Good Advice from a Bad Boy

In mid July 2008 I had a lot of free time.  I lost my job and the kids were spending the Summer in Carolina with their father so I pretty much had one full entire month to sit around, evaluate my life, figure out what the hell just happened, etc.  I was writing some but I had no clue about the blogosphere as I know it today.  To occupy myself, I bought some books.  Novels, humor, entertaining reading.  nothing major.  But one book stood out for me.  The Manual.  By Steve Santagati.

The cover caught my eye across the bookstore.  Hot guy with I-dare-you eyes glinting over a smartass smirk.  hmmm?  what's this?  I crossed the room.  "A True Bad Boy Explains How Men Think, Date, and Mate - and What Women Can Do to Come Out on Top"  is that so, Mr. Santagati?  we'll see about that.  I flipped through some pages.  It looked funny.  Humorous I mean, not...unusual.  nevermind, you know what meant.  Anyway, it looked amusing, and common sensical and...I bought it.  And I ate the whole thing up immediately.

It was funny.  And common sensical.  And unapologetically straightforward.  It was a male point of view I had been missing for a while.  This guy wasn't trying to get me in bed.  He wasn't trying to avoid me.  He didn't know my X.  And wasn't married to a friend of mine.  Or old enough to be my father.  And he was telling me what guys look for in women, dating, sex, whatever.  All the things I'd forgotten.  or had old information about because I was too long out of touch with all the men I used to have as friends for this kind of stuff.

He wasn't some degreed professional quoting statistics and scientific terms about brain chemistry.  His tone was conversational and full of analogies and self effacing humor to which I related and found endearing.  He wrote like someone I could be friends with.

When I read Chapter 47, the Black Widow chapter, I saw myself.  Not myself at that time though.  At the time I read the book I'd put on 8 months of grief weight, just gotten fired and was in this weird victim headspace.  But in that chapter I saw the self I had been before.  The one who, at the age of16 years, wrote "Flirt to Live, Live to Flirt: A Survival Guide to Flirting for the Beginner" for my best friend because deargod she was awkward and she really didn't know how not to be.  That chapter reignited a spark I felt like I lost after life had kind of pummeled me.

Now, Steve's description of the Black Widow is pretty intimidating.  Unapologetically sexual, heavy on the nonverbal communication, excellent navigator of male territory and dressed with the intent to kill.  His version of this personality type is like my personality on steroids because holy crap that's a tall order to fill all the freakin' time.  It doesn't always come through...but my friends these days don't compare me to lava lamps and Venus Flytraps for nothing.  Black Widow.  I love it when things have names like that.

Reading that chapter, that whole book really, reminded me how attractive confidence is.  How it's okay to be unapologetic about who you are.  To be who you are out loud.  and I started to get my confidence back.  It encouraged me to not settle for whoever crossed my path just because I was bored or lonely or it was a slow TV night.  It made me want to invest more time in myself.  To have something to bring to the table if and when I ever did get involved with dating again.  And if the guys didn't want what I had to offer?  then they weren't worth my time.  really?  I don't have to change for someone else...for serious?  experts agree and stuff?  *exhale!*   (really though, that was a serious exhale moment for me at the time...so weird.  anyway)


Obviously, reading that book was not the golden ticket to some crazy amazing dating life, because if you've been reading this blog for more than a minute then you pretty much know I'm perpetually single.  but it gave me a different outlook on being single. 

The Manual was basically a well-timed smack upside the head is what I'm saying.   If you're a woman stuck in a rut and willing to take a look at yourself through the eyes of a guy who is kind of extreme about how much he loves life and women (and himself...which I don't have a problem with) yet is everyday enough to edit a typo you might point out in his blog [skyward looking whistle] ...then you might find The Manual useful. 

Or not.  Really.  Totally your call.  I mean, feel free to fight each other to the death over some idealized fantasyland dreamscape of what romance should be according to whatever Danielle Steele, Nicholas Sparks or the next Twilight novel has to say if you'd rather.  I'm just offering up an alternative is all.

He's got a website Bad Boys Finish First, and if you want to get me something for Christmas, I'll take the Side Saddle t-shirt.  Purple writing.  Size small.  thx.  But mostly I pay attention to his blog, Ask Steve Santagati. Depending on your circumstance, you may think he's oversimplifying, or oversexualizing things, but for my demographic, he's shooting from the hip.  He's talking honestly from a real life single male perspective and I appreciate that.

And he's nice to me.  So I'm feeling pretty loyal.  And even though his blog post today went in a totally other direction from the question I asked, I still feel certain that he will applaud the surgical precision with which I dispatch of the dude who keeps texting me even though I never gave him my number.

Little League field.  Saturday.  3 o'clock high.  It'll be like a movie scene where the guy gets sliced in half but it's such a clean cut he takes a few seconds to slide apart.  Because I'll smile so pretty he won't know what hit him til after the blade is back in its sheath.

Ruby Slippers

Hour number 50 something of not smoking.  we're still in hours.  I'm still unconsciously reaching for the pack and lighter like an itchy phantom limb.  Even though I don't really want it.  I mean, I'm not trying to convince myself I don't, I just don't.  but it's like muscle memory or something.  weird.  So, I'm reconditioning I guess?

I take a deep breath (way easier already thanks), rub the patch on my skin like a touchstone and remind myself this is not my hobby anymore.  I'd pop in another stick of gum too but my jaw's kinda achy from aggressive gum chewing all day.  I don't even like gum, it's just a place holder so I don't bite my nails to bleeding. 

So there's that.

I came across some journals the other day.  Journals I forgot I even kept from when X and I started dating and on through the split.  They were interesting to say the least.  Okay, more like cringe worthy.  At least at the beginning.  Because from mid 1997 to sometime in 2001 I was a zombie.  I can't believe I even had the presence of mind to write during those years.  But seeing what I wrote?  It was like I was on someone else's autopilot.  It was all this dreamy lovestruck knight in shining armor destiny fulfilling absolute motherfucking vomitous trash.  It's like I was lobotomized, but I was the jackass who handled the knife.

I convinced myself that the man I'd met would turn the world into rainbows and butterflies and the dirty tedium of everyday never even crossed my mind.  Or it did but I was going to somehow tra la la to the wildlife in a gleeful magic way that didn't include figuring out what to make for dinner and dealing with whiny children.  And I certainly didn't expect my knight in shining armor to have any other hobbies besides a regular Tee Time then racing home to shower boisterous devoted affection on me and the kids.  Whatever planet my head was on was a far far distance from the one we all occupy today.  Ward Cleaver didn't even live on that planet.  Not even Bill Cosby.  Maybe Danny Tanner, but I never even watched Full House because that show made my stomach turn so why in the...?

OMGWTF WAS I THINKING?!

*ahem*

But I started to wise up in the middle.  The turn is visible in the journals.  I start to question stuff.  Realized money wasn't everything.  Wrote "Better a crust of bread in a hovel than a castle full of strife" over and over again on pages and pages like The Shining.  fucking creepy?  sure.  Also?  true.  And it was pretty much all downhill from there and resulted in catastrophic events I would just love to tell you about except my moral gray area was more a cry for help than anything else and I'm not all that keen on the ruining of lives beyond my own at this juncture if that's alright with you.  thx.

moving on.

So, you'd think that recovering from a self-lobotomy like that, realizing I'd given all my power away for no reason other than I had no confidence in my own abilities and thought, "Hey, you're the most popular guy in the room.  Have this!" and handing over everything that made me essentially me...you'd think that I would figure out to not do that anymore, right?  Yeah, me too.  Notsomuch in the journals.  I met someone.  I was toast after a few emails. there was poetry involved.  it was plzshootme horrifying in retrospect.

Luckily I had something else going on at the time.  A non-relationshippy thing.  My first big special event fundraising project.  I was really involved and became the unofficial chair.  I fell in love with that event.  Poetry/email dude got jealous.  I kicked him to the curb. And the event made almost double the profit for the children's hospital than the year before.  The idea that I directly helped raise $40K was...I mean...I never did ANYTHING like that in my life before.  I rode that high for a while.

Special events became by niche.  I knew what I was doing, developed a pretty good reputation in that regard.  I was getting out in the world on my own.  Not riding the coattails of a popular husband or boyfriend.  And I didn't need anyone else's money or influence.  It was just me.  I changed back to my maiden name during that time and from Silver as a nickname to my legal first name for good and all.

But I couldn't get the boyfriend thing together.  Or the dating thing.  I'd see these charismatic men and be so ready to just lose myself because that was my pattern.  They had what I wanted.  Power.  And they were already established.  I thought if I copied them or did what they told me then I could have Power too.  It never occurred to me that I was wearing the ruby slippers the whole time.

People told me all along that I was smart and capable and praiseful things like that.  I don't know why I never believed it.  I remember telling X years after the divorce, one of the things that drew me to him was that he was the guy whose car would break down in some nowhere town and by the end of the day he'd be having dinner with the City Council and the mechanic would send him on his way for free.  He looked at me with the slow blink and said, "No.  That's you."

Um.  What?  No, but...that's...waitaminute.  I never thought of myself like that before, but it rang true and I knew he was right.  That's when it really hit me that the people we're attracted to in whatever way are just reflections of ourselves. 

So, now I'm riding the wave of this reunion praise and getting some attention from the male population and trying to figure out if I'm ready to test the waters of dating with the knowledge that I don't need to hitch my wagon to anyone else's star.  That I am good enough, smart enough and doggone it people like me and not try to look for someone else to show me the way.  because I know my path for real for the first time in a long time. 

And I've got friends like Audrey and Betty and you, le blogosphere, to keep me in check if I start spouting off with romantical bullshit too soon.

Oh, but no need to be on immediate alert.  I haven't been asked out yet.  Just a heads up if I start sounding love culty or anything.

Men Who Write

Reading men who write is like flipping through a catalog of possibilities.  I like it much better than online personals sites even though most of you are married.  Because personals sites are full of weird as shit people who can't even string together a sentence and don't even get me started on spelling.  mother of god that is atrocious.  This is not a text message.  You look like an asshole.  You're around 40 years old; don't ever type like that out loud.

Anyway, I have always been drawn to men who write.  My best friends in high school were guys who wrote.  They still write.  They're still some of my favorite people on the planet.  Men who have the gift of observation, especially from a completely different perspective, have a special place in my heart.

I know, this is probably strange to talk about just coming off a conference of over two thousand female writers wanting to find their own voices and enjoy being a girl and stuff.  But it's true.  I love surfing the Daddy Blogs.  And the not daddy blogs.  I just love reading the other team's playbook and knowing that thinking men exist in the world.  Because thinking men are attractive if not downright sexy.  From a thinking woman's perspective I mean.  Which is my perspective.  So...um...hi.

Look, I'm not trying to betray my gender.  I'm not trying to say I don't value your voice, ladies.  I do value your voice.  I love reading you too.  But I mean, you write, you know, there's something about a man who knows his way around a thesaurus. He can untangle thoughts in a way that makes you smile.  He can crack your head wide open and pour in things you never considered quite like that before.  He opens a door.  And opening a door is gentlemanly in any circumstance, really.  So, I'm a fan.

Anyway, from what I have read so far since I entered the sphere o' blog I am *this* close to constructing my ideal in my head.  Sorting through aspects from each, piecing them together in just such a way.  It's like a Weird Science amalgamation of thought.  It's fun.

And ladies, no need to get jealous.  Like I said, I am reading you too.  But it's far less likely to get physical between us at any point and I hope you'll allow me my fantasies here.  thx.

Burning with Possibilities

So, it's 95 million bajillion degrees lately, right?   Guess what.  I LOVE that.  I am what Dad's office manager calls "Southern Fried."  As in, if it's below 70 degrees?  I'll be wearing a sweatshirt probably.  95 degrees baking in the sun at a ball game all afternoon?  Hit me with some SPF 4, shades and lotsa water...I'm good. 

I haven't even turned on the AC yet.  Ants could have shorted it out again this year...I wouldn't know.  Fans.  Open windows.  Whatever clothing I'm forced to wear will be of the not-touching-my-skin-a-whole-lot variety.  Now, I'm not stupid enough to push a lawn mower through this visible haze of heat.  But you might find me sweating my face off weeding what will someday be a flower bed but still looks like a lunar landscape because I'm waiting for the outlaws to do the stupid garage remodel.  But I'm not asking them about that.  Not one word.  Reverse Jedi Mind Tricks have now taken the form of an old school air raid drill.  Black out curtains, radio silence, the whole nine.  Pretending like I'm invisible will cause them to take action way quicker than if I made a huge deal out of this.  What?  You don't want it now?  Listen, missy, you'll get that construction whether you like it or not!  oh, wait...not the point.

Anway, we didn't have Central Air when I was growing up.  I mean, everybody else on the planet seemed to but we did not.  We had strategically placed window units in bedrooms.  Only to be turned on at night.  Otherwise you ran your ass under a sprinkler or went to the beach.  I am conditioned for the hazy, humid heat that summer brings.  And I absolutely love it.

In other news, I had a delightful time goofing over at MamaPop about the MTV Movie Awards tonight.  I was so bummed that nothing was on TV...I was really thinking True Blood would start tonight.  hrrrmm...nope.  Then, thanks to twitter...Snarkfest!  9 pm!  Hell yeah!  Does it matter that I haven't even seen a movie in the theater since I forget when?  God that sucks.  I used to see every movie as soon as it came out except the scary ones.  I miss movies.  Whatever!  Apparently it doesn't matter!  I know who these people are.  I'm not dead for god sakes.  I can throw my two cents in about how Kristen Stewart = ugh and that's just fine.  Anyway...I joined in the comments over there and that was really fun. 

So fun that I am seriously losing it about going to blogapalooza.  Really.  Geeking big time.  Like, visualizing outfits and parties and conversations and everything.  I think I may even get (don't laugh) business cards.  (I heard that)  Why business cards?  I have no idea.  Oh wait, somebody suggested it in a blog post.  Networking!  I thought, "Really?  That's what you do?  Okay, well, I guess I should get some business cards then."  Which was a totally dumb realization to come to because I used to live outside of DC where business cards fly like confetti.  Of course I should get cards.  duh.

Anyway, this post doesn't really have a point.  I am thrilled that it's finally hot enough to feel like summer and blogapalooza has got me reeling with ideas. 

Working Theory

I have a working theory.  I have been developing this over years and it's not finished or anything and guys, MEN I mean, it might make you a little uncomfortable. 

I hypothesize that the guys who have the biggest, baddest, studliest reputations and who generally act like huge dicks...they are notsomuch with packing the heat in the downstairs area.  It's the quiet ones we have to watch out for.  Shy at first, sneaky sense of humor, intellectuals, you know the type.  Those guys tend to surprise you when it's Bow Chicka Wow Wow time.  In a good way.

I mean, compare it to this - boys with bee bee guns will act all tough and shoot at damn near everything in their line of vision.  The men with the missiles?  They got the great power/great responsibility memo.  Cold War anyone?  It's like that, y'all.  That's why I think Kennedy may have leaned toward smallish and Dick Cheney?  Built like a woman.

Not that I have tested this theory recently.  And certainly not on key players in the political arena, dead or un-dead (Cheney can't be technically considered "alive" anymore, right?  He's like, half robot or something?)  Whatever.  Audrey and I were chatting about this recently and I think it needs further investigation.  We may be looking into grants for a lab.

Of course there are exceptions to the rule.  I would assume.  That's totally why we need a lab.  I mean, come on, people fork over funding to determine if cows cause global warming...this is SURELY more relevant than cow emissions.

Anyway I came up with this theory sometime during a social boom in the early to mid 90s after becoming acquainted with one of the most renowned studs on my college campus.  He was practically legendary in his exploits, very good looking and super dickish.  I was curious.  Then I became confused.  This is what all the fuss is about?  Maybe I'm new but...um...

And then the theory reached Development Stage Two when I dated one of those shy-at-first types.  Total opposite end of the spectrum.  And yay me, by the way.  Just sayin'.  Not that it worked out well.  damnit.  Moving on...

Of course, gentlemen, size doesn't matter.  Nope.  I mean, it really doesn't.  That's not just something we say to make you feel better - but I won't say we don't notice for cryin' out loud.  Get real.  It's like boobs for you, right?  Big, small, whatever.  That's not going to make or break the deal for you, is it?  And if it is then I have no idea why you're still reading this right now.

Okay, so this is why Audrey and I want to start the lab.  Women need to know for good and all whether guys with cocky attitudes and flashy cars are overcompensating across the board and the nice guys are lacking some much deserved attention.  Which of course they are.  Nice guys who have no game are sorely under appreciated, but admit it, you do need to maybe work on your Inner Alpha Male a little...I'm just being constructive is all.

So, you're a guy reading this now and thinking, "Hey wait, I got into a couple fights back in the day and appreciate some off-color humor, but I watch (vampire/girly show) with my significant other and I have a soft spot for Field of Dreams.  What does that make me?"

It makes you a perfect candidate for testing! is what that makes you.  In lieu of fucking up your relationship, we'll just invite your wife/girlfriend in for an interview.  Because you know she'll tell us.  Women talk about everything.  Even to strangers.  The cashier at the grocery store knows more about your sex life than you do probably.  Sorry about that.

Anyway, we'll totally change the names from the lab testing to protect your identity when we get published in the ground breaking scientific journal that is Cosmo.  I will let you know when the grant comes through.  Pretty sure politicians will send this through immediately.  Although it might not be in their favor to do so.