Romance for Real Women

Okay, I admit I’m a little theatrical. A lot theatrical.

Real women can be theatrical.

When we were little, my sisters and I used to dress up in Miss Moonbeam’s treasured relics from the sixties. These consisted mostly of faded tye dyed caftans which she felt herself unable to discard. Mom encouraged us to play with her old things perhaps dreaming that her peace and love philosophy would rub off on us the same way dye fades in the wash. That is to say, quickly and thoroughly and all over everything else.

Although I made do with tattered caftans, I yearned for polka dots, sequins and crystals. At Halloween, I always insisted on the brightest, most sparkling costumes. My Cinderella at the ball costume wasn’t fantasy. It was the deepest expression of my personality. I spent months finding exactly the right accessories for the beaded flapper dress Granny gave me one year. A long strand of faux pearls, earrings and a real cigarette holder.

Mom was horrified. I loved it and still regret outgrowing it.

Granny never quite reconciled herself to the bohemian daughter she’d produced and, despite her deep, unwavering love for my mother, never understood her. But she understood me.

Granny insisted I take ballet classes which I did enthusiastically until it became clear even to me that I’d never be a professional. But, oh, I loved those costumes and the glittery makeup. I loved performing even if all I did was trip around the stage. Literally.

Granny also gave me dance lessons which in our town were taught at the local war memorial that had an auditorium for civic use. Mom swallowed the dance lessons, although the clouds of pink Granny and I decided were essential for waltzing were harder for her.

Along with sequins and beads, tears used to be an essential part of my theatrical repertoire.

I learned early on that I could cry just by thinking of something sad. My Cinderella costume, conveniently lost at some point in my childhood, a string of crystals Mom declined to buy, make up she made me scrub off. All could bring tears.

Shallow, I know. But we make do with what we’re given.

My tears aren’t the sobbing kind. No. At least in my fancy, I am more the pre-Raphael type, long tresses bound in a net with a few tendrils of hair attractively escaping over a willow neck; white skin emphasized by a sheer gown; disconsolately watering the plants I’m drooped over with tears that escape one by one.

God, I was good.

Unfortunately, Mom also had the gift of tears. So, when I’d go into my drooping femme act, she’d tell me to knock it off. Or when she was in the mood she’d provide a little competition and my sisters and Granny would find the two of us draped languorously on the couch, tears flowing down our cheeks between giggles.

As I got older, I admit I used the tears to great effect especially with men who didn’t know me well. My ex-husband claimed before he departed that he never knew what was up with me. (I never said the divorce was entirely his fault.)

To her credit, Mom opposed manipulation by tears. In fact, when my partner and I were just into our relationship, you know the stage where you’re committed, but everything is still sort of starry, Mom suggested we do our femme act for him. I was enjoying the hell out of it until it occurred to me that S/O was being given an important piece of intelligence.

So now when I droop, he sits down and enjoys the show. Once he even asked me to hold the action until he got the popcorn ready.

Hardly fair.

However, I got smart and now I set the mood. These days, I’ve stopped drooping and now do my performing in sexy lingerie.

So, I get the results I want: his undivided attention.

It’s all theater, ladies.

Some of my darling friends have visited this blog and because they are my darling friends, they haven’t hesitated in sharing their opinions.

“But, Lesli,” one said, “it’s supposed to be about romance. You’re talking about your daughter.”

“That’s true,” I said, “but it’s called romance for real women. Real women have children and we have to train them not only to be real women, but to appreciate real women.”

That didn’t wash.

“But that’s not romantic.”

“Try being romantic if your daughter is in a snit about a bathing suit,” I returned.

She was mum.

I went on the attack. “Try having a romantic evening when she’s in tears because you didn’t buy the bikini.”

“Try having sex while your son is whining because he wants a tattoo.”

I would go on, but it’d start to sound as if I was feeling sorry for myself.

At any rate, we went on to discuss more important subjects like the new Hulk movie. But she got me thinking.

The construct of real romance consists of all the day-to-day influences impacting our lives and how we live and think about life.

To me, it’s romantic my son feels he can share his woes with my partner and that my partner can be trusted to deal with the tattoo issue gently.

It’s romantic that my partner tells my insecure little girl she looks beautiful in her swimsuit.

These things fan the still beating flames of a long relationship. They tell me something about him and not so incidentally help me handle sensitive domestic issues.

In the bigger picture, broad, societal attitudes toward marriage, sex, and children inevitably affect our own attitudes.

Is it important for real women to know that more than 30 percent of the nation’s children don’t live with either parent while almost 20 percent of children live with a single parent, usually the mother? Does this fact affect our view of romance? Our attitudes and expectations for a partner?

I think it does and I think we need to stay aware of them.

So, I’ll continue to report and comment on them. Just as I’ll continue to report and comment on trends in sexy lingerie, chocolate, jewelry and other things dear to my still romantic heart.

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.

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.

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.

            In most markets, the quality of local media range from mediocre to poor. Real women know there are some exceptions, but not many.

            This is not such an exception.

            Yesterday I posted a report from University of California at Davis about men confusing a comment such as “it’s getting late” with “let’s skip the preliminaries and get it on.”

            This is egregious stuff. After finally dragging rape out of the shadows; after all the serious work that’s been done in the area of spousal and child abuse; after all the sensitivity courses in the workplace and in school, it appears that a large number of men still confuse what they want to hear with what’s actually said.

            This isn’t funny.

            But it apparently did tickle the funny bone of a Davis CBS13 reporter Mike Dello Stritto who went to the Davis campus and chatted up some of the students about the report.

            Led by an infallible news sense, Stritto asked the kids some of the same questions the professor posed on his study.

Yuk. Yuk. Giggle. Giggle. 

How did he think those kids would react when asked about their sex lives with a camera pointed in their noses?

Lost was any sense of the serious implications of the study.  Although as noted the professor did not study rape, this is moving very close to the line.  And it ain’t funny.

Check out this meathead and his compadres on the news desk.  And it may interest you to know that later in his video blog Stritto opined “this was kind of funny and a fun story to do.”

What a jerk.

The video is at http://cbs13.com/local/men.hear.yes.2.706568.html

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.