She loves me; she loves me not. It’s a lot easier for me to believe the latter.
Archive for Table for One
A chap gets into the press pool covering a Victoria’s Secret event, and discovers that it’s not quite the palace of pulchritude he anticipated:
[M]any models, up close, are not actually hot. I know that sounds crazy. But in person, a lot of the VS models were more freakish than sexy. I am an average-sized fellow, so they all loomed over me in an intimidating fashion. Their limbs were like toothpicks, seemingly in danger of snapping at any given moment. They moved like gangly baby horses that were too leggy for their own bodies. And while some of these ladies indeed had lovely faces, many among them had mugs of such extreme angles and proportions that they ceased to be attractive — cheekbones cantilevering so far afield that they almost seemed like face-wings. I shudder picturing it now. I’m more attracted to regular, cute gals who are 5’4″ and have round, apple cheeks. Somehow, under the lights and in front of the camera, it all works for the supermodels. But up close, under fluorescents, not so much.
This is why you watch these things at a distance. Too close, and the illusions are swept away.
While I can’t say this is surprising, actually, it still stings a bit:
The US Navy has launched an investigation into allegations that some of the first female sailors to serve on submarines were secretly videotaped in the shower by a male serviceman.
According to an incident report written last month, the unsuspecting women were recorded bathing and changing aboard the ballistic missile submarine USS Wyoming. A 24-year-old second class petty officer allegedly made the videos over the past year and distributed them among his male colleagues.
Um, you had orders, Mister, and one of those orders is “Do not behave like a cretinous goon.”
The Navy, which had grave doubts about this whole women-on-board business, is almost certainly not feeling any better about it now.
Here’s the thing about Out of Africa: The girls get to see Robert Redford, one of the most handsome leading men in cinematic history. The guys get … Meryl Streep.
You see what I’m talking about? It’s like every Barbra Streisand movie, ever.
There’s this feminist fantasy film formula where the ugly duckling is paired with the impossibly handsome man. Somehow, with her feisty ways and her quirky sense of humor, she manages to make this sexy hunk of a man fall passionately in love with her. It’s basically Chicken Soup for the Unattractive Girl’s Soul, except it’s toxic.
This kind of fantasy encourages unrealistic romantic aspirations in quite the same way as all those movies where the clumsy schlub magically lands the Playboy Centerfold Dream Girl.
As a clumsy schlub in my own right, I must point out that Streisand actually pulled it off, in Peter Bogdanovich’s What’s Up, Doc? Granted, this was 42 years ago, and she was playing opposite Ryan O’Neal, a large sheet of drywall, but nonetheless, she pulled it off. It’s possible to make a case for The Way We Were, with Redford, but I think Arthur Laurents’ screenplay was always more of a political piece than a love story, and the film suffers as a result.
Actually, we don’t know her hair color, but I assume by default that every word of this spam is bogus:
I was browsing and saw your profile and just had to contact you
This might seem crazy but I thought you were cute and have to know if you are dating anyone?
Even if you are.. we should chat because I think I am someone you could have a good time with.
Lets chat on facebook and Ill tell you more. I can show you some of my latest photos. I think you will really like what you see.
Hit me up on messenger soon and lets hookup.
You can get my profile and contact details here.
There follows, concealed by text color if I were dumb enough to read HTML mail, about twenty lines of pure word salad. “Here” yields up an address at privatelymessage.me.
Susan Boyle, asked if she’d consider online dating, came back with this:
“Are you having a laugh? Knowing my luck I’d go out on a date and you’d find my limbs scattered around various Blackburn dustbins! I believe in letting things happen naturally and not shopping for a man on the Internet. If my soulmate is out there then I will find him but it won’t be on a computer.”
That was two years ago. And apparently the old-fashioned way still sort of works:
“I met a nice guy in America, who shall remain nameless. All I’ll say is he’s a doctor from Connecticut… It’s early days but we enjoy each other’s company.
“I met him at the Safety Harbor Resort in Clearwater, Florida, where I had a concert. We just got talking in the hotel and I thought he seemed friendly enough. He wasn’t a fan but he knew who I was. He invited me out for lunch the next day.
“We had a nice chat and spoke about lots of things including our careers. He was the perfect gentleman and even paid the bill. Afterwards we exchanged details.”
Too early to bring out that “soulmate” business, to be sure; but for someone who dates slightly less often than I do, this is the stuff of hope. Hope, incidentally, is the title of her newest album.
For the “Who’d go out with someone who looks like that?” crowd, this is what happened when Harper’s Bazaar got hold of her a few years back:
Apparently this isn’t the first time she’s been approached, but this is the first time I can remember that she actually talked about such things.
Somewhere, where romantic and whimsical collide, you’ll find this:
While the screen is taken up by Zooey and a very palpable nothingness, it would mean nothing without the music, and as I commented on YouTube: “If there’s ever a reason to make a movie about me (and there probably isn’t), I want M. Ward on the soundtrack.”
This wandered into my email box:
The #1 rule if you’re having an affair
Never do it with a single woman. Instead, date a married woman who has just as much reason to keep it a secret as you do.
(“Me and Mrs. Jones,” explained Billy Paul.)
Why did I get this?
You are receiving this message because you opted in to *insert web address of list*
Apparently Cyprus, whence this came, is not up on the latest deceptive techniques — which can’t possibly help them selling a “service” like this.
Angered by the sexism he saw being heaped upon his female colleagues — and attempts to downplay it — Australian news reader Karl Stefanovic decided to conduct an experiment.
He wore the same blue suit on air, two days in a row. Then three. A month ticked by without a ripple.
Now, a full year has passed — and he is still wearing the same cheap Burberry knock-off, every morning, on Channel Nine’s Today program.
Not a single audience member has asked about it, he says. Fashion commentators and other media also seem oblivious. Yet co-host Lisa Wilkinson still receives regular and unsolicited fashion appraisals.
My particular interest, however, is not so much in exposing sexism where I find it — and believe me, I find a lot of it — than in recalling a bit of ancient history.
Back when I was on an assembly line of sorts in the early 1980s, I had learned lots of snark, not quite so much discretion. There was this proto-metrosexual type who wandered into the work unit on a regular basis, said something we couldn’t hear over the racket, and wandered back out again. For four days running, he wore, yes, a blue suit. I’d noticed on day two; on day three, I was perplexed; and on day four, I vowed to do something.
On day five, he showed up in a brown suit, and I blurted out, “Hey, I see you dyed the blue suit!”
I have no idea where that line came from; I’m guessing some cable comedy series. But my timing was impeccable, and amazingly, I was still working there four years later.
This quote from Tina Fey’s Bossypants (New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2011) has become somewhat timely again:
I think the first real change in women’s body image came when JLo turned it butt-style. That was the first time that having a large-scale situation in the back was part of mainstream American beauty. Girls wanted butts now. Men were free to admit that they had always enjoyed them. And then, what felt like moments later, boom — Beyoncé brought the leg meat. A back porch and thick muscular legs were now widely admired. And from that day forward, women embraced their diversity and realized that all shapes and sizes are beautiful.
Ah ha ha. No. I’m totally messing with you. All Beyoncé and JLo have done is add to the laundry list of attributes women must have to qualify as beautiful. Now every girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama, and doll tits. The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes.
I can’t keep up.
I read several dozen stories a year from miserable, lonely guys who insist that women won’t come near them despite the fact that they are just the nicest guys in the world.
The trouble with that, of course, is that it’s not much of a selling point, “nice” in this context being defined as “less sucky than average.” In this case, it’s simply not quite enough to close the deal:
“But I’m a great listener!” Are you? Because you’re willing to sit quietly in exchange for the chance to be in the proximity of a pretty girl (and spend every second imagining how soft her skin must be)? Well guess what, there’s another guy in her life who also knows how to do that, and he can play the guitar. Saying that you’re a nice guy is like a restaurant whose only selling point is that the food doesn’t make you sick. You’re like a new movie whose title is This Movie Is in English, and its tagline is “The actors are clearly visible.”
I’d definitely go to see that movie. I don’t think I’d be able to get a date for it, though. Then again, the last film I saw in an actual theater was My Little Pony: Equestria Girls — Rainbow Rocks, at ten in the morning. Make of that what you will.
The #GamerGate kerfuffle might lead some of you to think that OMG, there’s so much sexism out there. You probably should have seen it thirty years ago:
I got the job on a whim. I happened to be in the store looking at Intellivision games. I didn’t have an Intellivision, but was interested in perhaps buying a console. I got to talking to the manager of the store about video games and at the end of the conversation, he offered me a job. I took it.
That job was a lesson in sexism. All too often, guys would come in looking for advice on which games or console to buy, or to browse our massive D&D section and when I went to help them, they would ask if my manager was around, or they would tell me they didn’t need my help. I’d try to engage them, talk to them about the games, but they would always, in various phrasing, say they want a guy to help them. That they didn’t think I’d be able to answer their questions or know enough about the games to help them make their decisions. Sometimes I would be the only employee in the store (when my manager was there, he backed me up) and they were stuck with me. They would pepper me with questions, making me “prove” my knowledge or my fandom. This was the same attitude I faced as a sports fan — guys often making me prove my worth, as if i had to pass a test to be allowed into their “club.”
“But you’re a girl!” followed her all through womanhood:
I eventually quit that job — a job I thought was my dream job (I was only about 19, what did I know) — because I was tired of being on the verge of tears all the time. The thing was, I still loved working there. I loved being surrounded by video games all day. I loved that part of my job was demonstrating the games but I also loved that part of the job was demonstrating my knowledge and so often I wasn’t given that chance because I was a girl and what do girls know about video games?
Which is not to say that things have actually improved since those days:
I’m just as frustrated now as I was when I stood in that store and had a guy tell me “I don’t mind you working here because you have a nice ass, but I still want Steve to help me.” The harassment women are feeling today is a hundred times worse than that. The internet has allowed men to swarm in masses and attack as one. Women are being driven out of their homes because of threats made by rabid misogynists.
There are, of course, no stories with but a single side. If you’re just now coming upon this issue, here are two of them. My usual position on these matters is that everyone who steps into them eventually gets something unspeakable on their shoes. The “swarm” technique, I assure you, is genuine, an unwanted reminder of the atavistic tribalism that not one of us has ever completely outgrown.
Meanwhile in Dubai, a land largely populated by twenty-first-century Jed Clampetts, a marriage has broken down:
A court granted a divorce to a man after he discovered that his wife was possessed by a djinn and refused to go to bed with him.
The man lodged a divorce case against the woman after she repeatedly refused to have sex with him and her family informed him that she was possessed by a djinn.
Records said the Arab man tolerated his wife for a period of time as she persistently refused to go to bed with him.
However, the woman finally asked him to try to discuss the issue with her parents, who informed the husband that several religious scholars had failed to exorcise the djinn.
The Dubai Sharia Court awarded the husband the divorce and asked him to pay around Dh40,000 in maintenance to his ex-wife.
Tony Nelson was not available for comment.
(Via Newser, which I always thought ought to be “Newsr.”)
In this morning’s spam heap, an improbable offer:
Anna Pavlova has sent you a message. ========================= Message ID #3184324 ========================= Date: 10-16-14. ========================= Username: email@example.com ========================= Password: [redacted] ========================= Chat with Anna Pavlova today. Follow these instructions -1- Go here http://gonow.mumob.com -2- Enter your communication mode. -3- Meet Anna Pavlova today.
It did not help that pretty much the same message (different message ID, marginally different “password”) was sent to one of my other email addresses.
Still, who among us with a peripheral interest in dance wouldn’t want a chance to chat with Anna Pavlova?
The Mamas and the Papas had a song by this title; it was apparently about a brief affair. This isn’t. Instead, it’s about this:
Just made eye contact with someone with whom I probably should not have.
— Charles G Hill (@dustbury) October 10, 2014
Why shouldn’t I have, you ask? There are places I should not go.
I suppose what I really want to know here is why this clod expects to have his phone seized:
Which naked woman, you ask?
I want to have Anna Nicole as my background but I fear the loss of a future gf if I start dating & she grabs my phone.
“Honey, she’s been dead for seven years!” will not help you in this case.
I admit to having once had a picture of Debbie Gibson as phone wallpaper, though she was not unclothed. (At least, not completely.) Never you mind what’s there now.
Oh, this might get me in trouble with some people but I’m going to say it: Yes, definitely, sexy does have an expiration date, though the photos of Tina Turner and Cher (the latter obviously airbrushed) seem to suggest otherwise. Seriously, Cher didn’t look that good when she was 30. She couldn’t because they hadn’t invented Photoshop yet.
The actual photographic-use airbrush, as we know it, dates back to the 19th century. And Cher doesn’t really need to worry so long as there’s Armor All. (As for Tina, well, the legs, as usual, are the last things to go, though I am told she doesn’t move them quite so quickly as she used to.)
I don’t have any particular problem with cosmetic surgery as long as it’s subtle and not overdone. If I had the money I would definitely go there myself someday. But “sexy” is not the only way to be attractive. Grace, dignity, charm, elegance, style, class — these are attractive alternatives to sexy at any age but older women should absolutely aspire to these qualities instead of trying to be “sexy”. And I think there might be some debate as to what, exactly, is sexy. Is Miley Cyrus sexy, or merely skanky?
There exists a video, extracted from the Today Show feed last October — it apparently didn’t make it to the actual broadcast — in which Miley, sitting like a high-school wide receiver, ends up playing footsie with Matt Lauer. To me, this was the tipping point, after which she was on the last train to Skankville. Then again, your mileage may vary. (And Cyrus herself said in that very interview that 40 is the portal to asexuality. Go figure. Lauer, at the time, was 55.)
I suspect that at some point you just don’t give that much of a damn anymore: you’re obviously not dead yet, but looking however many years younger goes off your list of priorities, never to return. Or, as Lynn says: “Eventually every normal woman gets tired of all that nonsense and just wants to be herself.”
Those of us with hermetically-sealed dance cards are pretty much sick and tired of this sort of thing:
Once you’ve been single for a few
monthsyears, you start to hear the phrase “when you stop looking for it, it will come” a hundred different times in a hundred different variations. It. gets. old. And besides that, it’s not even realistic. Why, when we’re told to work for everything else in life, do we have this prevailing view as a society that the universe is going to reward our apathy regarding relationships with just that: a relationship? It’s totally ridiculous, and I’m with Katie that it’s awful advice.
No way can I argue with Katie:
[S]ingle people are constantly encouraged to stop being single — whether it’s a friend setting you up, a relative you only see a couple times a year always making sure to ask if you’re seeing anyone, or the sad, simple fact that the most liked comments on Facebook are always about relationship statuses.
But I mean, yeah, I’ll devote myself solely to everything else in my life and stop thinking about romance just so that moment I “least expect” will come and I’ll find my true love.
Seems legit. And, of course, that’s the problem with it.
This has nothing to do with Cabaret, or for that matter with cabaret — unless you were hoping someone would invite you.
There has been much wailing and gnashing of lipstick-stained teeth over the continuing presence of those horrid little micro- (and sometimes macro-) aggressions known as gender roles; what’s more, a not-quite-insignificant percentage of one-half the species has sworn eternal enmity toward the entirety of the other half. James Lileks sums up (some of) the kerfuffle:
Modern-day sororal self-segregation is more of the same, and if they wish to form their own mutual-assistance societies of whatever form, go right ahead. No man will sue to join. To paraphrase Groucho, they wouldn’t want to join a club that wouldn’t want him for his member.
As for the male-free Internet thing, I can sympathize. Most of the vicious, idiotic, miserable, weevil-souled trolls are men, or rather largish boys who grew up on the internet and have not quite grasped the idea that there are true, actual human beings on the other side of the screen. Comments and tweets are just another form of electronic play; you shoot a hooker in the head in Grand Theft Auto, call a strange woman nasty names because she criticizes, say, the fact that you can shoot a hooker in the head in Grand Theft Auto. It’s just a game you **** and someone should do it to you. And so on.
It’s odd. You know most of these boy-men were brought up in solid homes with religious grounding, taught to respect women in the old chivalric sense of courtesy and respect, right? My heavens, what went wrong? You could say it’s confusion over how they’re supposed to behave: if you hold the door open for a woman, you’re a sexist, unless she likes you, in which case it’s romantic, although if you don’t hold the door open and it slams in her face you’re a jerk. But these roles were in flux when I was in my twenties, and we didn’t react by sending obscene postcards to strangers. It has to be something else. The internet, in general, has not created more idiots, fools, miscreants, pedants, and fiends; it has simply revealed their numberless hordes, and given them a limitless plain on which to play.
I’ve said this repeatedly at concentrations of douchery like, say, Yahoo! Answers: The asshats have always been with us. It’s just that they’ve made themselves marginally harder to ignore.
We open with a quote from TLC regarding “scrubs”:
A scrub is a guy that can’t get no love from me
Hanging out the passenger side
Of his best friend’s ride
Trying to holler at me
The hollering here is also dubbed “catcalling,” which was news to me: I grew up with the notion that “catcalling” was what Philadelphia sports fans did to the visiting team — or, sometimes, to the home team. Then again, doing the wolf-whistle thing was so far out of my comfort zone back then that actually doing it was unthinkable. Women, I suspect, aren’t keen on it anyway:
I’m still always shocked and confused when a person says “I don’t know what you’re so mad about! They’re just trying to COMPLIMENT you for God’s sake!”
I guess my confusion stems from my definition of a compliment: “a polite expression of praise or admiration,” because to me, yelling at a woman from a moving vehicle doesn’t feel as polite as I guess it was intended. Because the way I was taught, polite would be allowing me the chance to respond which, since you’re driving at 50 MPH straight past me doesn’t really seem like an option. Although I suppose it is always an option for me to write down your license plate number and track you down through the DMV or local police station. Or maybe I could just run after your car until you stop, and we’re finally united in true love.
But all of that aside, I was always of the opinion that a compliment is intended to make the recipient feel good, not the complimenter. And if that were the case, there wouldn’t be women confronting you about it, or men going on the defensive when they do.
I’m not staking any claim to the moral high ground here: had I been persuaded that this particular practice might actually work, I might well have given it a try — nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? But there is no set of circumstances under which I could believe that she’d dressed herself up and planted herself in that particular location just to catch my eye: in my experience, this simply does not happen, and I can think of no reason why it should.
And yes, I suppose, once in a while it might pay off for someone; if it never did, it would never occur to anyone else to try it.
If there’s a tragedy here, it’s that there’s a recognizable need for this product:
An undergraduate team at North Carolina State University might have just revolutionized your make-up drawer. The four students are working to develop a nail polish that changes color if it comes into contact with date rape drugs Rohypnol and GHB. That means that women who wear the new polish — dubbed Undercover Colors — could determine whether their drink has had an unwelcome ingredient added just by dipping in a finger.
The four-person company — all men, as it happens — has raised $100k in funding and continues to work on its product.
There is a downside, of course: this won’t work with rapists who use other drugs, such as strawberry daiquiris.
The Emerald Ash Borer is scheduled to kill eight billion trees in North America in the near future. As a country, we had no defense against it. The predators which hold the EAB under control in China haven’t made it into an iPhone crate yet. Every ash tree in this country and Canada will die. Eight billion trees. Eight billion, most of them mature. The Nature Conservatory says they will plant a billion trees by 2025. Well, for every tree you plant, the Chinese beetle will kill eight. We’re told that the rainforest is disappearing at a staggering rate. It’s something like two or three billion trees a year. In other words, this beetle is kicking the ass of the Global Corporate Rainforest Destroying Bush-Hitler Machine, all by itself.
And yet you’ll never hear about those eight billion trees outside of a special-interest magazine because it’s critical that we not pay too much attention to what we actually suffer as a country by sending all our manufacturing and applied science to a country full of people who, as a rule, view us as uncultured, depraved monkeys. It’s critical that the manufacturing keep leaving this country so the power and the influence shift to the politicians and the major blogs and the thought leaders in Silicon Valley. Once upon a time, the wealthiest county in the United States was Oakland County [Michigan], where the auto executives and the $100,000-a-year blue-collar overtime workers lived. Now it’s #61 on the list. Four of the five wealthiest counties in the nation now directly border Washington, D.C. You see how the power shifts when money stops coming from commerce and starts coming from quantitative easing.
But then, this isn’t necessarily about trees — or commerce:
When the trees crashed down I thought about some other things, some other people. You can love someone and have a relationship with them but the beetles can get in there, they can burrow, they can leave the bark untouched but the damage beneath is enough to kill. Then one day the bark falls off and you realize how long it’s been dead, how long you’ve been ignoring it, how long you’ve been hoping that spring would come and you’d see leaves, knowing in your heart that you would only see branches.
When I moved here I had twelve trees, a pretty fair number for a quarter of an acre. Now I have thirteen, but three of them are standing only because neither saw nor wind in adequate quantity has been provided, and, as Jack says, “Having trees cut down is more expensive than having them planted, by the way, the same way a divorce attorney is more expensive than a justice of the peace.” Yep.
Freshly spammed my way: a method to get one’s ex back.
My system is rooted in behavioral psychology. By combining this with text messages to deliver the message, the result is a system that is so powerful, it has worked for more than 10,000 people!
Text messages are direct, non-confrontational, and can be responded to when it is convenient to the person you sent it to. They are especially effective when dealing with the situation in person, could be too risky.
Let Justin Sinclair, personal relationship expert, show you exactly what messages you need to send your Ex, and how to send them. You’ll be blown away when your Ex starts talking to you again and eventually asks to see you.
Believe me, if Jimmy Webb can’t do it, nobody can.
Don’t wait for it to happen on its own, either:
Taste considerations require this go below the jump:
This is worth the link just for the title — “On That List of Excuses for Not Having Sex Floating Around the Interweb” — but the discussion is not at all frivolous, and the last paragraph is highly quotable:
[A] mismatch must be seen as just that. There’s no right amount of sex to have, so someone agreeing to it three times a month must be accepted as much as someone wanting it several times a day or never at all. It just is what it is. A mismatch is a problem for both the person not getting as much as they desire, and for the person denying the request, but it’s only a problem at all if people hold sex in their relationship as more important than care, respect, and love. If you care enough, you can become attuned to one another’s needs. It might mean not asking even if you’re feeling it, and it might, for some people so inclined, mean doing things you’re not really into right now. Love isn’t about giving everything of ourselves to another person, though, or solving all their problems ourselves, it’s about caring about their issues enough to be there while they find their own way.
In fact, it’s not even necessary for the schedules to be out of sync for there to be a problem, as Woody Allen noted back in the day:
[Alvy and Annie are seeing their therapists at the same time on a split screen]
Alvy Singer’s Therapist: How often do you sleep together?
Annie Hall’s Therapist: Do you have sex often?
Alvy Singer: [lamenting] Hardly ever. Maybe three times a week.
Annie Hall: [annoyed] Constantly. I’d say three times a week.
Never you mind why I’d remember this after, oh, thirty-seven years.
Oh, this is the list being referenced.
They told me it was a gag. It is nothing of the kind:
GlutenFreeSingles started when two health conscious friends, one with celiac disease and the other gluten intolerance recognized the need for a gluten-free dating community that focused on singles with similar dietary needs. By creating GlutenFreeSingles we hope to help the 3 million people who have celiac disease and those who are gluten intolerant find valuable information, self-improvement, and long fulfilling gluten-free relationships.
Jack Sprat was not available for comment.
A annoying mental condition in which a heterosexual man concocts over-simplified ideas why women aren’t flocking to him in droves. Typically this male will whine and complain about how women never want to date them because he is “too nice” or that he is average in appearance. He often targets a woman who is already in a relationship; misrepresenting his intentions of wanting to be her friend and having the expectation that he is owed more than friendship because he is such a good listener. He is prone to brooding over this and passive-aggressive behavior.
He is too stupid to realize the reason women don’t find him attractive is because he feels sorry for himself, he concludes that women like to be treated like shit.
I don’t suffer from this, because (1) I’m not all that nice and (2) “average” would be at least one rung beyond my reach. (On the classic 1-10 scale, I’ve always considered myself around a 3, though that stereotype about “distinguished” older men probably earns me close to 4-hood.) My dance card, however, is no busier.
Maybe it’s … docility?
It really is a cliché that “good girls like bad boys,” and has been as long as I’ve been alive.
I think it’s all tied up in what modern culture thinks is “good” in terms of masculinity. “Good” men are obedient, follow the rules, recognize authority, are non-violent, and, lately, acknowledge the innate superiority of women over them and their brutish, testosterone-fueled impulses.
In short, a “good” man is everything that would have gotten himself, his women, his family, and his tribe killed and eaten while the bulk of humanity’s genome was selecting for survival.
Something like the ’46 Giants, of whom Dodgers manager Leo Durocher scoffed: “The ‘nice guys’ are all over there, in seventh place.” And the fact that both the Giants and the Dodgers eventually fled to the Left Coast makes no difference, 68 years later.
And those other parts have their own desires. A member of the Australian Parliament is under fire for describing exactly what she looks for in a man:
Jacqui Lambie, an Australian MP who shares the balance of power in the upper house, has apologised after declaring in a radio interview that she is looking for a partner who is “well-hung” and loaded with cash.
“They don’t even need to speak,” said Ms Lambie, a 43-year-old single mother of two.
In a radio interview in her home state of Tasmania, Ms Lambie told Heart FM that her ideal partner “must have heaps of cash and they’ve got to have a package between their legs.”
God forbid a man should say something like that about a woman, right?
(Via One Fine Jay.)
Many older women complain about feeling invisible — no one turns a head when we walk into a room. As Linda Grant writes in The Thoughtful Dresser, “I have watched the eyes of men sweep a room and find that apart from the girl crossing her legs, over there, it is empty. After a certain age, women are invisible. Without a sexual stimulus, many men cannot process in the visual/conceptual portion of their brains that a woman is present.”
There is, I suspect, a reasonable chance that if the guy who just entered the room is actively searching for sexual stimuli, most of the women would just as soon not be noticed at all, at least by the likes of him. Then again, there are those who would argue that any man entering the room will first scan for eye candy before getting down to business, and I’m not in a position to offer myself as a counterexample, at least not honestly.
There exists a subversion of this trope in fiction, the most recent example I’ve seen being Jeanne Ray’s Calling Invisible Women (New York: Crown Publishers, 2012). In this novel, a fiftysomething woman literally vanishes, first piecemeal, then completely; but the men in her life — her husband, her son, the guys in the neighborhood — don’t even notice.