Romance for Real Women

Real women, like some politicians, don’t wear their patriotism on their lapels and I don’t. Nevertheless, I am invariably irritated when I read condescending and spiteful remarks, however elegantly phrased, about our country.

Such was the case yesterday when I picked up a copy of The Financial Times, a British publication our office subscribes to and read Nigel Andrews’ review of Sex in the City.

The writer first confesses that he’s never seen an episode of the popular television show. He goes on to say “I offer no excuse, beyond my instinctive aversion to shows in which Americans pretend they are or can be sexually liberated. They are always hopeless at it – the Puritan ancestry tells – and so the results are always screamy, garish and winsome.”

Yeah. That got my attention, too.

After offering that insight, he goes on to say of the movie. “They walk, talk, giggle, gesticulate and sometimes fling themselves across a room, leaving their owners suddenly pink, startled and exposed. This is in preparation for what passes in America for a sex scene.”

One can only imagine Mr. Andrews’ delight in himself in penning such a riposte.

But by then I knew, I just knew, where this was headed. Can you guess?

“Here is my theory: the French alone understand eroticism, so they alone should be allowed to depict sex on screen.”

Yep. We got there. The French.

Many real women will remember back in 2000 when the national discussion centered on President Clinton’s affair with Monica Lewinski. Anyone who offered the slightest hint of criticism or showed any distaste for Clinton’s performance, was told “the French think we’re prudes.” Commentators pointed with pride to French Prime Minister Mitterand’s funeral to which both his wife and mistress attended. That cinched the argument, all right. If you didn’t consider that the height of sophistication you were obviously a prude, bore and barbarian. (At the time I couldn’t understand why anyone cared what the French thought. I still don’t.)

OK, I’m not going list some of the sexiest movies scenes in history played by American actors, written by American scriptwriters and produced by American studios. I don’t have time, although perhaps I will in another post.

I’m not even going to defend Sex in the City because I haven’t seen it yet.

But I’m going to. This weekend. First thing tomorrow. Nigel Andrews has made me realize it’s my patriotic duty.

In the dog days of this never ending campaign season, real women will be delighted with this little snippet of campaign candy.

Yesterday, The New York Times ran a long profile on the aptly named Reggie Love, Barack Obama’s personal assistant.

Reggie is Barack’s shadow, anticipating his every need which apparently includes ball point pins, Sharpies, stationery, protein bars, throat lozenges, water, tea Advil, Tylenol, Purell and emergency Nicorette. (Yes, ladies, it turns out, Barrack is a smoker. However, we have to assume that Reggie spoke to the Times with his boss’s approval, unlike another recent staffer on the other side of the aisle.)

He’s tall. At 6’5”, he’s three inches taller than Barack. He’s fit. He benchpresses 350 pounds. And, according to the Times, he’s cool, although the newspaper didn’t provide any examples.
He’s also cute. The Times didn’t point this out either although the reporter is clearly in a swoon. Check it out at in the New York Times.

OK. Some real women might consider this carping. But it’s legitimate carping, that is to say, carping with a point of view.

Today, I visited People Magazine’s site for 2007’s Sexiest Men Alive. Apparently, the 2008 list will appear this fall.

I confess I was prompted by nothing more than idle curiosity and a fortuitously timed coffee break. But once there, I went through all the photos and accompanying bios which are laced with quotes from the sexiest men alive.

At first, I was chagrined by the number of sexiest men alive I don’t regard as sexy. Worse, by the number of sexiest men alive I didn’t recognize. I mean, Dave Annable is cute, but am I the only real woman in the universe who doesn’t know who he is? My daughter, who is a real woman in training, might know him, but I don’t.

But after I’d been through the entire list, looking at the gorgeous pictures and reading the scant copy accompanying them, I was struck more by what they said than how they looked.

Will Smith says “Either I’m going to be with [wife] Jada,or I’m going to be dead.” Real women will be interested to know that Will Smith is still proclaiming his love for Jada in an article in this week’s edition of People, a full six months after publication of The Sexiest Men Alive. This is evidently a popular topic for People’s editors.

Shemar Moore who stars on Criminal Minds, a show I like, says of being sexy: “A fresh haircut is so important. I wear my hair so low. Freshly faded. A nice tan in my back yard so I can get that bronze, brown-sugar glow, a vintage pair of jeans and white button down shirt with a couple of buttons open. A chrome chain. Pair of sneakers.”

I’m speechless.

Ben Affleck, who in addition to being one of the sexiest men alive is a writer and should know better, says of his daughter: “All I want to do is go home, just to be around her again.”

Nonsense. Real women and real men love their children, but there are occasions when we have to be dragged home, kicking and screaming. We are not sentimental about changing diapers, giving baths and coaxing unruly children to bed. In fact, Affleck’s quote suggests to me that he doesn’t do it often.

Adrian Greiner, another actor I didn’t recognize, said in response to what was obviously a direct question: “My sexiest night was a night spent with a beautiful woman I loved in a Super 8 motel after a wedding.” he says.

Huh? A Super 8 Motel?

Brad Pitt didn’t comment while Patrick Dempsey says the reason he’s stayed with his wife Jillian for eight years is because of her eyes. “They’re warm, sparkly eyes,” he says.

These guys have access to publicists and script writers. They know newspaper reporters, bloggers and paparazzi. In Affleck’s case, he is a writer. All of them have read movie and television scripts.
Surely, surely, they could have tapped into one of these resources for a quote that would rise above the level of total drivel. It can’t be any harder than say, finding the right chrome chain.

Maybe not. Maybe the best advice for real women is look, but don’t listen.

Health officials in New York are warning members of that state’s more credulous population to refrain from ingesting toad venom marketed as an aphrodisiac.

Real women, of course, understand that eating toad venom isn’t such a good idea even if it’s packaged as “Love Stone.”

But aphrodisiacs have been around for centuries. The Chinese used to grind up pearls and ingest them as an aphrodisiac. In some parts of China, they still use pearl dust for medicinal purposes. Cleopatra, who knew a thing or two about seduction, dissolved a pearl worth 100,000 sesterces in vinegar and drank it after betting Marc Antony she could host the most expensive banquet in history. This, however, may have been more about conspicuous consumption than seduction.

In my own day, people used to suggest that oysters on the half shell were aphrodisiacs. That, and powdered rhino horn.

Viagra, of course, isn’t strictly an aphrodisiac. For it to work, the man must first be sexually stimulated.

I love oysters and good chocolate (also often cited as an aphrodisiac). However, neither has ever made me wiggle in my seat.

What does, however, are the following:

A man who gives some thought to a night out. A restaurant I’m fond of. A movie I’ve indicated I’d like to see, especially one based on a Jane Austin book which I know can be actually painful for men although I don’t understand why.

When I was younger, an offer to babysit the kids would send me scrambling out of my pjs. Now that I’m a little older, the gift of sexy lingerie hits my hot button.

Men who remove their own plates from the dinner table have it all over the blister beetle, sometimes called Spanish Fly, an aphrodisiac at least as deadly as toad venom.

And, men who can actually organize a meal without dozens of helpless questions are guaranteed my enlistment in the cause of their penile health.

Real women know these are not small matters. You won’t catch us ingesting toad venom, but we’ll go to home base for guys who measure up this way.

Here is a marvelous video posted on www.propeller.com Enjoy and have a safe holiday.

Proud to be an American

Real women know that some subjects are much too rich to be mined adequately in just one blog. Such is the case with the recent University of Texas study I mentioned yesterday.The headlines focused on the fact that the study found that beautiful woman want it all…status, economic prospects, resource acquisition potential (whatever that means), etc. The study was carried on major news outlets like ABC and FOX with all the correspondents agog at this seemingly new and fantastic fact.

All of them overlooked the truth that after, say, the age of twenty, beautiful women have to work at being beautiful. Duh. Also, that there is a point to all this effort…getting and keeping a guy. It’s their job, honey. Of course, they want the most for their efforts. Duh.

Your faithful correspondent, however, took the time to read the entire news reports and thus came upon the nugget, buried at the end of the stories, that all of the interviewees, beautiful or otherwise, rated intelligence as the least important of desirable “mate value” qualities in a partner.

I don’t know about you, but it is taking me a little time to assimilate this factoid.

I e-mailed the study to my partner who heretofore I was unashamed to admit is highly intelligent.

“Whaaat?” he said. Notice the one syllable word. Perhaps that counts.

“Who authored it?”

“The University of Texas issued it,” I said. “It’s apparently in the current issue of Evolutionary Psychology.” I added, just so he would know I’d done my research. Opps. Too intelligent. Aware my mate value was plummeting egregiously, I quickly mumbled, “I don’t know.”

“Huh?” he said.

Bravo, I thought. Perhaps he is, after all, on the evolutionary curve.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, switching gears. Ah, hah, I thought, this is great. A short attention span. An inability to focus. Gotta be headed in the right direction.

But I floundered. The study didn’t indicate whether pulling together a hot meal on time has mate value. It does, after all, take a modicum of intelligence to plan, cook and have a meal ready. Or at least, that’s what I always thought.

So, I took refuge in an old trick. I stuck my fingers in my hair and pulled, just slightly. But, he didn’t see my mate value enhancing confusion. We were on the phone.

I didn’t say anything. I waited. He waited. Damn, this stuff is hard. So, at last I ventured. “I don’t know.”

He sighed and it wasn’t a pretty sound. I’d promised him something special. But I want to be on the evolutionary curve, too.

“How about I pick something up?” he finally said.

“Great,” I started to say, but then thought maybe just an “Okay” might have higher evolutionary mate value.

“Are you all right?” he asked and I felt a nice wave of concern.

“Fine,” I mumbled. “See you later.”

I clicked the off button on my cell phone and sat there for a few minutes looking at it.

“Fuck this,” I thought in words of one syllable.

I thawed a steak and had a glass of wine. Then I e-mailed him and told him to forget the Chinese.

Real women might want to sit up and take notice of a just released University of Texas study on the different “mate values” harbored by men and women. According to the study, it’s a “serious effort to delve into an area that has been largely ignored by scientists.”

“Mate Values.”

That’s a new one.

Boiled down, the study found that beautiful people are attracted to beautiful people; it found that beautiful women want more from a man than a hot bod; and, it found that powerful men tend to have multiple wives and play around.

All kind of jaw dropping, huh?

According to news reports, the authors sent teams of interviewers to rate the attractiveness of women interviewed. Once they were rated, and I for one would love to know what they made of tattoos, like are shoulder tattoos more beautiful than butt tattoos? Did the respondents show them? What about various body piercings? Were they counted?

At any rate, respondents, rated beautiful or ugly, were given a list of “mate value” attributes, sex appeal, good earning capacity, good parenting indicators, education, etc., and asked to prioritize them.

Intelligence was at the bottom of the list.

No kidding. For both “beauties” and “plain Janes.” The researchers described the finding as a “puzzle.”

Who the hell did they ask? UT co-eds?

“Honey, you’re dumb as a post, but you’ve got ‘good partner indicator.’”

Think about it.

All those smart guys out there with poor mate value.

So saddle up, ladies. I, for one, like a guy who’s smart enough to check the mail, empty the dishwater and find a fuse box.

I think the playing field just got leveled.

As you may have gathered by now, I’m a fan of sexy lingerie. I’m a fan of many other things including books, jewelry, food, wine, and, of course, men. But my love of sexy lingerie is no doubt a reaction to my mother’s insistence on white cotton panties while I was growing up and her (continued) befuddlement on why anyone would want to wear a bra.

Mom came of age during the sixties and enthusiastically embraced all the mores of the time including free love, music, especially Bob Dylan before he went electronic, the pill, alternative lifestyles and social justice. She got rid of her own bra circa 1967 and hasn’t seen the need for one since. (Fortunately, she’s also a vegetarian and very small, so any image you might have of an aged crone with boobs flapping down to her waist is false. You can let go of that right now.)

However, her own outlook meant she never saw a need for bras for her daughters.

This was never a problem for Anne who was and is flat as a board, but Mary, who back then we called “Blessing,” and I needed bras since about the time we were eleven. And, among the many things I’m grateful to my grandmother for is her determined insistence she would provide us with suitable undergarments.

To her credit, Mom didn’t fight her. She merely asked whether we actually desired said undergarments. When we enthusiastically concurred with Granny, she looked a little wistful at what she saw as a betrayal of her own principles. Nevertheless, she bowed to our wishes.

So, off we went to the local department store and into the lingerie department where Granny announced to the sales lady that we were there to get our “first little bras.”

To her credit, the sales lady didn’t burst out laughing since Mary at aged thirteen and I at age twelve were already in B cups.

After being fitted and equipped with four white Playtex bras, Granny told us we could pick one apiece as a special treat.

I looked around the department starry eyed. I’d never seen such stuff, slinky nightgowns in gorgeous colors. Underwear that wasn’t white. And, bras on hangers in red, black, white and camel color with lacy trims. (This was years ago and the department store was conservative, even by the standards of that bygone era.)

Mary and I arrived at the bra display at approximately the same moment. Fortunately, we were different sizes and to our great relief found a siren red bra for each of us. And, Granny, that dear heart, despite her reservations about what Mom would say, made good on her word and bought them for us.

Thus began a lifelong devotion to sexy lingerie. And, although Mary is a very different person than I, she also is a devoted buyer of sexy lingerie and some of the best times we’ve ever shared have been over hangers in the lingerie department.

There it is. My lingerie back story.

Depending on who you listen to, divorce rates in the U.S. are between forty and fifty percent. And relationship breakdowns appear to be just as dismal in Europe. Recently, The Institute for Family Planning, a European family policy think tank released a report asserting there is a divorce in Europe every thirty seconds. (Its solution, by the way, is for European couples to have more children, a discussion we can get into another time.)

But, there is no doubt that these are disheartening statistics, especially if you believe in happy endings. I’ve gone through a divorce. My sister, Mary, whom I’ve mentioned has gone through several. They’re not pretty.

Nevertheless, the solution I stumbled early this week, suggested by columnist Lucy Kellaway seems preposterous. In fact, when I first read it, I thought it was farce, lame, but still farce.

Her brainchild is to establish an online date rating agency to collect information from former lovers about former lovers. She suggests “Date Rate” would be a cross between Ebay and Wikipedia. Information would include “fidelity, sexual appetite, generosity, dedication to watching football on television, tendency to leave dirty sock strewn around and so on.” Biographical information would be included.

Can you blame me for thinking this was supposed to be funny?

I naturally don’t expect anyone to take her proposal seriously. But I wouldn’t have anticipated anyone seriously asserting that having more children is an appropriate prescription for divorce so no doubt Lucy has potential bankers lining up to invest, assuming there are any bankers anywhere with any capital.

We are so out in left field here.

Marriage, partnership, dating, friends, children, family. All significant relationships involve some degree of risk.

When evaluating a potential partner, insist on meeting his family. That’ll tell you a lot. Meet his friends. That’ll tell you more. Watch how he reacts to small and large things. That’ll tell you something.

If you’re still not certain about your own judgment, run a D&B on him. Hire a detective. There are plenty of services out there that are more than happy to invade his privacy. Better yet, if you’re unsure about him, just run and save your money.

The last person you want to talk to is a former lover, especially a disgruntled former lover. Yeah, that’s information you can trust.

Dating, marriage, committed relationships…rough stuff and hard work. But no database of biased information from aggrieved ex’s is going to make it any easier or less risky.

In the absence of a worldwide database providing information on your quirks as well as quirks of former lovers to anyone who logs in, I’d suggest using a little commonsense when deciding whether to date someone. Better yet, listen to your heart.

You can view the article at www.ft.com

PBS aired the final episode of Canford last night to the applause of real women everywhere.

The Masterpiece series is based on the novels of Elizabeth Gaskell, a Victorian novelist who also wrote gothic horror stories. (In fact, if you’re reading an historical romance and the hero makes a snarky remark about the heroine’s preference in novels, he is probably referring to the work of Mrs. Gaskell.)

Cranford, however, is based her 1851 novel of the same name about life in rural Cheshire.

Mrs. Gaskell is what we used to call in college when I thought I had some understanding of these matters a “minor Victorian novelist.” There was, however, nothing minor about this production.

Headed by a fabulous cast including Judi Dench and Eileen Atkins, the series focuses on the relations between the men and women in a rural English village and how those relations were impacted by the Industrial Revolution which brought such sweeping change to England in all matters, large and small.

These things interest me.

As an example, the Judi Dench character, Miss Mattie Jenkins, has been in love for decades with the yeoman farmer, Mr. Holbrook, played by Michael Gambon. However, as the rector’s daughter, it was thought that an alliance with a yeoman was beneath her station. Some of the most touching scenes in Cranford include their reunion and its outcome.

A variety of relationship issues beset other couples. A young doctor with radically new medical theories such as how to set a broken arm is undone by a hormonally driven patient. Duty to family and father drives another couple apart. And, through it all, we are reminded of how terribly fragile life was in England even in the middle of the vast and ultimately beneficial changes leading to the modern era.

Oh, my. I love this stuff.

Unfortunately for me and I suspect many of you, the recent attention by Hollywood to Jane Austin’s work including Pride and Prejudice and Bridget Jones Diary has snapped my partner’s willingness to sit through what he derided as “another chick film” on his way out last night.

Pay him no mind. Go to www.pbs.org and check it out. Then get the DVD. Curl up and watch it by yourself or with friends.

He won’t know what he’s missed.