereotype the kinds of guys ladies like, and what are those stereotypes?

By the way, Miss Min, your ideal guy sounds a lot like Ferris Bueller.



More on K & B: Stereotypes Part Two, Stereotypes Part Three.

Male Universe - or Universes

The question Doc Annie asked is:

When men DO put women at the center of their universe, why does it not appear that way to women?

I think - and am soliciting ideas from other guys here - that the answer lies in the way I, and other men, compartmentalize our lives in our heads.

We have the work compartment, the recreation compartment, the obligation to family compartment, our buddy compartment and so on. Wives, girlfriends and lovers fall into the sex and romance compartment, which has a possible common door with the family compartment.

Difficulties arise because as men, we can only be in one compartment at once.

If we are in the 'watching sports on television' compartment, that's where we are. Moving from there to the 'being attentive to my girlfriend' compartment requires us to get up off the couch, turn off the teev, put the dishes in the dishwasher, grab our jacket, walk out of the compartment, lock the door, walk along the hallway, locate the 'being attentive to girlfriend' door, find the key, let ourselves in, go to the kitchen, smell the air, look in the fridge, wonder how the game is progressing....and then see about being attentive to our girlfriend.

It's all about the unchangeable fact that I, we, can only think about one thing at a time. It's a limitation, right there in the handbook "Men: Your Operating Guidebook".

Here's a way for women to think about it. Men's minds are like a multi-story apartment building, with many levels, and many apartments. Each apartment is an abstract 'compartment' in our mind. Crucial to understanding this (sorry to belabour the point) is that we are only occupying one apartment at a time.

Now for the critical idea: because we are landlords overseeing a whole bunch of apartments, there is no unification of them. We cannot amalgamate all of these separate parts of our mental multi-story into one. All the walls are load bearing, so knocking one down creates problems for us processing stuff. It's like a clash of disparate universes; Lord knows how matter from one will react with another. Nuclear meltdown is entirely possible. For an example, see the previous post.

So when we say "You're the centre of my universe" what we mean is that you are at the centre of the "girlfriend/sex/romance" universe, not the one universe that is a woman's mind.

Women (again, I think) have minds like one of those atrium-style hotels with a big, big internal space into which all the rooms or apartments face. Y'all can have one centre of it all, with all the constituent parts (apartments) working together to create and view the shiny disco ball out there in the atrium. Onc centre, one focus.

Men have a building with corridors, hallways and back passages, linking many apartments, with no way of (easily) combining them into a whole.

That's the difference. And that's why when men say a woman is the centre of their universe, it doesn't mean the same thing. We're talking about two different and separate universes.

Even Einstein would be confused.