This is actually something that has been on my mind ever since The Affair started.
Once I was ensconced in it, it seemed that everywhere I looked or turned around, everything in the world had something to do with men cheating. Segments on the "Today" show! Articles in magazines! Advice columns on websites! And every single one seemed to have the same underlying theme:
If a man is cheating on his significant other, somehow, someway, it is the "Other Woman's" fault. SHE is the man-stealer. SHE is the sinner. SHE is the mountain lion lying in wait on some tree branch, waiting for that helpless-yet-attached male to trot by so she can leap on his unsuspecting neck, drag him off to her lair, and devour him.
I was IM-ing with a friend the other day, a very close friend, as it happens, to whom I admitted that finally I bagged the Big Guy on Saturday (more on that story later). I wasn't the she-lion in this situation. I was, in fact, the pursued. And while I didn't exactly resist, I did delay for a couple of weeks. I asked him to not tell his significant other about it, because as cool as she is, I know that she will NOT be cool about this. And my pal, whom I shall call "Z" here, told me that she feels strongly about "women lying in wait to steal other women's men."
Then, there was also the conversation, held with "Z" and Big Guy about how "you chicks don't look out for each other, you're ruthless and you'll go after a married guy without thinking twice about it."
Then, there was another conversation I had with "Z," who when I told him I had initially resisted Big Guy's advances, congratulated me with this phrase: "You saved him from himself."
Okay. Now. All of this tells me that society is ready to excuse the man, the one who is supposedly IN the committed relationship, under the guise of, "Well, everyone knows men are weak and stupid. It's a WOMAN'S job to rescue them from their baser, animal natures."
Well, I have one thing to say to that.
Bullshit.
A guy who sets out to cheat on his significant other, whether she's a girlfriend or a wife, is making that decision without the help of some femme fatale. Absolving them of responsibility from their actions because some female tempted him is a specious argument at best.
As a society, we are completely conditioned to believe this is true! That it is The Other Woman's fault! We have internalized this as part of our societal belief system so thoroughly that in an affair, if it is discovered by the significant other or someone else, everything is completely turned on the Other Woman.
It is not my responsibility to burnish the conscience or behavior of any man. I'm sweeping on my own side of the street, I enter into any relationship believing and trusting that the other person has made peace with their own conscience and karma.
And you know what? That old business of, men are being dragged through life by their dicks -- I don't buy it. That's just their lame excuse for bad behavior. And remember, I am a woman who loves men. My best friends on this planet are men.
I don't know. Maybe I'm a little cold-blooded about this, but damn. I've got enough work getting good with my own self, I can't take on responsibility for anyone else.
I entered into the relationship with F with my eyes open and rationally. I didn't have, and still do not have, any guilt about doing it. Believe me, i keep waiting for the guilt to come a-knockin' but it hasn't. Nor regret. (Guilt and regret are just kissin' cousins, aren't they?)
I just had to get that off my chest.
Tuesday, March 7, 2006
Monday, March 6, 2006
Oscars 2006
Here's the conclusion I reached as I slogged through yet another 4 hours of Oscar boredom. It's a tedious chore to watch the Oscars every year, yet we do it every. single. year.
You sit through bad jokes, uncomfortable speeches, a lame "In Memoriam" montage, and at least one clip segment featuring Gary Cooper as Lou Gehrig, Scarlett O'Hara standing on the hill or Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman (or all of the above).
No one even has the balls to dress in a bad dress that we can make fun of.
I feel like I've been to the dentist.
You sit through bad jokes, uncomfortable speeches, a lame "In Memoriam" montage, and at least one clip segment featuring Gary Cooper as Lou Gehrig, Scarlett O'Hara standing on the hill or Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman (or all of the above).
No one even has the balls to dress in a bad dress that we can make fun of.
I feel like I've been to the dentist.
Night of a Thousand Cab Rides
When you finally manage to surgically extract a friend from the East Village to venture into the 'burg, as I did on Saturday night, you just have to take what happens in stride...
H and his girl E came over for dinner. I made a lovely penne florentine and we hung out in my little apartment drinking beers before setting out on what would end up being a car service adventure with lots of high hilarity.
This was one of my "Christmas in Brooklyn" weekends (No-L), so not only was it a coup to get H out here, but he came willingly in a cab. This is a guy who practically needs TNT to be blasted away from the nexus of his life at 2nd Ave & 5th Street (one of those "I get nosebleeds above 14th Street" people), so I considered it a gift that he was willing to travel across the Big Water to the Land of Annoying Hipsters. It's the smallest things that make me happy.
Car Service Ride #1: First we headed to a Complacent Nation party/art event out at 313 Meserole...upon our arrival in the barren industrial wasteland known as "East Williamsburg" (Bushwick by any other name), we learned that the party had been moved around the corner to another space. This seemed to confuse our cab driver, even though a guy in another car had said, "I know where to go. Follow me." This had the inexplicable effect of making our cab driver go really slow.
Enter the party space after paying our $10. Get our hands stamped. This immediately makes me feel old, as hand stamps have that effect on me. We enter, and of course, as it is not yet 10:00 we are wayyyyy too early. We are the chaperones at the prom. We are the old folks in the room. H in his Columbia jacket, E in her perfectly-tailored black, and I in my Hellytech. We look like tourists from Colorado dropped into the middle of ArtWorld.
Well, we reasoned, let's look at the art and the self-consciously arty kids running around in their pirate costumes (um, kids, I may be old, but the pirate thing is playyyyyyyed out. Arrrrgh.) Time to flee the scene and head off to see R's pal Jay Collins' band playing in the hood.
Car Service Ride #2: Following the e-mail instructions provided, we proceeded to another address on Meserole St... and no Jay Collins! Turns out his instructions were BAD and we were supposed to go to Meserole Avenue. We had a drink in a restaurant that felt like the last outpost before indian country, Mojito-something. The owner was nice enough to plant us at the bar and call us another car service.
Car Service Ride #3: Meserole Avenue and Manhattan Ave. We walk into what is clearly an outpost for the Russian mob, and a decidedly unwelcome welcome by the earpiece wearing Mr. Clean lookin' thug. Ummmmmm - we seem to have missed Jay. We back away slowly from the gangsters and trot around the corner. Well, what the hell? Now we're in frickin GREENPOINT and have no idea what to do next. So, when in doubt, just get onto the next mode of public transportation that makes itself available.
B43 Bus: We don't know where it goes, but a quick look at the map at the bus stop shows a stop at Metropolitan and Driggs -- close enough to home that we hop on. Note to self: You don't want to be The Drunk People on a New York City bus... you tend to be the ones causing a scene in one way or another. Pure serendipity -- the bus is now going down Graham Avenue, back to Williamsburg!
We pour out of the bus gratefully and I steer our intrepid trio up the block to the Pour House. H feels as if he achieved drinkers' nirvana -- rock and roll on the juke, cold beer, a pool table, porn on the television and a back room where we can smoke with the bartenders' blessing!
It was an adventure, and if it hadn't been for the spirit of "oh well, we can't control this, let's roll with this," that pervaded the evening, someone would have thrown a hissy fit. But we were all in such high spirits that we were all unfazed by the spitballs being thrown at us by the universe. It was just High Plains Comedy from one end of the night to the other.
All in all, a fine, fun evening with good friends.
H, I really dig your girl, even if she thinks I'm a ho without a conscience...
H and his girl E came over for dinner. I made a lovely penne florentine and we hung out in my little apartment drinking beers before setting out on what would end up being a car service adventure with lots of high hilarity.
This was one of my "Christmas in Brooklyn" weekends (No-L), so not only was it a coup to get H out here, but he came willingly in a cab. This is a guy who practically needs TNT to be blasted away from the nexus of his life at 2nd Ave & 5th Street (one of those "I get nosebleeds above 14th Street" people), so I considered it a gift that he was willing to travel across the Big Water to the Land of Annoying Hipsters. It's the smallest things that make me happy.
Car Service Ride #1: First we headed to a Complacent Nation party/art event out at 313 Meserole...upon our arrival in the barren industrial wasteland known as "East Williamsburg" (Bushwick by any other name), we learned that the party had been moved around the corner to another space. This seemed to confuse our cab driver, even though a guy in another car had said, "I know where to go. Follow me." This had the inexplicable effect of making our cab driver go really slow.
Enter the party space after paying our $10. Get our hands stamped. This immediately makes me feel old, as hand stamps have that effect on me. We enter, and of course, as it is not yet 10:00 we are wayyyyy too early. We are the chaperones at the prom. We are the old folks in the room. H in his Columbia jacket, E in her perfectly-tailored black, and I in my Hellytech. We look like tourists from Colorado dropped into the middle of ArtWorld.
Well, we reasoned, let's look at the art and the self-consciously arty kids running around in their pirate costumes (um, kids, I may be old, but the pirate thing is playyyyyyyed out. Arrrrgh.) Time to flee the scene and head off to see R's pal Jay Collins' band playing in the hood.
Car Service Ride #2: Following the e-mail instructions provided, we proceeded to another address on Meserole St... and no Jay Collins! Turns out his instructions were BAD and we were supposed to go to Meserole Avenue. We had a drink in a restaurant that felt like the last outpost before indian country, Mojito-something. The owner was nice enough to plant us at the bar and call us another car service.
Car Service Ride #3: Meserole Avenue and Manhattan Ave. We walk into what is clearly an outpost for the Russian mob, and a decidedly unwelcome welcome by the earpiece wearing Mr. Clean lookin' thug. Ummmmmm - we seem to have missed Jay. We back away slowly from the gangsters and trot around the corner. Well, what the hell? Now we're in frickin GREENPOINT and have no idea what to do next. So, when in doubt, just get onto the next mode of public transportation that makes itself available.
B43 Bus: We don't know where it goes, but a quick look at the map at the bus stop shows a stop at Metropolitan and Driggs -- close enough to home that we hop on. Note to self: You don't want to be The Drunk People on a New York City bus... you tend to be the ones causing a scene in one way or another. Pure serendipity -- the bus is now going down Graham Avenue, back to Williamsburg!
We pour out of the bus gratefully and I steer our intrepid trio up the block to the Pour House. H feels as if he achieved drinkers' nirvana -- rock and roll on the juke, cold beer, a pool table, porn on the television and a back room where we can smoke with the bartenders' blessing!
It was an adventure, and if it hadn't been for the spirit of "oh well, we can't control this, let's roll with this," that pervaded the evening, someone would have thrown a hissy fit. But we were all in such high spirits that we were all unfazed by the spitballs being thrown at us by the universe. It was just High Plains Comedy from one end of the night to the other.
All in all, a fine, fun evening with good friends.
H, I really dig your girl, even if she thinks I'm a ho without a conscience...
Wednesday, March 1, 2006
My Special-K Challenge
A desperate pudgy chick will resort to almost everything in the pursuit of losing a few pounds. I admit to resorting to THE SPECIAL K CHALLENGE.
It started when I pulled on a pair of the "fat jeans" I bought last fall and couldn't get them to button or zip without EXTREME discomfort. We're talking 10 pounds of potatoes in a 5 pound bag uncomfortable.
It's taken a month, but I finally mustered the courage to pull out those jeans once again. Well, folks, I'm here to tell ya -- the goshdurned Special K diet worked. I got the jeans on, with room to spare. (ok, it was just millimeters, but still, it was a tiny bit of room). The acid test, I sat down in them and didn't immediately feel my legs go numb from having the circulation cut off.
Now, back in my younger, thinner days, 6 pounds would be something you *noticed* if I lost them. 6 pounds was the difference between choosing the size 6 or the size 4. (Yes, and I once had a 24 inch waist, not that you'd ever guess from looking at me). These days, 6 pounds is virtually invisible -- but I know they're gone. My jeans tell me they're gone. My guess is that no one will notice until I shed 16.
And I don't care if it makes me vain or shallow (I never pretended NOT to be either of those things, after all).
And yes, realistically, I know it's not the cereal. It's the reinforcement of healthy eating habits -- you know, all the old saws your mommy taught you -- eat breakfast every day, eat a healthy lunch, and don't stuff yourself at dinner. Walk more. (my poor abused knees are thanking me for making them carry a little less weight.)
I'm not thinking that any miracles are going to happen -- this took a month, after all. Ahh, the perils of being "of a certain age" and having your metabolism slow down to a speed called "Glacial."
It's a start.
And spring bicycling season is just around the corner. So not only will I be increasing the aerobic (fat-burning) activity, I'll finally get back my rock-hard quads. Snap you in half with a squeeze of the thighs.
Although -- since it appears I won't be getting laid anytime soon (despite the mad flirtation with the supertall hottie in the East Village - DAMN! I should have just taken him home when I had the chance, but that's a story for another post) I'll just have to enjoy the impending mad muscle tone for what it is... enhancing my beautiful, strong, sturdy legs that I once hated for their strength and sturdiness. The 29" inseams that once were the bane of my existence now make me sure that I'm just that much closer to the earth. No fragile thoroughbred stems for me, my legs are the legs of a draft horse, a Clydesdale, a peasant farmer, a coal-miner's granddaughter. They are powerful and strong. The other day I was in the shower and I bent over to soap my legs and was struck by their quiet grandeur. They aren't willowy and long. They are redwoods, they are El Capitan, they are Half Dome. I love them.
Finally.
It started when I pulled on a pair of the "fat jeans" I bought last fall and couldn't get them to button or zip without EXTREME discomfort. We're talking 10 pounds of potatoes in a 5 pound bag uncomfortable.
It's taken a month, but I finally mustered the courage to pull out those jeans once again. Well, folks, I'm here to tell ya -- the goshdurned Special K diet worked. I got the jeans on, with room to spare. (ok, it was just millimeters, but still, it was a tiny bit of room). The acid test, I sat down in them and didn't immediately feel my legs go numb from having the circulation cut off.
Now, back in my younger, thinner days, 6 pounds would be something you *noticed* if I lost them. 6 pounds was the difference between choosing the size 6 or the size 4. (Yes, and I once had a 24 inch waist, not that you'd ever guess from looking at me). These days, 6 pounds is virtually invisible -- but I know they're gone. My jeans tell me they're gone. My guess is that no one will notice until I shed 16.
And I don't care if it makes me vain or shallow (I never pretended NOT to be either of those things, after all).
And yes, realistically, I know it's not the cereal. It's the reinforcement of healthy eating habits -- you know, all the old saws your mommy taught you -- eat breakfast every day, eat a healthy lunch, and don't stuff yourself at dinner. Walk more. (my poor abused knees are thanking me for making them carry a little less weight.)
I'm not thinking that any miracles are going to happen -- this took a month, after all. Ahh, the perils of being "of a certain age" and having your metabolism slow down to a speed called "Glacial."
It's a start.
And spring bicycling season is just around the corner. So not only will I be increasing the aerobic (fat-burning) activity, I'll finally get back my rock-hard quads. Snap you in half with a squeeze of the thighs.
Although -- since it appears I won't be getting laid anytime soon (despite the mad flirtation with the supertall hottie in the East Village - DAMN! I should have just taken him home when I had the chance, but that's a story for another post) I'll just have to enjoy the impending mad muscle tone for what it is... enhancing my beautiful, strong, sturdy legs that I once hated for their strength and sturdiness. The 29" inseams that once were the bane of my existence now make me sure that I'm just that much closer to the earth. No fragile thoroughbred stems for me, my legs are the legs of a draft horse, a Clydesdale, a peasant farmer, a coal-miner's granddaughter. They are powerful and strong. The other day I was in the shower and I bent over to soap my legs and was struck by their quiet grandeur. They aren't willowy and long. They are redwoods, they are El Capitan, they are Half Dome. I love them.
Finally.
Just Another Night in Crackville
Ah, the lovely Nancy Colon was at it again.... I was roused from my lovely Nyquil coma by the sound of a fight in the hallway.
A few minutes later I heard the all-too-familiar crackle of police radios downstairs, punctuated by Nancy's familiar bellow, the incessant barking of her dog, and many slamming doors. Finally quiet at 12:30 or so... I thought the cops came and took away Nancy's dog, but got more of the story this morning....
Fragments of conversation overheard: "You can talk to him at the nine-oh (90th Precinct)...." "...do you want us to take you too?" "waaaaaaaaahhhhhh. it's not FAIR...." (Nancy's usual plaint when the cops come - after all, she is the victim here, right?)
Found out this morning she and her "boyfriend" Frankenstein (another known felon, the cream of Bushwick) tried to run a shake and bake on some guy -- she lured him into her apartment for sex, took his money, then Frankie jumped out of the closet and proceeded to chase the guy out of the building. Funny thing is, this guy was so pissed, he went to the police. Within minutes there were two or three undercover units parked outside the building, hauling Frankie's ass off to jail. Yet again.
Now, the interesting thing is that the cops who showed up were detectives, not patrol cops. In "undercover" units (ummmm, guys, even a naive semi-midwesterner like me can spot those undercover cars from 500 yards. At least invest in something other than Chevy Impalas...) and not blue-and-whites.
My speculation: The guy was sent in on a buy and bust by the cops (or maybe was a cop himself). Would an illegal Mexican immigrant go to the cops if a prostitute stole his money? No, he would disappear into the weeds for fear of "La Migra" grabbing his ass. How did the NYPD get those undercover cars there so fast? I mean, within minutes of the fight, they were there. And their goal must have been Frankenstein, otherwise they would have taken Nancy in on prostitution charges, right?
Nancy's train actually derailed at Ho-town on the *way* to Crackville last night.
Just another night in the ghet-to.
ACS, I got two words for you: Nixmary Brown. Or how about these two words: FOX NEWS.
A few minutes later I heard the all-too-familiar crackle of police radios downstairs, punctuated by Nancy's familiar bellow, the incessant barking of her dog, and many slamming doors. Finally quiet at 12:30 or so... I thought the cops came and took away Nancy's dog, but got more of the story this morning....
Fragments of conversation overheard: "You can talk to him at the nine-oh (90th Precinct)...." "...do you want us to take you too?" "waaaaaaaaahhhhhh. it's not FAIR...." (Nancy's usual plaint when the cops come - after all, she is the victim here, right?)
Found out this morning she and her "boyfriend" Frankenstein (another known felon, the cream of Bushwick) tried to run a shake and bake on some guy -- she lured him into her apartment for sex, took his money, then Frankie jumped out of the closet and proceeded to chase the guy out of the building. Funny thing is, this guy was so pissed, he went to the police. Within minutes there were two or three undercover units parked outside the building, hauling Frankie's ass off to jail. Yet again.
Now, the interesting thing is that the cops who showed up were detectives, not patrol cops. In "undercover" units (ummmm, guys, even a naive semi-midwesterner like me can spot those undercover cars from 500 yards. At least invest in something other than Chevy Impalas...) and not blue-and-whites.
My speculation: The guy was sent in on a buy and bust by the cops (or maybe was a cop himself). Would an illegal Mexican immigrant go to the cops if a prostitute stole his money? No, he would disappear into the weeds for fear of "La Migra" grabbing his ass. How did the NYPD get those undercover cars there so fast? I mean, within minutes of the fight, they were there. And their goal must have been Frankenstein, otherwise they would have taken Nancy in on prostitution charges, right?
Nancy's train actually derailed at Ho-town on the *way* to Crackville last night.
Just another night in the ghet-to.
ACS, I got two words for you: Nixmary Brown. Or how about these two words: FOX NEWS.