One Lovely blog award, what Jack and Ashton know, and the pleasure of ageless dating

I was nominated by a lovely blogger by the name of Ted DesMaisons (read now, follow, be inspired) and this experience is entirely new to me but apparently I’m now to say 7 things about myself and suggest some bloggers for you to check out, which is in fact, the best part of this little award. Thank you Ted!

7 random things about me:

1. I prefer old, rickety wood roller coasters.

2. I find it hard to leave a hotel room once I’m in it.

3. A good dinner companion is one who is as interesting during the appetizer as they are at dessert.

4. I believe if theatre keeps dying city by city we’re really, as in *really*, going to be in trouble.

5. I jumped off my roof when I was 4 anticipating that Michael the Archangel would show up. He did not.

6. I wrote 72 haiku’s for a haiku assignment in grade 2; Mrs. Sutherland said gently, this is wonderful dear, but do you mind if I only choose only one for the haiku board?

7. I never dreamt of a white picket fence; I dreamt of a closet full of fashion dreams that I could step into every day. I still do. Dream. Of that closet. One day.

Great people, great blogs, just click on them and dive into their world:

Sarah Petrescu  writer, journalist

RadJuli entrepreneur, creator, leather designer

Tess Wixted amazing writer, editor, all around inspiring woman

Brevity Non-Fiction blog Just good to follow forever if you are a non-fiction writer

MaryLou Wakefield Story That Matters  A favourite storyteller of mine, also, a story hunter, writer

Solitary Wanderer great solo travel blog

Granace Doré Genuis fashion/life blogger. J’adore!

The Sartorialist This is Granace’s partner, and wonderful inspiring photography blog

Vancouver Writing Jobs Heidi rocks, she is my local hero.

So, I had a post planned but it will get too long and onerous if I tack it onto this one but I just have to say a few words about a link that somehow slithered across my Hootsuite at one point this week and made me pause. It was written by Kevin Williamson and is titled ‘Like a Boss‘. I supposed I clicked on it thinking it was some entrepreneurial advice. Wow! No, nope, nada, that is certainly not what it is. Please don’t blame me if you feel like you just got punched in the face when you read it. I was really surprised to only see 23 comments on this blog. Actually, that is hopeful–people obviously realized how demented it was and moved on. The part I find a bit head-scratching is when he says: “The Demi Moore–Ashton Kutcher model is an exception–the only 40-year-old woman Jack Nicholson has ever seen naked is Kathy Bates…Age is cruel to women, and subordination is cruel to men.”

I can tell you that the Demi-Ashton thing is not only pretty common, it will get more so as women marry less, have fewer children, invest well, and build business’ that support their lifestyles. Poor Kevin. He’s obviously never had the luxury as a young man of being with an older woman. And also, for the record, Jack has seen lots of 40 year old’s in bed–Diane Keaton as just one example, they’re very good neighbours apparently. Wink, wink. I imagine Jack is enlightened enough to look for someone he can spend an evening with both intellectually and physically which may come as a surprise to Kevin that it is even possible with the other sex.

Wait, I have to pause to make some home-made jam, iron my man’s socks, and count money.

Age is not just cruel to women I’m afraid dear Kevin. It’s terribly cruel to men too. Gray ear hair, fading testosterone, Andropause, sagging bits, distended bellies, long eyebrow hair, softly wrinkled under eye bags, silver back hair, you get the picture. And subordination is very fun for some men, except for those that have small, er, egos, then those types really get their back up over a powerful woman doing well, anything. Kevin Williamson, you need to settle down, we democratic women-folk aren’t going to hog-tie you at a woman’s centre! Sheesh.

Or on second thought, maybe we should, just for kicks.

I recently had a date with a young man and I can assure you he did not feel the same way as this writer about older women, in fact, quite the opposite. It is so refreshing to embrace as much of your strength as you want when you are with a younger man; why this appeals is because they realize it isn’t about their ‘subjugation’, it’s about playing with the entire deck of cards versus just the ones marked ‘misogynist’, ‘narrow-minded’, ‘rigid’, and ‘controlling’. I think the irony in Kevin’s comment on ‘what women want’ is that Jack and Ashton are entirely the same kind of guy in that they have sought out women who made them feel powerful and loved and passionate. Age is never a barometer of success but intelligence is. Classy men beget classy women and no age difference need be mentioned.

I for sure am keeping mum about it.

On sex, chat lines, diamonds & why I’m not married

Well, I thought I had read nearly every inflammatory, ridiculous theory on women in their 40’s who aren’t married until I recently had the ‘experience’ of reading this writer’s perception on the Huffington Post. Let’s not pretend the Huffington Post is a harbinger of taste and cultural insight, but this article did do what it was supposed to: elicit a reaction.

Go and read it then come back to me.  ‘Why You Aren’t Married‘, by Tracy McMillan.

So, let’s just get on the same page again. Tracy has been married three times, so I guess this makes her an expert. but, oh wait, isn’t marriage supposed to be for life?

Do you, ____, take , ____, to be your (husband/wife), to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. I, ____, take you, ____, to be my (husband/wife). I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.

Uh-huh. Then we’re clear on that. So Tracy, the marriage expert, is saying that the reason I am not married is because I am in permanent PMS mode and simply not able to be that soft, accommodating, oh sorry, ‘giving‘, partner that every boy/man is looking for? I mean, I think this is the gist of what she is saying? Am I wrong?

Let’s just narrow it right down even further to so I can remember, when I am out, sitting across from a man who just needs me to be more giving, why he won’t marry me, as in ever. Because I am a bitchy, slutty, lying, shallow woman without a sense of self.

Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Let it sink in. It’s my fault for sure. It’s my fault that I see marriages all around me that are complete shams. It’s my fault that over half the men that come on to me are, in fact, already in a relationship It’s my fault that when I completely give, and give, and give, I find out inevitably that all that giving was for not because silly me, it was my vagina, not my character, he was interested in. It’s my fault that I won’t have a threesome to keep my boyfriend happy. It’s also my fault I can’t play dumb enough so my dates can feel better about themselves. I guess, as Tracey astutely points out, I just wasn’t ‘nice’ enough to them or they would have married me.

Oops, I am ruining my dating chances even as I write this because I am sounding angry, or…is it just too darned feminist for everyone?

Guess what? You will not hear anything more lonely than a single man in his 40’s on a sex chat line in the middle of the night. You wanna know how I know that? Because my friend used to work at a company and monitor these calls. That was his job. And it chilled me to hear those stories. The depth of loneliness was astounding to me. And yet, they can’t connect with real women wanting real connection. Why?

Because we’re angry, shallow, selfish, bitches with low self-esteem? Right? Right.

That is the articulate poultice for this situation for sure. Why, I would ask, is there such a disparate relationship between the amazing women I know (including myself, yep, I have healthy self-esteem, crazy eh?) who are not married and lonely, sad, men on chat lines? If men were choosing women on their character, as Tracy posits so eloquently, then why do all the men trying to date me and all my amazing women friends, act so angry, shallow, and slutty? Is it because they’re looking for amazing character? Oh, man, I missed that in their letters to me. Here’s one I recently received from a guy on one of those paid dating sites, you know the kind, where more intellectual, non-slutty, professionals find marriage material? I  hate to even quote from it but after reading Tracy’s post, I’m just so angry and apparently shallow enough now to do it so enjoy this man’s cry for character, connection, marriage:

“I have to say….. there is nothing I find more exciting and sexy than an assertive girl, especially if she loves playing dress-up and using a strap-on Given what you are looking for I think you will be quite interested in what I propose. I’m looking for someone who is confident, assertive and can be dominant without being bitchy or bossy, someone who is very sexually persuasive and knows how to get what she wants :).”

There are no spelling errors so that’s a start right?

The thing is, despite being hit up in this fashion all the time, I completely still believe in true love, big love, kissing in the rain kind of love (thanks Ryan Gosling). I adore and want love. Marriage though, as a goal, should be reviewed by all women in my opinion at this point in time. Because Tracy’s view of the sad, 40-year-old professional doesn’t really compute for me. Most of my happening, sexy, 40-plus friends are making more money than the men I know, own their own houses, and live a pretty great life. I don’t hear any complaining about a need to get hitched. We need to set an example for those younger women who are reviewing marriage, committment, career, and children. Don’t we? 

What I do hear from women my age is that they can’t find men who are interested in love. Not marriage. True love. Not bound by vows, or rings, or mortgages, or even by location. Because true love is rare, a lovely gentleman recently told me, like a diamond, a star, that is in fact so rare to find that when it is lost, there is only darkness.

Small boxes

(An excerpt from a book of fiction I am working on this am….several chapters ahead now…:))

She took the escalator. Looking down at her red toenails, she wondered at the unusual feeling in her chest. What was it? It lay between her sternum and her throat, caught there like a pinned butterfly. What had she eaten today? Lately, she’d been lazy about food, forgetting entirely for hours on end to eat anything. Maybe she was having some sort of low-blood sugar moment. When was the last time she ate? She saw herself by her fridge, eating out of a yogourt container in her underwear. Ok, so that was it. She was just hungry. But it wasn’t her stomach that ached. This feeling was caught there, suspended in her chest like a worry but one that she longed to take out of its box, and turn over in her hands, and touch gently, roll between her fingers, and pull up to her lips and….kiss.

She saw his face then. She smelled his cologne. She heard his whisper. She remembered his hand, a fistful of her hair.

She stumbled off the escalator into a mall of shoppers and stood in front of a mannequin army in a white display window and realized, to her horror, that she must be in love.

Insomnia

(A little excerpt from a fiction piece I’m working on…:)

She looked over at him in the dark. He slept soundly, his head rolled sideways, sunk into the feather pillow, the tops of his eyebrows poking up and throwing tiny shadows across his eyes. The wooden slatted blinds allowed enough light in to keep her up. So did her own mind. She reached over, fingers crawling around on the night table searching for the stem of her wine glass. Warm, flat champagne. Even expensive champagne eventually tastes like shit at 4 am. Checking again to makes sure he was asleep, she slowly eased her body out from under the comforter. She shivered before her feet hit the cold wood floor and crouching Grinch-like she tip-toed out of the bedroom.

Her skin protested in goosebumps as she made her way in the dark down the long hall to the bathroom. She knew she’d find a robe there, because it was like a goddamn hotel wasn’t it? Bowling alley hallways, austere gray furniture, bad art, crisp white textiles and a sort of forced hospitality that made her feel like she should be able to call a front desk. But all she had was her iPhone, sitting in the dark, on the toilet, the soothing heat in her palm as she clicked open Facebook. She smiled at her brother’s video of Sammy Hagar, who in hell even remembers that guy? Somehow it comforted her, in this place where she could never feel she fit her own skin, even as his hands were constantly touching it, from her toes, to her knees, her neck…Fahget about it she told herself in a Tony Soprano voice and stood up to walk towards the kitchen. She noticed a little ‘1’ on her Twitter and clicked to view her mentions. She absently thought how vain she was but then, if that was true, so was the rest of the world now.

The hollow fridge was bachelor bare.She cut a hunk of dried Brie and poured a cold glass of Pinot Grigio. Sitting down on the kitchen stool too high for any normal limbed person, she read through his DM’s. Her tongue savoured the cold wine and she pulled the soft velour around her shoulders. Could he not afford heat? God it was cold. She suddenly heard the floor creak and wanted to sprint, where? What was her problem? Her nerves were like guitar strings strung and twisted, all jangly and frayed and splintered, but it didn’t show on her face as she smiled and kissed him, the smell of sleep and cologne on his neck as he held her and cupped her breast.

“What are you doing out here babe?” he asked.

“Couldn’t sleep” she said flatly and got up, resigned, padding back to the bedroom. She was too tired for anything. Too tired to talk, think, love. Least of all love.

I Have Online Dating Disorder

I have Online Dating Disorder. Kind of like ADD only with an O and instead of Ritalin it’s Chardonnay for meds. As a busy parent, online dating seemed like a good idea at first. You know, water boiling on the stove, filing your nails, talking with your girlfriend on the phone, all the while scanning the online profiles on Lavalife or Plentyoffish for something that doesn’t make you exclaim out loud: Oh.My.God. It was downloadable men–what a fab idea! Like shopping online, only instead of a purse size you were thinking about, oh well, nevermind that, but over time a few things began to become painfully clear to me.

Such as, when a guy recently wrote to me on one of these sites saying, “It’s been three years, do you think you can go out with me yet?” I realized for sure I had ODD. What was wrong with me? These were perfectly nice people. Why couldn’t I commit to seeing any of them? Hadn’t I met some lovely people over the years through online dating? Yes. But…

I might want to watch a subtitled foreign movie this weekend. Maybe an Italian movie. With some Italian wine and oh and I know, some creamy Tuscany inspired pasta you know the kind that gives you an extra set of hips? Or maybe it’s a personal issue, as in I might have gray roots in which case I have to stay home and dye my hair. Or I think my stubble might show through my nylons. Or my laundry is spilling out of my laundry basket and I need to change the kitty litter. Or oh look! the weather vane is pointed southwest, in which case, I simply can’t go out as, well, I just never go out when its pointed that way.

You get the picture.I’ve become the Howard Hughes of the dating world.

Neurotically avoidant. But can you blame me? Recently, I was bravely giving it another chance, talking back and forth with a fellow about all things intellectual and I thought, well, this is a good sign, he hasn’t asked to see a naked picture of me yet. Then lo and behold we go from talking about how sad it is that Christopher Hitchens got cancer to ‘So Margaret, tell me the naughtiest thought you’ve had lately.’ Oh, do you mean as in how long can I park in this loading zone and pick up my prescription from my doctor and not get a ticket? Like that kind of naughty?

Delete.

Or perhaps its the endless sexual innuendos that I am maced with the second I go online that have contributed to my disorder? As in, ‘what exactly were you thinking about in your profile picture? Your smile looks really devilish’. Well, Mr. Online Personality, I was thinking about the weird sound my car makes when I lurch out of first gear and then nearly stall in a busy intersection. Does that do it for you? Because that is actually what I was thinking about. But we know they really want to hear: ‘I was thinking of you tearing off my clothes, maybe in public, because I am that wanton‘.

Pour Chardonnay. Insert movie. Break off slab of dark Denman Island chocolate. Repeat.

The truth is, I never wanted to be one of those mom’s you see in movies, you know the kind, with the chenille bedspread type robe on, smoking a Players filter, a 40 pounder of Jack Daniels on the table, maybe some leftover Poker chips scattered around, screaming at her kid to get her boyfriend another bologna sandwich? No. I wanted my son to be proud of me. Always. So having a Lazy Suzie of boyfriends wouldn’t make for such a great lineage of memorable male figures in his life so I’ve tried to keep my dating to a dull minimum unless I was serious about someone. So, he sees me go out, and sees me come in, usually with a funny story, or phrase that surmises the experience, as in ‘he called my shoes Big Girl Shoes’ or something of that ilk. And with that he knows that the Disorder is back in full swing for a long while.

I am owning my disorder. I know it can’t be helped. Modern medicine simply doesn’t have a cure. I’m sorry to you good guys I’m avoiding in my need to avoid all the bad eggs. Maybe you can reach me by smoke signals or telegraph, you know, the old fashioned way, so I know you are the real thing.

(Photo courtesy of Creative Commons, Flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pinksherbet/with/1482848501/)