Romance for Real Women

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.

A new study out of University of California at Davis ought to have real women calling their collage age daughters right this minute.

Scratch that.

Call your daughters however old they are. Call them at work. Get them in the kitchen after school for a chat. Do it now. And, while you’re at it, call your friends, too.

The study, by communication professor Michael Motley, found that men frequently, no, make that nearly always, misinterpret “indirect” messages from women resisting the “escalation of sexual intimacy.”

According to Motley, when a woman says, “It’s getting late,” the male hears, “Let’s get it on more quickly.” When she says, “Let’s be friends,” the male hears, “I’m not committed, but let’s get it on.”

UC Davis reports that fully eighty five percent of college women have had at least one “unpleasant” experience where physical intimacy escalated without her consent.

The study did not look at rape. But if you ask me, this kind of stuff is getting pretty close to it.

It’s hair raising.

When you’re talking with your daughters, tell them to forget being “nice.” Tell them to forget worrying about his feelings.

If the guy is pawing them beyond what they like, they have to be unambiguous.

“Knock it off.”

“Quit that.”

“Get your hands off me.”

“I’m going home.”

You undoubtedly can think of other, similar unambiguous messages.

Make your daughter repeat them after you.

I’m going to.

Right now.

Real women love weddings. Even the most cynical among us forget our own disappointments and empathsize, however briefly, with hope, joy and love symbolized by the wedding ceremony. And, I would suggest men feel exactly the same way, even if they don’t bring a handkerchief, just in case.

Weddings make us feel good.

So, I think it’s an appropriate question to ask why President Bush and his family are refusing to let any of us share in the pleasure of his daughter’s wedding.

Yes, I know, reportedly Jena doesn’t like the press. And, after all, it’s her day. She’s going to do it her way.

Nuts to that.

Whatever your political persuasion and I’m not going to tell you mine, the president asked the country to share in the grief and sorrow of a difficult and protracted war. Households are feeling the pinch of high food prices occasioned at least in part by ethanol mandates he signed off on. High gas prices and the mortgage crisis, while not really his fault, are further squeezing all of us. And, the country is suffering through a long and unpleasant political season.

So why on earth is the Bush family refusing to share even the most banal detail about the wedding? They’re having fun. Why can’t we share in just a little of it? I know it’d take my mind off the cost of a dozen eggs.

You’d think someone in the White House could figure this out.

Again, whatever your political persuasion, you’d probably admit that the Bush’s are a close and loving family. In the few comments she’s made about Jena’s wedding, Laura seems genuinely delighted. So does the President.

So why aren’t we permitted even a moment’s inclusion in the family’s happiness?

I can understand why Jena didn’t want a White House wedding. Really. The pomp and circumstance would be off putting to someone who hasn’t sought and isn’t comfortable in that kind of fishbowl.

But who would it have hurt if the White House had released, say, the menu for tonight’s dinner party? Maybe a picture of the wedding cake? Is that asking too much?

The White House had no problem embedding dozens of reporters with the troops in order to cover Operation Shock and Awe.

So why can they embed just one reporter, a friendly, to dribble out details during Operation Happiness?

It’s like they’re thumbing their noses at us.

I would go so far as to say I understand that with the President’s approval ratings in the twenties, lower than any president’s since polling began, a certain bunker mentality might prevail over at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Although it’s too late now, I’d tell them to get over it. To bring themselves to raise the curtain just a few inches on their happiness. To include the country in an event we can all enjoy and support.

But, the wedding is tonight and we’re not invited.

Stupid.

Real women should take note of a study that could actually give them useful clues into the psyches of their partners. Clues, I might add, that apparently didn’t even occur to the researchers themselves.

The study on postpartum depression in men was conducted by researchers at the Eastern Virginia Medical School in Norfolk, VA. It was published in the August, 2007 issue of the journal Pediatrics although interestingly, the general media have just reported on it today, May 6, 2008, which really goes to show you how the Democrat primaries have saturated the news.

Nevertheless, apart from the cognitive dissonance real women might feel upon hearing that men suffer from postpartum depression, the study does yield some interesting findings. But only if you know how to look.

The researchers studied more than 5,000 two-parent families. Got that, ladies? Two parent families.

It found that one in ten of these new dads suffered from postpartum depression.

The reasons?

Anxiety over supporting a family.

Anxiety over relationships with their wives.

Worry over the cost of raising a child to twenty-one.

Have you got that, everyone?

These are the good guys.

In another study, the University of Chicago reports that 31% or 22.5 million of the nation’s children don’t live with either parent. Add to that the 18% or 11.9 million children who live with only one parent, usually the mother.

You can betcha those guys don’t suffer from postpartum depression.

One question the folks at Eastern Virginia don’t seem to have asked is when these new dads last had a good night’s sleep.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not belittling depression. But my advice to real women whose husbands are adjusting to the new kid by worrying about how to support their family is to uncork the champagne, pull on some sexy lingerie and dim the lights. After the fun, let him sleep all night.

He’s a keeper.

And now real women have another relationship guru to contend with, a miserable little toad called Marc Rudov who recently surfaced on national television, presenting himself as an authority on romance, relationships and women.

Mr. Rudov’s appearance was apparently prompted by the debut of his radio show, “The Mark Rudov Show” which in a perfect world should sink without a ripple.

Mr. Rudov contends that most women are “little girls occupying women’s bodies.” He further contends that men are depressed because “they’ve allowed women to take over the world.”

Huh?

Real women know we rule…behind the scenes. We don’t flaunt our authority. We don’t want men depressed. We love men. We want them happy. Really. We go to great lengths to make them happy. And, we know they’re happiest when they follow our direction.

If you must, go to www.marcrudovradio.com But, in my opinion, this is a toad not worth kissing.