Most dudes I know have a complicated relationship with their dads. It's not a straightforward one-to-one kind of deal, where the dad offers sage life advice and smokes a pipe and wears natty cardigans, and the son kneels obediently at their feet, waiting for said life advice to be doled out in easy-to-remember chunks. Because real people don't exist in 22-minute slices of time, the actual fathering of the sons becomes a little more fraught. Well, not the actual fathering, which is pretty straightforward and takes significantly less time. I mean the parenting, which isn't really a verb, but hell, let's roll with it.
It's not like my girlfriends have an easy time with their mothers, but at least most moms stuck around to screw us up. Dads are usually the parent who disappears when marriages end, which leaves the kids gettin to know their fathers through awkward breakfast dates and guiltily written cheques...if they're lucky. Some fathers just take flight, leaving town and occasionally starting a new family in a different area code. There's a scene in Fight Club where Ed Norton talks about how his dad started fresh every six years, "like he was starting a franchise," and he isn't a rare oiseau. While Mama Bear usually keeps the cubs and the cave, Papa Bear can wander the forest, catching salmon and pooping. (Yeah, I'm comparing divorced couples to bears. It's an analogy, or maybe a simile. It's probably not a total success, either.)
I'm lucky - my dad not only stuck around, he's also a good father. I was a 100% asshole during my high school career, and somehow, my relationship with parents survived. While my mom took the brunt of my jerk-store behaviour, my dad wasn't immune, and it's amazing that we even hang out, let alone like each other. To my credit, I did develop a sense of humour somewhere in the past ten years, which probably saved my ass from any number of lost relationships. However, to their credit, my folks were willing to get past a few terrible years and move into, like, a healthy adult relationship with me. That's lucky. My parents are awesome.
My friends gleefully refer to my dad as "the silver fox," a moniker he earned by having white hair and remaining a trim, handsome guy into his middle age. (Both my parents have aged astonishingly well, which means I can look forward to getting carded well into my sixties.) He used to have this rooster-esque hairdo, which was floppy and long and kind of business-silly, but when my sister needed chemo, he shaved his head in solidarity. Weirdly, it made him look more muscular and about ten years younger, but he didn't do it for vanity; he did to support his daughter. He's a stand-up fella, my dad.
I know Mother's Day is a huge deal, with the brunches and the flowers and the hats, but Father's Day shouldn't be tossed aside. Dads are important: their presence and values inform us as both children and adults, and their absence and flaws can make a significant impact on the people we become. When I was rhyming off ideal boyfriend characteristics to my mom a few weeks ago, I included "good relationship with both parents," because a dude with a solid connection to his ma and pa (regardless of their marital status) is likely to share some of the values that my own parents instilled in me: communication, flexibility, honesty, and the importance of getting a little tipsy with out-of-town friends and blasting Tubular Bells at four in the morning. The usual stuff.
So: Mom, I love you. Dad, I love you, and happy Father's Day. You're both awesome.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Dance Your Pants Off
Riddle me this: when did childrens' dance recitals turn into Prelude For A Striptease?
Yesterday, I happened to find myself at the end-of-year dance show for a fairly large Toronto dance school. Among the usual vignettes (four year olds skipping in a lopsided circle, manically grinning tapdancers, sequins), there was a huge amount of booty shaking, shoulder shimmying, and pelvic thrusting. One number had the girls start in pairs: one bent over at the waist, the other standing behind. I'm no prude, but like, seriously? That's a sexual position. A really sexual position.
Bitching about "young people today" always makes me feel like a crotchety old lady, but I don't recall this skill set from my own days as a dancer. Granted, I was hugely self-conscious and not blessed with any rhythmic sense whatsoever, but the eruption of sexualized dance moves seems to have happened after I wore a tragic leotard and danced to "It's Raining Men." When I asked my mom about it, she told me that she had actually taken my younger sister out of a dance class because, and I quote, "they were teaching the girls to dance like sluts," which was completely weird to hear my mom say. "The little girls?" asked my dad, and my mom was all, you better believe it.
Ten or fifteen years ago was before dance studios started offering hip-hop classes, which, aside from a truly strange number involving cowboy hats and a lot of shoulder shimmying, was the source of almost all the sexy moves. I am a hip-hop fan, and not just backpack hip-hop: I've shaken my ass to Usher like everyone else. But. I shook my ass in a club, which I got into because I was of age. It's never really all that appropriate to "bend over the floor and touch your toes," as Li'l Jon romantically suggests. At least I was doing it as God intended: drunk, with other drunk people, sans audience.
Hip-hop is sort of the inverse of musical theatre. It's kind of inappropriate when adults are really into musical theatre. It feels a little embarassing, because it's artificial and showy. Musical theatre is designed for thirteen year olds: it's colourful and melodramatic, and someone's always tipping over in a hoopskirt. When twenty-nine year old women are singing along, it's a little shameful. Hip-hop takes that formula and flips/reverses it: when kids are into it, it becomes necessary to point out how fake everything is...which kind of ruins the fun. The stakes are higher, because while very few people have every been the object of inappropriate sexual attention for belting out the words to Rent on the streetcar, the same isn't true for little girls who dance like hoochie mamas.
I'm not claiming that hip-hop is bad for kids; I'm just asking that instead of teaching fifteen year old girls how to grind like video hos, dance instructors might incorporate breakdancing into the mix. It's an athletic and impressive dance style, and it doesn't require anyone to present their hindquarters like a mate-ready baboon. (Oh, damn it, again with the crotchetiness.) It would also be helpful to recall that nine year old girls aren't reknowned for their critical thinking skills, and that incorporating sexualized dance moves into routines designed for people who have yet to take sex-ed might be overstepping the mark.
So yeah: keep it in the (dirty, filthy, adult, fun) clubs, where it belongs, make musical theatre illegal for anyone older than twenty, and burn my tragic leotard. Can we all sign off on that? Because I suspect that next year's recital is somehow going to be an interpretive dance about handjobs, and that makes me afraid.
Yesterday, I happened to find myself at the end-of-year dance show for a fairly large Toronto dance school. Among the usual vignettes (four year olds skipping in a lopsided circle, manically grinning tapdancers, sequins), there was a huge amount of booty shaking, shoulder shimmying, and pelvic thrusting. One number had the girls start in pairs: one bent over at the waist, the other standing behind. I'm no prude, but like, seriously? That's a sexual position. A really sexual position.
Bitching about "young people today" always makes me feel like a crotchety old lady, but I don't recall this skill set from my own days as a dancer. Granted, I was hugely self-conscious and not blessed with any rhythmic sense whatsoever, but the eruption of sexualized dance moves seems to have happened after I wore a tragic leotard and danced to "It's Raining Men." When I asked my mom about it, she told me that she had actually taken my younger sister out of a dance class because, and I quote, "they were teaching the girls to dance like sluts," which was completely weird to hear my mom say. "The little girls?" asked my dad, and my mom was all, you better believe it.
Ten or fifteen years ago was before dance studios started offering hip-hop classes, which, aside from a truly strange number involving cowboy hats and a lot of shoulder shimmying, was the source of almost all the sexy moves. I am a hip-hop fan, and not just backpack hip-hop: I've shaken my ass to Usher like everyone else. But. I shook my ass in a club, which I got into because I was of age. It's never really all that appropriate to "bend over the floor and touch your toes," as Li'l Jon romantically suggests. At least I was doing it as God intended: drunk, with other drunk people, sans audience.
Hip-hop is sort of the inverse of musical theatre. It's kind of inappropriate when adults are really into musical theatre. It feels a little embarassing, because it's artificial and showy. Musical theatre is designed for thirteen year olds: it's colourful and melodramatic, and someone's always tipping over in a hoopskirt. When twenty-nine year old women are singing along, it's a little shameful. Hip-hop takes that formula and flips/reverses it: when kids are into it, it becomes necessary to point out how fake everything is...which kind of ruins the fun. The stakes are higher, because while very few people have every been the object of inappropriate sexual attention for belting out the words to Rent on the streetcar, the same isn't true for little girls who dance like hoochie mamas.
I'm not claiming that hip-hop is bad for kids; I'm just asking that instead of teaching fifteen year old girls how to grind like video hos, dance instructors might incorporate breakdancing into the mix. It's an athletic and impressive dance style, and it doesn't require anyone to present their hindquarters like a mate-ready baboon. (Oh, damn it, again with the crotchetiness.) It would also be helpful to recall that nine year old girls aren't reknowned for their critical thinking skills, and that incorporating sexualized dance moves into routines designed for people who have yet to take sex-ed might be overstepping the mark.
So yeah: keep it in the (dirty, filthy, adult, fun) clubs, where it belongs, make musical theatre illegal for anyone older than twenty, and burn my tragic leotard. Can we all sign off on that? Because I suspect that next year's recital is somehow going to be an interpretive dance about handjobs, and that makes me afraid.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Lost Has Lost Me
It's not really a secret, but I love spooky end-of-the-world drama - zombies, plague, hell, even a strong rain and big ark might be enough - but somewhere along the way, Lost has let my attention wander. I read recently that experts, like the people who produce these shows, say that in the future, these shows won't be produced. Not Lost specifically, since there's a strong contingent of borderline-crazy people who follow that action. Rather, the large-scale epic drama that costs networks, like, billions of dollars per season to produce, are on the outskis.
Which is too bad, really. Lost was fun for a while: it was outsized and outrageous, offering up tropical polar bears, time travel, plane crashes, and hot interracial love triangles. It jumped forward and back in time, carrying the viewer, breathless, along for the ride. What's not to love? Okay, sure, asking Matthew Fox and Evangeline Lily to carry the show was a little weird, since they're both super-wooden. And yes, okay, having like, three hundred people as series regulars was probably expensive, especially since the show is shot on Hawai'i...a place not noted for its accessibility.
No matter! Lost was engaging, interesting, complex television. Note that "was" in the last sentences, there, folks: this show has totally beefed it this last little while. Lost got boring when it raised about ninety thousand questions - who are these people? Who are the Others? What's up with that polar bear? Where are they? Did they just say they're going to move the island? For real? Why does this show raise a dozen new questions each episode and fail to ever answer any of them? Where are my Tums? - and then totally whistled and avoided eye contact with its audience. Aww! Lost got shy! What a crock.
Shyness is an adorable trait in a toddler. It's less charming on a multi-season show. A show, as a matter of fact, that takes a notoriously long hiatus between seasons. As a viewer, I'm getting used to long-form complex television drama; writers who use the televised serial as an art form are getting more common. However, those other writers are pretty adept at paying off their big setups (and I'll just slide right past that much-discussed blackout at the end of The Sopranos, thanks). Lost, on the other hand, has constantly upped and upped, and not in a good way, either.
In this day and age (June 17, Age of Aquarius), most producers know that their shows are eventually going to be DVD-ized. I was watching a commentaried episode of How I Met Your Mother (what? I love commentaries), and they talked about, when they were making the show, they could take certain liberties with details and timelines, knowing that their audiences were likely watching episodes in blocks, not in weekly chunks. It's possible that the creative minds behind Lost have taken this phenomenon to its logical, if mind-wrecking conclusion: no details, crazy timelines, all liberties.
I stopped watching a couple years ago, right around the time they announced that the series was going to have a definitive end date. Great! I though, I don't have to wait from week to week and from month to month, slowly growing an ulcer. I'll just forget about it...until I can line up all seven seasons next to my DVD player and watch everything at once. Sure, it's going to take a couple months, and I'll probably gain a whole pile of weight during my televisually-induced snack attacks, but at least I'll know the mysteries of the island.
And I swear to God: if they wipe out on the ending, leaving me with a Dallasian, "it-was-all-a-dream" farrago, there will be words. Fair warning, Jage.
Which is too bad, really. Lost was fun for a while: it was outsized and outrageous, offering up tropical polar bears, time travel, plane crashes, and hot interracial love triangles. It jumped forward and back in time, carrying the viewer, breathless, along for the ride. What's not to love? Okay, sure, asking Matthew Fox and Evangeline Lily to carry the show was a little weird, since they're both super-wooden. And yes, okay, having like, three hundred people as series regulars was probably expensive, especially since the show is shot on Hawai'i...a place not noted for its accessibility.
No matter! Lost was engaging, interesting, complex television. Note that "was" in the last sentences, there, folks: this show has totally beefed it this last little while. Lost got boring when it raised about ninety thousand questions - who are these people? Who are the Others? What's up with that polar bear? Where are they? Did they just say they're going to move the island? For real? Why does this show raise a dozen new questions each episode and fail to ever answer any of them? Where are my Tums? - and then totally whistled and avoided eye contact with its audience. Aww! Lost got shy! What a crock.
Shyness is an adorable trait in a toddler. It's less charming on a multi-season show. A show, as a matter of fact, that takes a notoriously long hiatus between seasons. As a viewer, I'm getting used to long-form complex television drama; writers who use the televised serial as an art form are getting more common. However, those other writers are pretty adept at paying off their big setups (and I'll just slide right past that much-discussed blackout at the end of The Sopranos, thanks). Lost, on the other hand, has constantly upped and upped, and not in a good way, either.
In this day and age (June 17, Age of Aquarius), most producers know that their shows are eventually going to be DVD-ized. I was watching a commentaried episode of How I Met Your Mother (what? I love commentaries), and they talked about, when they were making the show, they could take certain liberties with details and timelines, knowing that their audiences were likely watching episodes in blocks, not in weekly chunks. It's possible that the creative minds behind Lost have taken this phenomenon to its logical, if mind-wrecking conclusion: no details, crazy timelines, all liberties.
I stopped watching a couple years ago, right around the time they announced that the series was going to have a definitive end date. Great! I though, I don't have to wait from week to week and from month to month, slowly growing an ulcer. I'll just forget about it...until I can line up all seven seasons next to my DVD player and watch everything at once. Sure, it's going to take a couple months, and I'll probably gain a whole pile of weight during my televisually-induced snack attacks, but at least I'll know the mysteries of the island.
And I swear to God: if they wipe out on the ending, leaving me with a Dallasian, "it-was-all-a-dream" farrago, there will be words. Fair warning, Jage.
Monday, June 15, 2009
In Search of the Wild Job
[There's an entry that mysteriously appeared from last week today. The vagaries of the intertubes are just confounding. Anyway, enjoy.]
I need some help. The job hunt is a major downer, and I'm starting to feel 100% unemployable. (Note to potential employers: I rate somewhere in the 90% employable range, which is totally decent and takes into account my propensity towards crankiness in the pre-10 a.m. hours.) Job hunting in the big city is hard, yo! Plus, I'm trying to shift away from jobs that involve getting pad thai sauce on my shoes, and focus more on jobs that require creativity, passion and maybe have something to do with my interests. Not that I don't like pad thai.
So what do I do? I was talking to my friend Jess last night about the miserable cycle that is job hunting: first we apply, then we hear nothing, then we apply again, then we still hear nothing, then we start eating bon-bons during the day, then we apply, then we hear nothing, then we start believing that we're never going to get a job, then we think about applying, then we wake up sweaty in the middle of the night, then we remember all the places we applied and sigh, then we come to believe that the problem is us. We are somehow flawed. Perhaps I've accidentally constructed my resume to give the impression of vast oceans of stupidity. I should check that.
Part of the problem is finding my passion. I like doing a lot of different things, and it's difficult to find gainful employment that remarks on all of them at the same time. I like working with my hands - what up, power tools? - but I also like to read and write. I dig working independently, but I really enjoy sitting in a room with a bunch of other people, storming the brains and whatnot. I love learning, but I'm not completely sure that life-long student status is for me (for one thing, the debt would be crippling.) I tend to chafe under authority, but I also need a clear corporate hierarchy. See? What is this mythical place?
There's a short list of people whose jobs I covet. For example, Matthew Blackett over at Spacing seems to have a job I could get behind. He gets to run a magazine that's all about urban living and space. Not one of those home-porn rags, since Spacing is about the city rather than the houses. His team writes about things like the TTC and pedestrian activism, the magazine and website are prettily designed, and the merch is awfully cool. Or what about Tammy Thorne, who runs Dandyhorse? I mean, I like bikes, and I like Toronto, and I like to write....colour me jealous.
It's not just people who run magazines, either - Jamie Kennedy (the chef, not the buffoon) seems to have a pretty sweet day job. Adam Giambrone - city councillor, TTC commish, probable 14-year-old - has a cushy gig. Rick Mercer has a good job. I would love to sit these people down and quiz them: how did they get there? What would they change? Are they hiring? Seriously, does my resume make me look like a racist?
I'll get there (someday...probably...oh, god, hopefully), and it won't be sitting behind the desk at the Rick Mercer Report or working the kitchen at JKROM - it'll be doing something totally different, rocking out with the Kaitlyn Kochany Awesome Express.
I need some help. The job hunt is a major downer, and I'm starting to feel 100% unemployable. (Note to potential employers: I rate somewhere in the 90% employable range, which is totally decent and takes into account my propensity towards crankiness in the pre-10 a.m. hours.) Job hunting in the big city is hard, yo! Plus, I'm trying to shift away from jobs that involve getting pad thai sauce on my shoes, and focus more on jobs that require creativity, passion and maybe have something to do with my interests. Not that I don't like pad thai.
So what do I do? I was talking to my friend Jess last night about the miserable cycle that is job hunting: first we apply, then we hear nothing, then we apply again, then we still hear nothing, then we start eating bon-bons during the day, then we apply, then we hear nothing, then we start believing that we're never going to get a job, then we think about applying, then we wake up sweaty in the middle of the night, then we remember all the places we applied and sigh, then we come to believe that the problem is us. We are somehow flawed. Perhaps I've accidentally constructed my resume to give the impression of vast oceans of stupidity. I should check that.
Part of the problem is finding my passion. I like doing a lot of different things, and it's difficult to find gainful employment that remarks on all of them at the same time. I like working with my hands - what up, power tools? - but I also like to read and write. I dig working independently, but I really enjoy sitting in a room with a bunch of other people, storming the brains and whatnot. I love learning, but I'm not completely sure that life-long student status is for me (for one thing, the debt would be crippling.) I tend to chafe under authority, but I also need a clear corporate hierarchy. See? What is this mythical place?
There's a short list of people whose jobs I covet. For example, Matthew Blackett over at Spacing seems to have a job I could get behind. He gets to run a magazine that's all about urban living and space. Not one of those home-porn rags, since Spacing is about the city rather than the houses. His team writes about things like the TTC and pedestrian activism, the magazine and website are prettily designed, and the merch is awfully cool. Or what about Tammy Thorne, who runs Dandyhorse? I mean, I like bikes, and I like Toronto, and I like to write....colour me jealous.
It's not just people who run magazines, either - Jamie Kennedy (the chef, not the buffoon) seems to have a pretty sweet day job. Adam Giambrone - city councillor, TTC commish, probable 14-year-old - has a cushy gig. Rick Mercer has a good job. I would love to sit these people down and quiz them: how did they get there? What would they change? Are they hiring? Seriously, does my resume make me look like a racist?
I'll get there (someday...probably...oh, god, hopefully), and it won't be sitting behind the desk at the Rick Mercer Report or working the kitchen at JKROM - it'll be doing something totally different, rocking out with the Kaitlyn Kochany Awesome Express.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Girls Jumping Out Of Cakes
Tomorrow marks the five-year anniversary of the Olsen twins' 18th birthday. Somewhere, some pervert is shedding an oily tear over the fact that his favourite underweight moppets are becoming two of America's mogul-iest of moguls: MK & A lead the charge on a whole avalanche of products, ranging from the usual (dolls, books, and videos) to the more anomalous: managing other sets of twins, or launching high-end fashion ventures, all while roaming the streets looking unshowered and possibly herpetic.
No matter! If either of the girls (even though they're now well into their 20s, I have a hard time referring to anyone who weighs less than 100 pounds as a "woman") does have sores, I'm sure she can massage it with a hundred-dollar bill. These girls are l.o.a.d.e.d. Like, richer than God. I'm sure that if Mary-Kate wanted to spend the rest of her life trying on designer dresses, drinking martinis and bathing in milk and honey, that would be no problem.
But neither of them actually do that. They're both firmly entrenched in their own empire - they actually design the clothes they sell for The Row (I would wager they're less involved in the line they vend over at Wal-Mart) and they go to fashion shows. Hell, Ashley went ahead and did an internship with Zac Posen, like she was any other gazillionaire student at NYU. Even though they totally have the money, the power, and what one might imagine to be the male version of the women, the Olsens never rest. I'm beginning to suspect that they're powered by caffeine injected directly their hearts.
Not only are they super successful, but they're also kind of funky - yeah, sometimes literally - and dress unusually and independently. They were part of the whole tween thing that Vanity Fair freaked out about a few years ago. Like Lindsay Lohan a few years later, the Olsen twins became their own internal combustion engine of gossip when MK toddled off to rehab for anorexia. One might point out that people usually traipse off to Cirque Lodge for things like addiction, usually to things like cocaine...but no bother.
The total frenzy that accompanied their 18th birthday was sort of an embarrassing moment, though, wasn't it? Okay, we get it: they're twins. They're blonde. They're nubile. They've been in the public eye since they were babies. They're....that list is kind of distracting, isn't it? Blonde twins...I feel like someone else has built an empire around those very characteristics. Okay, wait, back on track. They must have feel like they were living in a shark cage, what with all the frothing at the mouth regarding their upcoming anniversaire. (Living in a shark cage...I feel like someone else has built an empire around that, too. God, Olsens: is there no trend you have no set?)
I was totally fascinated with the Olsens around their 18th birthday, which coincided with the shitshorm about anorexia/drugs. As a slightly fat 20 year old, you can understand that my interest in the skinny and glamourous duo who were all over the gossip pages that summer, both for actual news (rehab) and pretend news (aging process). They've since gained ten pounds, I've lost twenty, and five years have passed. Even though they've faded slightly, and even though one of them tends to dress like a drunk octegenarian (they're twins - guess which one!) I still admire their choices, both in the business world and on the red carpet. So happy birthday, Mary-KateandAshley...and as a side note from a girl who knows, birthday cake is m'f'ing delicious. So have some.
No matter! If either of the girls (even though they're now well into their 20s, I have a hard time referring to anyone who weighs less than 100 pounds as a "woman") does have sores, I'm sure she can massage it with a hundred-dollar bill. These girls are l.o.a.d.e.d. Like, richer than God. I'm sure that if Mary-Kate wanted to spend the rest of her life trying on designer dresses, drinking martinis and bathing in milk and honey, that would be no problem.
But neither of them actually do that. They're both firmly entrenched in their own empire - they actually design the clothes they sell for The Row (I would wager they're less involved in the line they vend over at Wal-Mart) and they go to fashion shows. Hell, Ashley went ahead and did an internship with Zac Posen, like she was any other gazillionaire student at NYU. Even though they totally have the money, the power, and what one might imagine to be the male version of the women, the Olsens never rest. I'm beginning to suspect that they're powered by caffeine injected directly their hearts.
Not only are they super successful, but they're also kind of funky - yeah, sometimes literally - and dress unusually and independently. They were part of the whole tween thing that Vanity Fair freaked out about a few years ago. Like Lindsay Lohan a few years later, the Olsen twins became their own internal combustion engine of gossip when MK toddled off to rehab for anorexia. One might point out that people usually traipse off to Cirque Lodge for things like addiction, usually to things like cocaine...but no bother.
The total frenzy that accompanied their 18th birthday was sort of an embarrassing moment, though, wasn't it? Okay, we get it: they're twins. They're blonde. They're nubile. They've been in the public eye since they were babies. They're....that list is kind of distracting, isn't it? Blonde twins...I feel like someone else has built an empire around those very characteristics. Okay, wait, back on track. They must have feel like they were living in a shark cage, what with all the frothing at the mouth regarding their upcoming anniversaire. (Living in a shark cage...I feel like someone else has built an empire around that, too. God, Olsens: is there no trend you have no set?)
I was totally fascinated with the Olsens around their 18th birthday, which coincided with the shitshorm about anorexia/drugs. As a slightly fat 20 year old, you can understand that my interest in the skinny and glamourous duo who were all over the gossip pages that summer, both for actual news (rehab) and pretend news (aging process). They've since gained ten pounds, I've lost twenty, and five years have passed. Even though they've faded slightly, and even though one of them tends to dress like a drunk octegenarian (they're twins - guess which one!) I still admire their choices, both in the business world and on the red carpet. So happy birthday, Mary-KateandAshley...and as a side note from a girl who knows, birthday cake is m'f'ing delicious. So have some.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Type Cast
Every so often, and by that I mean at least twice a day, I turn to one of my compatriots and say, "That guy is cute." And my amiga will sigh and reply, "You have such a type."
I take umbrage to this, since every one of those guys is different. I mean, okay, yes - different from each other in the I-rarely-check-out-identical-twins sort of way...but different from each other in the I-have-many-man-types kind of way, too. I've checked out brunettes, redheads and blonds, the polo-shirted and the heavily tattooed. I've checked out men who run the gamut, ethnically speaking, from translucently fair to blue-black; I've scoped out guys who might still be in high school and guys who might be taking advantage of their Freedom 55. I am a type slut. (Not to be confused with a practising slut.)
Sure, I have some definite preferences. Don't we all? For example, in addition to making eyes at passing men, I also scope, if applicable, their bikes. Or I take note of the contents of their shopping cart (which can be handy when trying to assess possible girlfriend status. A lot of sandwich meat usually = single [and possibly suffering from scurvy]; tampons, not so much). Other tiny details are also important. An ostentatious watch is a mondo turnoff, since, for me, it usually indicates a either a poncey childhood or an obsession with cash - neither of which are attractive. More probably, a bad haircut can be a deal-breaker, since it can be a marker of not having the eight dollars required for a trim down in Chinatown. A three-ton watch on a guy with a bad haircut can mean only one thing: unrelenting d-baggery. But those details are mere leaves of the Tree of Men...types are broader, more forgiving of the small things in exchange for the big picture.
I'm not about to publish my Field Guide To Men I Think Are Attractive (coming this fall in hardcover!), but I will plead that my so-called type-having is so not a reality. I've had three semi-to-fairly serious boyfriends, and they have been, like, polar opposites of each other. Yeah, all three of them. Defying the laws of physics? Par for the course in my dating life, dudes.
It's important to note that "types," when I'm talking about them, are pretty strictly a physical definition. There are other kinds of type-selecting out there. Sero-sorting, which is when HIV-positive men elect to only have le sexy times with other positive dudes, may have led to a lowered incidence of infection in San Fransisco. There's also the ever-popular practice of arranged marriages, which, shockingly, was never all that popular in the West. Granted, getting your parents to handle the question of wife/husband pretty much guarantees that you're going to end up with someone who's your mom's type instead of, maybe, your own. At least your beloved will be someone's type.
Friends: the next time I nudge you and make the "he's cute" face (or, more likely, point directly at a stranger and say loudly, "He's cute!"), recall this edict and make no face at me. I like them short, tall, chubby, lean, in every hue and at every age. If I have a type at all, it's "attractive people" and friends, we all define attractive in different ways. For some, it's this man, while others (others more in line with my way of thinking) would prefer this fella right here. To each his own, and happy hunting!
I take umbrage to this, since every one of those guys is different. I mean, okay, yes - different from each other in the I-rarely-check-out-identical-twins sort of way...but different from each other in the I-have-many-man-types kind of way, too. I've checked out brunettes, redheads and blonds, the polo-shirted and the heavily tattooed. I've checked out men who run the gamut, ethnically speaking, from translucently fair to blue-black; I've scoped out guys who might still be in high school and guys who might be taking advantage of their Freedom 55. I am a type slut. (Not to be confused with a practising slut.)
Sure, I have some definite preferences. Don't we all? For example, in addition to making eyes at passing men, I also scope, if applicable, their bikes. Or I take note of the contents of their shopping cart (which can be handy when trying to assess possible girlfriend status. A lot of sandwich meat usually = single [and possibly suffering from scurvy]; tampons, not so much). Other tiny details are also important. An ostentatious watch is a mondo turnoff, since, for me, it usually indicates a either a poncey childhood or an obsession with cash - neither of which are attractive. More probably, a bad haircut can be a deal-breaker, since it can be a marker of not having the eight dollars required for a trim down in Chinatown. A three-ton watch on a guy with a bad haircut can mean only one thing: unrelenting d-baggery. But those details are mere leaves of the Tree of Men...types are broader, more forgiving of the small things in exchange for the big picture.
I'm not about to publish my Field Guide To Men I Think Are Attractive (coming this fall in hardcover!), but I will plead that my so-called type-having is so not a reality. I've had three semi-to-fairly serious boyfriends, and they have been, like, polar opposites of each other. Yeah, all three of them. Defying the laws of physics? Par for the course in my dating life, dudes.
It's important to note that "types," when I'm talking about them, are pretty strictly a physical definition. There are other kinds of type-selecting out there. Sero-sorting, which is when HIV-positive men elect to only have le sexy times with other positive dudes, may have led to a lowered incidence of infection in San Fransisco. There's also the ever-popular practice of arranged marriages, which, shockingly, was never all that popular in the West. Granted, getting your parents to handle the question of wife/husband pretty much guarantees that you're going to end up with someone who's your mom's type instead of, maybe, your own. At least your beloved will be someone's type.
Friends: the next time I nudge you and make the "he's cute" face (or, more likely, point directly at a stranger and say loudly, "He's cute!"), recall this edict and make no face at me. I like them short, tall, chubby, lean, in every hue and at every age. If I have a type at all, it's "attractive people" and friends, we all define attractive in different ways. For some, it's this man, while others (others more in line with my way of thinking) would prefer this fella right here. To each his own, and happy hunting!
Monday, June 8, 2009
Special Events Make Me Feel Special
The time has come, the Seventeen magazine said , to talk of many things. Of shoes, and corsages, and sealing the deal, of limo rides and kings.
There are few events that are "important" as prom. Yeah, those quote marks are supposed to be there: prom is important, but not in the ways one might think. In fact, along with weddings, proms are a category of event that could be labeled, "no matter what happens, the fantasy wrecks the reality." I'm not hating on wedding days or prom night; what I am saying is, after all is said and done, there's a buttload of build-up and not a huge amount of pay-off. (Weddings, however, have the added bonus of getting people hitched, so I'm more on-side.)
It's supposed to be a magical night...right? Limos, fancy dinners, the exciting possibility of sex, nice clothes and flowers. It's marketed as a rite of passage, but unlike your first hangover or your first pregnancy scare, prom is supposed to be a classy occasion. In high school, house parties are sloppy and bush parties are sketchy, but prom - hotel-held and fancified - is supposed to kinder, gentler, more adult, and the entrance into a world where getting dressed up for special occasions means a suit or a pair of high heels (but probably not, you know, together).
But it's not. It never is. I used to think - and still secretly do - that my birthday should be a day like no other. I should get free food at restaurants and breakfast in bed, along with well-wishing phone calls and cards in the mail. Needless to say, that never happens. Birthdays are usually days like any other. I rarely get a parade, and truthfully, that always makes me a little sad. Prom is like that too. The buildup - the anticipation of the special - is what can ruin the mood. Plus, the dressing-up and the going-for-dinner (which is pretty standard) and the limo (not) heightens the whole event. The chance that it won't be totally, totally awesome becomes just inconceivable.
But, inconceivable or not, prom is often a major bust. (And not like this.) Vomiting is involved. Police are there. People are smoking outside. Girls cry. Boys fight. There is often relationship drama of the highly intense high-school variety. Someone else always looks way better. The music, in an effort to appease everybody, ends up being boring top-40. You know, high school dances are usually more fun, because they're casual and not attached to a Big Deal Event. Plus, dancing in gymnasiums is pretty terrific.
Prom isn't so bad, and the fact that it sucks isn't so bad. The worst (for me, at least) is the shame and embarrassment I felt at buying into the hype. I sort of suspected that prom was going to suck, but I wanted so badly for it to be amazing. And then, of course, felt stupid when it wasn't. I felt like I had somehow screwed it up. If only I had gone to school...somewhere else! With different people! And was better looking! And more confident! Then I would have had a great time. But I wasn't, and I didn't, so I was embarrassed to admit that I felt lame at prom. Even thought it's marketed as some Ultimate Thing, it sounds weird to cop to feeling, not regret, joy, boredom or delight...but embarrassment.
Seven years later (damn, time flies), prom is sort of a hazy memory. Since there's no wedding in sight for me, I have few Ultimate Things to look forward to and, unthinkingly, over-hype. Somehow, it's kind of a relief. Rites of passage are getting be getting fewer and farther between - but all that means is that I'm more of an adult. The next time I'm at an event where there's a critical mass of drunk women in ugly full-length gowns, it's going to be celebrating the love of two people...not a bunch of high schoolers who have been chugging schnapps and need a ride home. And I won't be required by law to have an awesome wonderful amazing perfect mind-blowing hyperbolic time.
There are few events that are "important" as prom. Yeah, those quote marks are supposed to be there: prom is important, but not in the ways one might think. In fact, along with weddings, proms are a category of event that could be labeled, "no matter what happens, the fantasy wrecks the reality." I'm not hating on wedding days or prom night; what I am saying is, after all is said and done, there's a buttload of build-up and not a huge amount of pay-off. (Weddings, however, have the added bonus of getting people hitched, so I'm more on-side.)
It's supposed to be a magical night...right? Limos, fancy dinners, the exciting possibility of sex, nice clothes and flowers. It's marketed as a rite of passage, but unlike your first hangover or your first pregnancy scare, prom is supposed to be a classy occasion. In high school, house parties are sloppy and bush parties are sketchy, but prom - hotel-held and fancified - is supposed to kinder, gentler, more adult, and the entrance into a world where getting dressed up for special occasions means a suit or a pair of high heels (but probably not, you know, together).
But it's not. It never is. I used to think - and still secretly do - that my birthday should be a day like no other. I should get free food at restaurants and breakfast in bed, along with well-wishing phone calls and cards in the mail. Needless to say, that never happens. Birthdays are usually days like any other. I rarely get a parade, and truthfully, that always makes me a little sad. Prom is like that too. The buildup - the anticipation of the special - is what can ruin the mood. Plus, the dressing-up and the going-for-dinner (which is pretty standard) and the limo (not) heightens the whole event. The chance that it won't be totally, totally awesome becomes just inconceivable.
But, inconceivable or not, prom is often a major bust. (And not like this.) Vomiting is involved. Police are there. People are smoking outside. Girls cry. Boys fight. There is often relationship drama of the highly intense high-school variety. Someone else always looks way better. The music, in an effort to appease everybody, ends up being boring top-40. You know, high school dances are usually more fun, because they're casual and not attached to a Big Deal Event. Plus, dancing in gymnasiums is pretty terrific.
Prom isn't so bad, and the fact that it sucks isn't so bad. The worst (for me, at least) is the shame and embarrassment I felt at buying into the hype. I sort of suspected that prom was going to suck, but I wanted so badly for it to be amazing. And then, of course, felt stupid when it wasn't. I felt like I had somehow screwed it up. If only I had gone to school...somewhere else! With different people! And was better looking! And more confident! Then I would have had a great time. But I wasn't, and I didn't, so I was embarrassed to admit that I felt lame at prom. Even thought it's marketed as some Ultimate Thing, it sounds weird to cop to feeling, not regret, joy, boredom or delight...but embarrassment.
Seven years later (damn, time flies), prom is sort of a hazy memory. Since there's no wedding in sight for me, I have few Ultimate Things to look forward to and, unthinkingly, over-hype. Somehow, it's kind of a relief. Rites of passage are getting be getting fewer and farther between - but all that means is that I'm more of an adult. The next time I'm at an event where there's a critical mass of drunk women in ugly full-length gowns, it's going to be celebrating the love of two people...not a bunch of high schoolers who have been chugging schnapps and need a ride home. And I won't be required by law to have an awesome wonderful amazing perfect mind-blowing hyperbolic time.
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