That's The Truth About Men

So yesterday on my msn page, there's a little "entertainment article" about what guys really find romantic. I love to read these things, so I clicked. I'm not sure who wrote this thing, but it's either someone who's trying to look good for the object of his affection (or his mother, take your pick), or some high school girl who's had one date in her life and that was with her brother's friend (who probably was threatened within an inch of his life). I find that in the interest of girlfriends everywhere who haven't been in a relationship with a male longer than six months, I must shed some light based on (some) prior experience.

One of the suggestions they made was if your sweetie's favorite sweatshirt is so old and faded that you can no longer read the team (or school, or branch of the military, etc.) logo, then buy him a replacement. It was suggested that showing an appreciation for his favorite things by upgrading will garner you points. Uh-huh. While you're at it, why don't you re-upholster his favorite chair with something that matches the decor. Oh, and don't forget to throw out those sloppy joes that are held together with duct tape. He'll really appreciate that. Men like old and used. Unless it's women. Then they like new and shiny. Just the way they're hard-wired, bless their shallow little hearts.

Another suggestion was that men love chocolate. Especially dark chocolate. While this may be true, it's not gonna make you any more endearing. You wanna romance a man with food? Skip Godiva's and head straight to Sears to pick up the biggest FryDaddy you can find. If it's got batter and/or can be dipped in ketchup, then you're scoring some major points. And if it's served with beer...expect the ring soon.

Suggestion number [who knows?] on the list was "wear your man's button down shirt to dinner - and nothing else. He'll think that's romantic." Here's a little tip - the less you wear, the more men love it. It doesn't matter if it's his work shirt or your great grandma's thong, if you're easily accessible, he's easily romanced.

Men love bubble baths. Well...I don't really know about this one. My husband loves to soak in a steamy, hot bath in our clawfoot tub, but part of that's because his back hurts and it's the only place he can read in peace and quiet. Even though there's watermelon Elmo bubblebath on the shelf above the tub, I've never seen him use it for himself. I just don't see too many men lighting the candles, pouring the bubbles and leaving a glass of champagne on the side as they luxuriate in the glorious bubbles. Unless there's a gal involved. Then they know it's going somewhere. So, maybe men do love bubble baths. Just not alone.

When trying to romance a man, I think it's best (in a sweeping generalization kind of way) to remember: food, sex, cars, electronics. Not necessarily in that order.

All By Myself

[Warning: This post contains extreme negativism. Do not read if using MAOIs, antihistimines, beer or have been placed on a suicide watch in the state pen]

Today is the day that happens more and more frequently. It's the kind of day where nothing has happened, nothing is happening and nothing is going to happen. It's the worst kind of day for someone like me. It's the day where I fight every urge to pack up the car and go. It's the day where I finally get the baby to sleep without being on me to take a quick shower for the first time in three days (gross!) and find I'm out of soap halfway through. It's the day when I feel like a single woman who's married, only I don't have the benefits of full-decision making and personal finances.

"This," I hiss through clenched, partially whitened teeth (cuz the baby woke up halfway through and the mouthpiece scared him badly), "is exactly why I said that if we weren't going to move to Narragansett then we should move to Minnesota." Not, as my husband tends to forget which 'm' state I come from, because it's my home. It isn't. It's because that's where my relatives are. Read: support system.

I am not as strong as I need to be. There are people - women with children - who are able to go through life and it's bumps and detours without a support system...but why do that if you don't have to? What's so wrong living somewhere with a lower cost of living, loved ones whose company I enjoy and a freakin' Taco Bell, for cripes sakes? Is it so terrible to want to see my loved ones on a regular basis? Are Nachos Bell Grande the anti-christ's breakfast? Does it make me a weaker person to say that I need a break sometimes, some help sometimes, someone to take care of me every great once in a while? I am so scared that this stress I can't seem to get control of will give me a stroke or heart attack...who will find me? What will happen to the baby? Who will take care of my children if I end up in the emergency room?

My relatives are good people. A little mid-western bible belt, sure. Yeah, they help make up the 36% that still approve of Bush, but despite that, they're honest to God, down to earth, somewhat mentally healthy, right with The Man, GOOD people. Why not raise my children with them? Why not let the goodness of my cousin's children work a little mojo magic on them? Why not let them grow up in music, laughter, admiration, support, the church and Auntie M's Peanuts collection? Why does wanting all this make me such a hideous person?

I love my aunt and uncle. My aunt has become "the family" to me. I admire her strength and modesty - not to mention her wicked sense of humor and moral superiority. I would like to spend time with my uncle, who looks so much like my mother (only a heckuva lot taller - with really gnarled toes), before nature takes him away from me. I want the close friendship with my cousin, whom I adore and follow like a puppy dog. She is so cool to me. And she needs me. She needs me to remind her how amazing she really is. She needs me to sit in her kitchen and drink coffee and bitch about my thighs as I help myself to another cinnamon bun.

I am the kind of person who needs, and appreciates, a support system. I am not cut out to deal with a toddler who doesn't sleep (and has lead issues plus a nasty cold), a teenager in major transition, a house that needs to be rennovated but will settle for painting and "de-leading", cats, mice, phone calls to attorneys, applications for this and that, car registration, the need to pee by myself every so often and a pressing need to have my eyes checked and my teeth cleaned without some kind of help.

It's not that I'm overwhelmed...it's just that I'm beyond my personal capabilities. I would like to let the baby sleep in the morning, instead of rousing him an hour before normal waking time. I'd like to let the baby take a full nap, instead of having to wake him up to go get Sissy. I'd like to tell my daughter 'yes, I'll pick you up from the dance at 9" instead of, "see if you can get a ride home with someone so I don't have to wake your brother up." I'd like to see a movie, or go out to dinner without a sippie cup and banana puffies in my bag. I'd like to do right by my children, including providing them with good examples. I want to actually enjoy holidays without doing it all by myself and spend Christmas with someone who knows that it's about more than presents. (It's about food, right?) And I would like to be somewhere when, if I cry next to somebody for 15 minutes, they actually notice.

That being said...there's a pair of blue eyes staring up at me and two small arms who have snaked around my neck so that chubby fingers can play with my hair. So I'm going to take some time away from my pity party to sing and tickle - maybe I'll even color the couch with large, non-toxic crayons.

I am grateful for what I have. I just wish I could share all of it. Not just the burdens...but that'd help.

Well, hell, they don't call us mules for nothin', right?

Over The River and Through The Woods

Or, to be more precise, over the bridges, onto the ferry and through the Block Island Sound.

One of the many nice things about growing up in the Greater Kansas City area is the annual Lighting of the Plaza on Thanksgiving Evening. It's hard to explain to a bunch of hardened New Englanders that hundreds of people pile into their cars, leaving several hours in advance so as to find a parking space two or three miles from just the perimeter (pubic transportation? Isn't that for poor people ?), then stand in the cold with friends for hours so that we can watch someone flip a switch (usually associated with the Chiefs or Royals) and turn on all the Christmas lights. But, man it's fun. And it's romantic - more the adjective than the verb. It's a large area, the lights are beautiful, the mood is festive and people are generally pleased as punched that you accidentally stepped on their new suede loafers. With a little nip in the air, the tip of your nose turns pink and someone always manages to bring a vat of hot cocoa. And when the lights all come on at once, you can't help but catch your breath, no matter how many times you've seen it. Because it really is everything your inner child imagines Christmas is.

This year there will be a certain amount of driving, a great deal of grumping (toddler - teenager: take your pick), some good food, the Dog Show, a lot of "can I go hang out at"s...and somewhere in the bottom of my garlic-filled soul and the corner of my heart that is three sizes too small, I will be on a street with fellow strangers, singing impromptu Christmas carols and feeling - just for a moment - that all is right with the world.

And it's not even Thanksgiving yet.

Private Eyes

So here I am, once again strolling down my musical memory lane. Remembering my high school cruising days with Renee, a really loud radio, and an obsession for singing Hall & Oates songs (cuz they were really easy to harmonize to). And, suddenly, I realized. Hall & Oates, man, they were philosophical geniuses. Allow me to share the incredible lyrics of "Private Eyes" that will forever effect/affect my life - and still have so much meaning even today:


I see you, you see me
Watch you blowin’ the lines when you’re making a scene
Oh girl, you’ve got to know
What my head overlooks
The senses will show to my heart
When it’s watching for lies
You can’t escape my
Private eyes
They’re watching you
They see your every move
Private eyes
They’re watching you
Private eyes
They’re watching you watching you watching you watching you

You play with words you play with love
You can twist it around baby that ain’t enough
Cause girl I’m gonna know
If you’re letting me in or letting me go
Don’t lie when you’re hurting inside’cause you can’t escape my
Private eyes
They’re watching you
They see your every move
Private eyes
They’re watching you
Private eyes
They’re watching you watching you watching you watching you

Why you try to put up a front for me
I’m a spy but on your side you see
Slip on, into any disguise
I’ll still know you
Look into my private eyes

*sigh* You just can't argue with greatness like that. Too bad Kahlil Gibran didn't know how to write with such emotion, warmth and finesse.

Only The Lonely

At least I have this to keep me company. And he comes with his own pointy stick, so my honor will always be defended. Or poked at...

I Miss My Friend

David Dowler.

Loved me.

Selflessly, wonderfully, honestly and, sometimes, kick butt-edly.

David Dowler was one of the best people I have ever known in my lifetime.

David Dowler was an extremely accomplished musician. He worked a day job with the city of Kansas City, Missouri as an event planner for one of the convention centers or music halls, I believe. No, no...he booked concerts and touring musicals for...geez, I can't remember the name of it. Lyric theatre? I bow my head in shame, Kansas City.

Anyway, David Dowler was a consumate performer and musician. He was a lot of fun on the community theatre stage, but his true calling was choral music. David was my musical director in "Guys and Dolls" which is when we became fast friends. He was always at my apartment or rented house, playing piano and leading me through vocal scores, readying me for an audition or teaching me new musicals that I just "had to do". David ran musical circles around me, and yet he thought I had the greatest talent ever.

David Dowler believed in me. Not just in the things I could do. But in me as a person. David believed that I was beautiful, courageous, smart, funny, gentle, kind...David believed that with the right encouragement, I could almost be close to perfect. How silly is that! David thought I could do no wrong, even when he was telling me how wrong I was for doing something.

We would talk on the phone for hours. When he left his job with the city and took on a job at the Kinko's just a few blocks from me, not only were we on the phone all the time, but I was always hanging out at Kinko's. Hey, it was close to two college campuses and there were lots of cute boys coming and going at two in the morning. Couldn't get much better than that. He was one of the best friends a girl could ever have and a perfect date when a girl couldn't find one.

I once had a pregnancy scare when I was so very young and was too ashamed to tell anyone except David. The whole situation was beyond my maturity and David simply said "I will marry you and raise the baby with as much love and discipline as I have to offer. I will be a good husband to you." It was just a scare - I was under a great deal more stress than I knew how to handle - but I never forgot that offer, or what it meant to him to say that. David would never marry any woman - except me.

Had David been straight, he would have been my special love. I would have married him in a heartbeat and we would have been happy. We would have probably started our own theatre or choral group at some point and raised beautifully musical children. Slightly geeky, but beautiful.

I didn't know that David was sick. He never told me. I've always been pissed at him for that. For not trusting me with that secret. You shouldn't keep things like that from the people who truly love you. But David fell in love with someone wonderful who did not mind that he was dying of an incurable illness. Someone who knew that he was worth it, no matter what amount of time.

David moved to Denver to be with his love. He became the director of the Denver Men's Chorus. He was happy. That made me happy. Then one day, not long after I had first moved to NYC and literally had no money to my name, he called me to say that he had won some plane tickets on a radio contest (and I was naive enough to believe that - sheesh!) and he wanted me to fly to Denver for a special concert his chorus was doing. Of course I said yes. Now, allow me to tell you that the following information is just one example of how much David loved me and thought so well of me.

I arrived at the airport the morning of David's concert. It was a Fabulous Forties concert and there was to be an instrumental ensemble and dancing after. He arranged an escort for me. A young man they called DooDah because his last name was Campton (Camptown Races, get it?). So I arrived at the airport, David picks me up, we drop my stuff off at the apartment building. It just so happens that they're friends with the landlord who has an empty apartment down the hall. Studio with a murphy bed. Adorable apartment. I get to stay there for gratis for two nights. How cool is that!? Then David takes me to a Thrift Store run by one of the guys in the chorus. It just so happens that there's this lilac frilly formal dress thing that would be perfect to go to a forties concert in. He purchases the dress for five dollars. The next stop just "happens" to be the hairdresser that sings in the chorus. David has already made arrangements for them to do my hair to go with this dress. I am not allowed to do anything but relax. My hair is shampooed, blow dried, curled, put up into this elaborate roll thing with baby's breath all over it and I look...well, dammit, I look stunning! We go out for an early dinner, we do all these things that he has to do. I get dressed and made up and darned if I don't look fine on the arms of two tuxedoes gentlemen who are taking me out for a night on the town. Before the concert, I was introduced and the chorus greeted me en masse as if they all knew who I was. I was coddled and fussed over. Had a terrific seat for a fabulous concert. I always knew he was amazingly talented. After, we ate lovely little things on pretty little plates while drinking frothy little punches and then a very handsome young man came to my side and announced he was my date for the evening. Could things get better? Why, yes, they could. He was the perfect date. Manners - impeccable. Dancing - perfect. Friendly. Easy to talk to. Courtly. And did I mention he was a great dancer? We had such fun that the next thing I know, I am at (and this is where the real excitement starts) a country and western gay bar - that the drag queens used to like to frequent as well. Talk about your fun! So here we are in the tuxes and formal gown, two stepping around the floor - and I'm the only "real" girl. I had drag queens stopping me to tell me how gorgeous I looked. I had cute, sweaty men with perfect hair and even more perfect bodies cutting in to dance. I was a queen. And that had been David's intention from the start.

It wasn't until I learned that David had passed from AIDs that I understood his gesture. He wanted me to feel how special I was to him. How much I mattered. He wanted to give me that wonderful evening to last me long after he couldn't give me any more. He needed it for himself as much as for me. He was a man who knew how to be a good person. A good man. A good friend. A good human.

I think of David often. Especially now that I have yet to make any local friends. When I have figured out how special I really am and how much I really matter and wish to share that with like-minded people. I miss him deeply. I miss his friendship and his music and his tucked in polo shirts. I miss the way I loved being his friend.

David Dowler loved me. And I loved him.