It's all Bull

I was raised to think sex outside of commitment like marriage was risky and devaluating. I didn’t abide by that archaic philosophy, though if I had abstained, I would have saved myself more than penance a few times. Now, my desires and needs are very different from those of my 30s when I was married: I’m not looking for the father of my children. 

Any man in my life is one I wholeheartedly appreciate and want to listen to, laugh with, love on, sit in stillness next to, and genuinely do things for because I like him and want him around. He brings something into my life that makes it more vibrant and interesting. 

He recognizes and appreciates me as both a friend and a woman. I already know who I am and what I bring to a relationship, and that should be reflected in his behavior and how he looks at me, how he treats me, and how he makes me feel. He doesn’t need me, and I don’t need him, but we want each other. 

And that’s rich.

 

It’s rich like the creamy froth of your late-morning latte after 4 hours of rest and a panged drive away from your lover’s house. It’s filled with the salty taste of post-coital intimacy after a takeout night coupled with luxurious wine. It’s enveloped in the warm musk of two bodies appreciating each other for hours, forgetting about headaches and heartaches and the spaces in between.

 

That’s rich.

 

Post-marital sex can be as disappointing as the labored and prescriptive intimacy of common bedfellows; the same infrequency of opportunity…the pent-up hunger…the disappointment of misalignment and misgivings…

Yet, we are enticed back in, desperate with optimism. Our strategy? We play the numbers game. We invest. We risk. We gamble. We hope. 

 

Why? Because we need. We need to be touched and felt, tasted and savored, seen and wanted, and sometimes, well, oftentimes, spent.

 

So, we go there.

 

That’s rich because of the cost.

There’s always a cost.

 

And the more years we’ve invested, the greater our bank account. I wonder, at my age now, how much do I have to invest? And have I saved enough? 

Tonight, I rationed time with one to which I would have rather invested in another. Only half of that investment strategy was of my choosing.

 

Now I’m home, alone and missing the person I’d rather be with who has his own crosses to bear: indecision and fear. Or he’s just not that into me. Regardless, his portfolio is divested beyond my measure (ex-wives, kids, a new business, etc.). He appears to have little interest in equity securities. 

I’m taking stock. Like the forces of the market, our situationship rattles from outside influences of supply and demand, performance, “investor” sentiment, and even the strain of economic conditions. 

As any wise investor, I monitor negativity, poor performance, and disappointing returns. My confidence slides when I perceive instability in his level of interest in “us.”

This man is receiving a loan without even paying towards the principal. And so we have not only a relationship that has depreciated, but also a lack of appreciation. A poor return. Our future often looks like all futures: He can hedge because he believes I am low-risk: He can trust in my consistency and value. Or he can stick with options or alternative investments, which offer greater diversification with greater risk.

I’m also over-allocated. 

 

What have I invested? Time. Money. Emotions. Dreams.

The market can turn on a dime, and at some point, competition may entice me to exchange. I may be inclined to trade for something of greater security. I appreciate the interest, and I’m absolutely closer to retirement.

Cheers to the Bull. 

Holding Out for a Hero

I’m not sure what other people do when they get home from work, but the second I step into my home, I become a blur of activity that goes something like this: Put coat in closet. Pat cats on the heads and ask them if they had a good day (expect and appreciate no response). Dump leftover coffee in sink and rinse mug. Take off shoes. Take off jewelry. Feed cats. Turn on TV. Put work clothes away, shower, and put on jammies. Light candle or incense. Pour glass of wine. Prepare dinner. Plop down on coach and eat while watching something on the DVR.

Sometime after eating, I take care of chores so I don’t face doing all of them on the weekend. Not exciting, and no different than most single Americans without children.

But this evening, I was inspired by my coworker’s cleaning enthusiasm—she pulled out her fridge and vacuumed behind it. WELL! I should do that! I’m sure there’s a dust puppy living under mine.

To start fresh, I decided it was best to shake the dust out of the foam filter thing that goes in my vacuum. So I turned on the balcony light, opened the door, peeked outside (no one needs to see me whapping this thing on the railing in my pink tank top and pajama pants), and stepped outside. It was 9:30 at night and 40 degrees out. One of my cats was really excited about going on the balcony, so I quickly slid the door closed just enough that she couldn’t get out.

That’s when I heard an ominous sound behind me.

KA-TINK

I knew in a microsecond what that sound was, and I spun around faster than it took the synapses in my brain to complete the connection: The metal safety bar fell.

“NOOOO! Oh, shit, shit, shit…NOOOO!”

Like the hapless victim of a rear-end collision, I couldn’t accept the totality of my situation. This bar WILL MOVE.

My cats were standing in the doorway, open about 3 to 4 inches, their little arms reaching out to me and their faces full of concern—until I dropped the foamy filter thing in favor of a frantic effort to force the bar upward, or bend the bar—anything.

The bar was at a roughly 45-degree angle. This was promising. Not one cell in my body accepted that I had just trapped myself out on my own balcony in the dark in the cold in my skimpy top, jammy pants, and red Christmas footies.  

Like a hopeful primate, I looked around for a tool. Because the roof was replaced the day before, the only thing on my balcony was the top of my jack-o-lantern. Awesome.  

Holding the stem of the jack-o-lantern, I thought I could fling it into the downstairs neighbor’s window. Her light was on. Did I want to involve her? NO! She’s one of the most annoying humans I’ve ever met. She’s a naggy, nosy, know-it-all who thinks everyone else has noodles for brains. She talks to me like I’m 12, and in my current situation, I just wouldn’t have the patience for it. 

I continued to jerk on the door handle. I pulled it so hard, it went partially off the track. Suddenly I realized that with every pull, the metal safety bar went a little lower.  

I debated climbing down the balcony and jumping to the ground, but I was two stories up, and I’d still be locked out of both the condo building and my home. So I did what felt like the most alien thing I’ve ever done: I called for help. 

At first, my calls of “HELP!” were more of a suggestion.

As the cold started to hit me, “PLEASE, SOMEBODY, HELP ME!” became my plea.

Finally, I began to distress and yell into the darkness: “HELP ME! HELP! SOMEBODY, HELP ME!” I was panicking.  

The balcony light turned on for a neighboring condo on a street behind me. Thank GOD! Did they hear me? How could anyone NOT hear me?

A man in his late 50s stepped out on the balcony.

Him: Is everything alright?

Me: Thank God, you heard me! I’m stuck out on my balcony. The safety bar fell down, and I can’t get the door open.

He stood there silently for about 10 seconds. What was he thinking?

Him: Do you want me to call the police or fire department?

Me: Umm…yes. I think that’s best.

Him: What’s your address?

I told him, and he went inside to make the call. A minute later, he was down standing in the grass, and he threw me up a sweatshirt. I was beyond grateful. 

He returned to his balcony and stood outside so I wasn’t alone.   

After another 10 minutes, we saw a flashlight come through the trees, and a police officer came into view under my balcony. 

He smiled up at me in a way that I knew meant he was trying not to laugh. Stupid girl got herself shut out of her own condo at night on a balcony. How does that happen? And what is she wearing? A gigantic sweatshirt, pink pajama pants, and red…fluffy socks?  

Officer: Well, now you do live here, right? You aren’t actually trying to break into the place are you?

Inside voice: Yes, this is my break-and-enter, burglar outfit.

Me: Yes, I live here. (Shivering) If I were trying to break in and I got up here, I’d have made sure I could get back down.

He laughed, “Yes, I have to ask, to make sure...” 

We saw the fire truck drive by twice. I wasn’t surprised: In my little neighborhood, my street is a “court” next to a “lane” of the same name and near a “drive” also of the same name. This truly demonstrates the efficacy of our local government. Is it really possible to run out of numbers, landscapes, animals, and dead presidents all in one 4-block area?

Before a new street is named, several names for it are submitted and checked against an existing database of street names to make sure there are no duplications, names that rhyme near each other, or similar-sounding names because they can delay emergency response.  

REALLY? You don’t say! 

After the third drive by, the fire department finally located my street and several firefighters trekked around to the back of my building. 

I explained to them how it happened, told them countless times how embarrassing this was, and believe it or not, they said this wasn’t an uncommon thing (I think they were being kind).  

Then it began: The barrage of questions.

Guys: Did you try the other balcony door?

Me: Yes, it’s locked.

Inside voice: DUH! OF COURSE I DID!

Guys: Is your front door open?

Me: No. I locked the deadbolt.

Guys: Do you have your keys on you?

Me: No. They’re inside.

Guys: Can you call someone with another set of keys?

Me: No. My cell phone is on the coffee table.

Inside voice: Gee, why didn’t I think of that before screaming for help in the dark? And yes, why, here’s my cell phone! I holster it to my pajamas!

I had no one to call. I told them my family lives in Peoria, and I didn’t know by heart the number of the only person with a set of keys—the person I rent from. And I was pretty sure she was out of town for business anyway. 

Guys: Where does that side door go?

Me: My bedroom.

Guys: Did you try it, is it locked?

Me: Yes, but I’ll try it again…

Inside voice: …for the audience in the back.

Guys: And it’s locked?

Me: Yes, it’s locked.
 
Inside voice: Why no, it's open and I'm standing here anyway. What woman wouldn't keep a door going from outside to her bedroom locked?!  

Guys: What’s in that other door?

Me: Storage.

Guys: Is there a key in there?

Inside voice: Right. Who keeps a key to their side-bedroom door in their outside storage closet—in the event that they are ever locked out on their two-story balcony? 

Remember that annoying downstairs neighbor? NOW she makes an appearance.

Nag: I heard the banging, but…

Me: Yes, that was me trying to get the door open.

Inside voice: You stupid ass, you didn’t even come outside to see what was going on? The ONE TIME you mind your own business…

Then she starts in, “Why do you lock your balcony door? You’re on the second floor. I lock my door because I’m on the bottom…”

Me, at a whisper: The Devil himself wouldn’t want to go into your place. 

Her asinine questions continued:

Nag: Why do you lock your front door?

Inside voice: Because I’m a small, single woman who is very protective of her person, you idiot. There’s no way to answer a stupid question like “Why do you lock your front door,” so I didn’t.

Nag: Why don’t you keep an extra set of keys in your garage? I could get them for you. Or you can give me a set of keys, just in case…
Me: My garage door is locked! (Frustration)
 

Inside voice: Like I’d give you keys to my place? Are you kidding me? We aren’t friends!

Nag: What? Why do you lock your garage door?
Me: I have things in there that I don't want stolen.

Inside voice: Because I’d prefer that if someone were to steal my things, it were not as easy for them as an open-door invitation, dumbass.

Nag: Why don’t you have your cell phone with you?

Me: I was stepping outside for 30 seconds! Why would I need my phone? 

Nag: Why did you put the bar down?

She asked this question intermittently countless times. I considered flinging the top of the jack-o-lantern at her, but, well, there was a cop right there and… 

It was all I could do not to yell at her that IF THE BAR were down, I wouldn’t be ABLE to go out the balcony door in the FIRST PLACE! Use your brain! I didn’t put the bar down BEHIND myself for God’s sake! 

She asked many more questions, rambling about what she does or what she would do. I finally sternly told her to go back inside and let the firefighters do their job.

I realize it’s highly unlikely that, short of Spiderman himself, I’ll ever have an intruder in my second-story condo. I also realize that, lightest-sleeper-in-the-world that I am, said Intruder will be the more likely victim because I have a gun within seconds’ reach of my bed (compliments of my protective father and The Second Amendment). Finally, said Intruder would likely take one look at my sad, little box TV (oh, DO stop criticizing) and fling himself off the balcony quite willingly. All that aside, no one wants to be The Dumb Girl killed by some new Ted Bundy because she doesn’t lock her doors.  

Incidentally, I asked the police officer if I shouldn’t lock the deadbolt and such, just because there was a primary security door into the building. He said that I should absolutely lock the deadbolt to my front door. Good. We’re done with that issue. 

Nosy neighbor gone, the firefighters resumed their own questioning. One of them suggested breaking a window, and suddenly, the game completely changed. They were all about breaking something. Men, is it just not fun unless something or someone gets destroyed? 

Was there anything on the balcony I could use to break a window?

I held up the jack-o-lantern top and said, “No.”  

Was there anything in the storage closet I could use to break a window? My golf clubs.

I asked if they could just take off the lock or something, but apparently the “or something” would be breaking down my front door. Eesh. Really? Let’s not do that. 

They were all about breaking down the door, breaking windows, breaking, breaking, breaking—destroy everything! I felt panic well up inside me again, and I went into my calm, talk-the-suicide-off-the-ledge voice. 

I told them the bar wasn’t down all the way. In fact, it was at a very agreeable angle. I suggested that there was probably a way to move the bar without destroying property. This piqued their interest and along came a ladder and a bag of jimmies.  

Before long, four firefighters and a police officer were on my balcony. In about a minute, one of them jimmied the bar over like the miracle I prophesized and, VOILA, the sliding door could be opened…sort of…one of the firefighters kindly put the door back on the track.  

The police officer asked for my name and phone number—which I told him after I confirmed I wasn’t being printed up in the newspaper the next day or something.  

They finally asked if they could leave through the front door instead of descend the ladder. Of course, though I hadn’t thought of that. I wasn’t particularly excited about them coming into my home in a mid-cleaning state, but then again, I was standing there in red footies… judgment had already been passed. 

I thanked my heroes profusely (despite the massive amounts of mud they tracked across my carpet), and LOCKED the deadbolt again (which I will continue to do). I also thanked myself for not lighting any incense that evening (can you imagine what the police officer would have thought?).  

The next day when I told my mom my saga, after she finished laughing so hard she damn near peed herself, she got quite serious and asked if I "asked any of them for their phone numbers." I was then chided for still not making myself little contact cards she wanted me to carry—like business cards—for handing out to guys I happen upon whilst going about my day. I’m not kidding. 

My poor mother desperately wants to see her older daughter remarry, and who better for her daughter than an official hero? Ok, so she may say a handsome bazillionaire is way better, but a hero—who can argue with that?  

Mom was absolutely aghast and utterly disappointed that I didn’t put myself out there on this one-and-only occasion that I would safely have five men all to myself in my house at one time. I defended myself by reaffirming that I was not my cutest self—I was lucky I was wearing a bra (Yes, ladies, I know you were wondering. You may all finally exhale.). Under the circumstances, not one of those men would think “Hey, she’s a looker…I dig the red footies.”  

There’s got to be a reason for all the fairytales of rescued damsels in distress, but let me tell you, this would NOT be how I’d write my story. I’d at least have made sure I was wearing makeup and anything but pink pajama pants and a ginormous blue sweatshirt, for Heaven’s sake.  

And I’d have thought to take their picture so I could commemorate them in my blog. J 

After the muddy footprints were scrubbed away, I noted to myself some important things to remember:

1. Keep locking the deadbolt.

2. Securely tape up the balcony door's loose safety bar.

3. When God puts five heroes on your balcony and one of them asks for your name and number, ask for his in return. Sorry, Mom!

4. There's no way to plan for a good story.

5. Always wear a bra.

Bangarang

Every online dating site promises to match you on some algorithm of compatibility, but compatibility is much more complicated than similar interests and personality types.

Opposites attract and build a life together blending their differences. People fall in love with childhood friends—before their personalities have fully developed. People experience love at first sight. And people lose the love of their lives in tragedy only to fall in love again.

What brings people together and what keeps them together is unique to each couple. Some couples grow apart and stay together to raise their children. Other couples are bonded through life challenges that make them stronger. Some share hobbies and activity interests, making them feel like two halves of a whole.

One thing I know predictably to be true is that no website and no matchmaker knows the secret to compatibility. Compatibility is a blend of personality types, life experience, cultural and religious backgrounds, interests, and compromise.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­-------------------

In one 48-hour span of my life, I felt the full weight of both success and failure in online dating. I met my ex-boyfriend online dating roughly five years ago. We were together for two years, and he meant a great deal to me. Unfortunately, he didn’t love me “enough.” Last weekend, he got married in a glorious ceremony. He waited a long time for the love of his life, and, as much as it does hurt, I am still happy for them—he deserves to be fulfilled, and she loves a good man.

Less than 48 hours later, my ex-husband texted me pictures of his newborn twins with the woman he met online before our divorce was finalized. We had lost a pregnancy during the last year of our marriage, and every woman that’s been there knows that the raw pain of that loss never, ever goes away. Receiving pictures of his new babies? There’s not much to say about that.

On the up side, a 40-year-old friend of mine just got engaged to a man she met nine months ago online. She’s been through more than her share of horrible dates and been hounded by quite a few stalkers. While everyone else pressured her and called her “picky,” she knew in her heart of hearts that she needed and deserved someone special.

My friend Cat met her husband online, and they are happily married and have built a loving home, complete with a beautiful daughter and an adorable son. She paid her dues, and a warm breeze entered her soul when Tommy came into her life.

Most of us hate the concept of online dating, and the reality of it is even worse. Take a date I had toward the end of this summer. He was 41-years-old, divorced, no kids, and a professional print production salesperson. Reportedly, we were “compatible,” but I’m STILL trying to figure out how.

He wanted to take me to a Cubs game the week before, but after he texted me that I should bring my overnight bag, I declined. What’s with this “first-date sleepover thing?” I’ve been faced with it before. It’s like trying to skip every single step of dating—steal every base all at once.

Ever the idiot, I accepted a rescheduled date with this guy. It’s hard to really judge someone you haven’t actually met in person. As we were sitting at the restaurant Carnival in Chicago, he said, “So, you have a cat?”

I smiled and said I do, surprised he’d even ask me about that.

He continued, “You like a little pu**y?”

I almost died, but instead, my expression went stale, and I said, “Strike one. Don’t talk like that.”

He laughed and said he was just kidding, but of course, my strike wasn’t enough to call him out.

“Come on, you’ve never been with another woman?” he asked.

What was this about? I smothered the little psychology monster in my head. I couldn’t care less about anyone’s sexual orientation, but this guy was orienting himself toward a side of me he would not much care for.

I gave him my “I think you’re pathetic, and I’m bored” laugh and said I’m into men. I told him if I was into women, I wouldn’t be here with him, and he wouldn’t stand a chance. After all, who knows a woman better than another woman?

After dinner, we’d planned to see a movie. I honestly could have left and been fine with it. Alas, it was time for the movie.

“My condo is just upstairs. I have some new movies, or we can get one on-demand,” he said.

Inside voice: Mace? Check. He hasn’t been handsy. Pointy, high heels? Check. Friends know where I am? Check. Fine…but approach with caution.

In the elevator, he asked if I brought an overnight bag.

I laughed at his arrogance. “There’s no WAY I’m staying over.”

“Are you a prude or something?” he asked.

“Strike two,” I sighed.

“Come on, I’m kidding. Don’t be mad.”

Inside voice: Is he just trying too hard? Is he just nervous and saying stupid things? Maybe he doesn’t know how to make small talk? At the same time, I just really didn’t care…I knew I wasn’t going to see him again anyway. THIS was NOT my man.

When he offered alcohol, I had a soda. Not even if I were to see a rainbow shine out of a leprechaun’s butt would I have a drink and risk compromising my decision-making skills. He seemed to chill out. He hadn’t so much as tried to hold my hand. By now, I was feeling like a feral cat: paranoid, scrappy, and ready to run.

His condo really was fantastic. He collected art from all over the world, and I’m sure he paid an enormous amount of cash for his spectacular view of the city. But you know what? At the end of the day, he can’t buy himself manners…or ME.

He popped in the movie, and while he didn’t make a single shady move, I still felt suspicious, which made me think I was overreacting. Still, a woman’s gut instinct is a biological wonder. I wish my gut was tied directly to my feet though sometimes…or a fist.

Halfway through the movie as I was returning from the restroom, he stretched his arms over his head, spread them across the back of the couch in a power gesture and said (with a distant look on his face), “I can’t wait to bang you.”

STRIKE THREE.

I spun on my heel and nearly choked on the words I wanted to toss like bile all over the room.

With a cold, dead look on my face and my eyes fixed on my purse, I said flatly, “That’s NOT going to happen. What’s wrong with you? Don’t be THAT GUY. I’m done.”

He jumped from the couch and tried to convince me not to leave, but I was at the door. Frankly, I didn’t hear a damned thing that came out of his mouth after “bang you.”

He saw me push the elevator button before he was inside. Stupid door didn’t close quickly enough. I was trapped. He should have incinerated from the negative energy radiating off of me in the elevator.

“Can I walk you to your car?”

Inside voice: As if.

“No.”

His words jolted me over and over and over again like an annoying memory hiccup, despite Skrillex’s song “Bangarang” blasting through my car speakers. Befitting.

I eventually asked one of my male friends why a guy would say something like that to a woman. This man doesn’t NEED to act like that! He’s attractive, well-established, and he may have a lot to offer…no reason to act so desperately overt.

My friend told me that he has a friend that says things like that to women, and he asked him about it one time. His friend reasoned that if he propositions 10 women, at least one of these women will take him up on it.

I can’t really argue with that, but I certainly don’t echo his “take whatever I can get” philosophy.

Like my friend that just got engaged at 40, I’m not just looking for Any Man.

I’m not lonely.

I’m not desperate.

I don’t NEED a man.

 

I need a champion.

Until he comes around, I guess I’m stuck calling strikes...and trying to avoid wayward balls.

Kiss Me, Kate

Recall the best date you ever went on. It could have been with the person you ultimately married, or the one that got away. Perhaps you had no expectations for the date, and you were pleasantly surprised by just how enjoyable it was? Maybe you built up so much anticipation that your palms were sweaty, your heart raced, and you tried on outfits until you ran out of time, your room left in shambles?

Now imagine if, at the end of this spectacular date, you’re both standing there, mutual attraction twisting your stomachs, eyes locked, mouths dry…leaning in…and your date delivers you a kiss that transports you back to a grade school boy-girl party game of Spin the Bottle in a dark closet surrounded by moonboots, a trench jean jacket, and the scent of mothballs. HELL, no!

There are no faster executioners of budding romance than incompatible kissers smacking into each other. What’s worse, there’s no way to spot a bad kisser. Often times, bad kissers think they are masterfully skilled. I wonder who led them to this conclusion.

1945 photograph by Alfred Eisenstaedt
V-J Day in Times Square

What woman ever told The Pecker that he took her breath away? Who wants to be pecked at? It’s a ridiculous way to be kissed. Stop that!

Let’s not forget Wet Willy who either tried to drown you in saliva or choke you with his tongue. Unseemly.

Or The Corpse. Seriously? The Corpse attaches his mouth to yours like a suckerfish and just stands there. Wait for it…wait for it… It never arrives. Did he learn kissing from black-and-white movies? He clearly doesn’t realize your shortness of breath is from shock and horror, not lust. Stop resuscitation and call it: Kiss of Death.

The passion and promise of The Kiss have been revered and immortalized across cultures and time in every form of art: sculpture, poetry, lyric, paint, cinema, and more. The Kiss itself IS an art form, and it shouldn’t feel like you’ve entered the Second Circle of Hell. Yet despite the prevalence of lips and the eagerness of people wishing to share theirs, The Kiss is anything but a commonplace, B-movie horror film from the ‘80s.

Enter: Science

When a man kisses a woman, testosterone is excreted in his saliva and transmitted to the woman through The Kiss. The testosterone gives a boost to the woman’s sex drive, and an artful, slow-rolling kiss can build into a crescendo. Fact: Kissing alone can bring a woman to orgasm. I don’t believe it. I need proof. :D

According to endocrinologists, women can detect a man’s quality of health from a specific genome code for his immune system. I won’t bore you with details, but in summary, a good kiss gives both participants a hormonal sample of the quality of a person’s immune system—a key toward determining reproductive compatibility.

The Kiss by Austrian painter Gustav Klimt

University of Albany evolutionary psychologist Gordon Gallup Jr. researched, believe it or not, the effects of kissing on relationship development. The results of his study concluded that a bad kiss was the reason 59% of men and 66% of women ended a relationship.  

“There’s evidence to suggest that modifying your kissing ability might not be in your biological best interest,” Gallup said. “If you push for a relationship after a lackluster kiss, that relationship could end poorly.”

Scent of a Woman

Our noses may feel like they’re in the way, but they actually play a pivotal part in The Kiss—our olfactory system keeps us from choosing an incompatible mate. We all have a natural scent (yes, you smell). These molecules—which aren’t necessarily detected consciously—provide information on our reproductive status and DNA to a potential mate.

Without even realizing it, women are most attracted to men whose genes, when blended with their own, would produce a vastly different immune system—providing offspring with stronger immune systems.

Whether the next person you kiss nearly costs you a front tooth, or you’re drowning in a wet, bubbly cocktail of endorphins, give a nod of thanks to the little Biology Angel on your shoulder: Sometimes a kiss IS just a kiss.

 “If you wanna know if he loves you so, it’s in his kiss!” —Aretha Franklin

For couples in a relationship, The Kiss is a barometer providing subtle signs regarding the quality of the relationship. No, it doesn’t need to be hot and heavy when you’re stepping out the door for work in the morning, but couples that kiss often and like they mean it are more secure in their relationships.

Along these lines, I’d like to take this opportunity to represent all eyeball-rolling women everywhere: Guys, a passionate kiss doesn’t need to be followed by groping and sexual overtures. We realize that since about 15, your gun is pretty much always cocked. But how about trying something that will REALLY blow her mind: Imagine kissing your lovely lady like you did before her kiss became familiar and then just leaving her heaving and hanging! Walk away like you’re The Man—without a word—before she has a chance to shake the stars out of her eyes. You’ll confuse her, and she’ll be aching about it all day.

* * *

So here’s to The Hoover who ensures turtlenecks never go out of style (amateur). And to Ben who tried to kiss me under the slide in second grade (saved by the bell). To Kyle, my actual first kiss on the dance floor (nicely done, despite your braces). To Chris, whose kiss was so mind-blowing, we fell backwards off a log around a bonfire and he hit his head on a rock—without pausing a second.

The Kiss, 1889 French sculpture by Auguste Rodin

* * *

She felt like a chess player who, by the clever handling of his pieces, sees the game taking the course intended. Her eyes were bright and tender with a smile as they glanced up into his; and her lips looked hungry for the kiss which they invited.
 
"But, you know," he went on quietly, "I didn't tell him so, it would have seemed ungrateful, but I can tell you. I've stopped kissing women; it's dangerous."

A person can't have everything in this world; and it was a little unreasonable of her to expect it.

—Excerpts from “The Kiss” by Kate Chopin

Kiss and Tell

©       Hindu writing in the Vedic Sanskrit texts from India dated 1500BC refers to kissing as “smelling with the mouth.” Seems they were ahead of their time.

©       If someone tells you they are a “philematologist,” don’t panic. They study kissing!

©       That passionate kissing you did in the car in high school burned 6.4 calories a minute.

©       At the University of Electro-Communications’ Kajimoto Laboratory in Tokyo, inventors designed a machine to mimic the feeling of a French kiss. The “Kiss Transmission Device” records the movement of a kisser's tongue and mimics this movement in the mouth of a recipient using another machine. I believe something like this was also on the TV show “Big Bang Theory.”

©       Kissing Tip: No need to pass up the tasty garlic bread—if both you and your partner eat (even just a little) of an odorous food, neither one of you will notice the scent on each other’s breath!

©       A regular kiss involves only two muscles in the face. A glorious French kiss involves all 34, so loosen up.

The Jimmy

Illeism is when someone refers to themself in the third person instead of the more appropriate first person.

In literature, writers may refer to themselves in the third person to convey objectivity about their subject, even if they were a participant in the story.

In psychology, referring to oneself in the third person demonstrates disconnection between the person’s body and mind. It may be the result of trauma or an attempt to dissociate from something one has done that is difficult for the psyche to reconcile against self-image.

Technology—both in truth and science fiction—often represents “itself” in the third person to avoid blaming the user, e.g. “The System has experienced an interruption in connectivity.”

Does illeism suggest a lack of self-awareness or a true separation of consciousness from physical form? “Confucius say…”

Illeism is also used to illustrate immaturity and/or ignorance: “Elmo loves you!” Elmo’s linguistic skills are indicative of those in children. Speaking of oneself in the third person is also a practice of people that haven’t mastered a language: “Miyagi hate fighting.” “ET phone home.”

Those are all examples of illeism outside of ego. Somewhere closer to the inside is “The Jimmy.”

Prime time TV viewers met The Jimmy on Seinfeld in 1995, and hysteria ensued. People all over either knew “That Guy” or hoped never to meet him. A year later, Bob Dole channeled The Jimmy and elicited a mass of sneers when, during the U.S. presidential election, he aggrandized himself with the statement “You can trust Bob Dole.” Decades earlier in 1958, Mike Wallace had a surreal moment with The Jimmy in the form of artist Salvador Dalí. Dalí took illeism to the beyond in his 60 Minutes interview as he affirmed, "Dalí is immortal and will not die."

I met The Jimmy for one long, unforgettably odd date with Syd.

Pasta, Prima Donna?

So my date with The Jimmy (a.k.a. “The Illeist”—I may have invented a word) began with an Italian dinner.

Out of the gate, I recognized this was going to be a strange evening. Before the waitress even came to our table, Syd began his long and winding monologue, and at least half of his sentences were in the third person.

“Syd got in a workout today! I ran 5 miles by the lake. Syd takes care of himself. It gets harder to keep things up at our age. If we don’t watch it, we can really pile on the pounds. Isn’t it frustrating? You have one pizza, and it’s all over. It’s a good thing Syd runs! Do you run? It’s a fantastic activity! I belong to a running group. I also weightlift. Do you go to the gym? I think you said you went to a gym. I work out nearly every day…”

Ok, Syd is from the U.K., so I rather enjoyed the way he said “frustrating” with the accent on the “a,” “frustr-A-ting.” Syd's family actually came from some little area in India to the U.K., and Syd moved to the U.S. in college.

As Syd talked on and on, I was able to eat my pasta without interruption. At first this seemed great, but soon I realized I had to eat more slowly. Let’s be clear: I am already a slow eater. I am always the last one still working on my food. Tonight was a unique challenge for me: Do I try and eat one noodle or two at a time? Push things around for a bit? I can’t exactly talk to fill up time. I turned my fork on the spoon to twist up the pasta so slowly, I felt like I was watching a clip from an odd independent film, camera zoomed in on a spoonful of pasta.

Syd had barely made any dent in his salad what with the incessant babbling. I wondered if he realized he was never going to finish his salad. I’m eating insufferably slowly, and Syd’s barely moved his fork—with the exception of punctuating an exclamatory statement every other minute. Eating with utensils should be like hockey: High-sticking results in a penalty! Keep it DOWN.

Syd doesn’t eat pasta. Syd was clear about this. Initially, I felt like a pig ordering pasta, but I dismissed this because hey, I’m NOT dieting, we ARE at an Italian restaurant, and how freakin’ cliché is it for a woman to order a salad on a date?

It was remarkable to hear a person string together so many disparate thoughts. I’ve never heard anything like it in my life. I became curious. Without being able to participate in the conversation—which technically wasn’t a conversation because there was no actual dialogue—how did he think this date was going?

Dirty Vegas

Syd: “Have you ever been to Vegas?”

Me: Oh, my God, I get to speak. “Yes…”

Remember, Syd is English, so infer your best British accent as you read. The capitalization illustrates where he emphasized his words. He was a very animated talker, so he emphasized a lot of words.

Syd: “I love Vegas! Next time you go to Vegas, Syd can hook you UP! Syd can get you a $2,000 VIP table at PURE. Have you BEEN to PURE? Oh, you MUST! So MUCH fun! I’m not really into strip clubs or anything, please know that about me…”

Me (to myself): This place is a strip club? I thought it was a bar? No, I didn’t actually get to ask this question.

Syd continues (actually, Syd never broke): “I realize a LOT (like ‘lote’) of men LIKE strip clubs. Strippers always seem to gravitate TO-wards me! I don’t underSTAND it! I’m always saying ‘No! No! No!’ but my friends absolutely LOVE to buy me lap dances. My friend (we’ll say ‘Tim’) dropped so much MONEY the LAST time we were in VEGAS—just at the STRIP clubs! He didn’t even bat an eye. They say was happens in Vegas STAYS in Vegas—Tim’s money SURE did STAY in VEGAS! Tim walked INTO the BAR and said, ‘Syd needs a lap dance!’ and I was so uncomfortable! I’m sitting there, and there’s a woman’s bum in my FACE! This bum just bounced on by, came back around, bounced on by. It was riDICulous! Don’t get me wrong: She was beautiful—a BEAUtiful woman, yes! She must do very well for herself because she’s so lovely. Strippers really make a LOT (again, like ‘LOTE’) of money! Do you know how much they can make in an EVening? It’s inSANE! Anyway, when I go to PURE, they’re like ‘Syd! Syd’s here! You need a table, Syd? Come on over here, Syd!’”

Syd’s energy level was off the charts. Did he drink an espresso before our date? Breathe, man, breathe!

Again, I cannot possibly tell you everything he said. I wish I’d recorded it with my phone or something. He talked ON and ON about strip clubs, strippers, some stripper’s butt in his face, how big her breasts were, how much his friend spent buying him lap dances, how much strippers LOVE him.

Throughout dinner, I learned an extensive amount of Syd info: Syd is in sales (shocking). Syd does really well for Sydself. Syd loves to travel. Syd put himself through college as a pool shark. Syd loves his watch. Syd only wears fine clothing. I’m unclear what this means specifically, but Lord knows I didn’t have an opportunity to ask.

Stagefright

Syd loves improv. After dinner, we went to a show. He actually was taking improv classes at this very location. I readied myself for an actual “SYD! SYD’S HERE?” moment.

I know this sounds terribly surprising, but Syd talked through the whole show! At one point I was concerned the improv troupe would hear him, and I’d be suddenly thrust into my own personal nightmare: a cameo. I really hate those moments when I find myself to be the center of attention. Being dragged up onto a stage to participate in an improvisation would either make me throw up or black out.

I’m sitting at this table trying to hear the performance and simultaneously listen to Syd’s play-by-play. Apparently there are different types of improv acting, and Syd knew them all: “This is GREAT! We did this! This is ‘suggestion.’ The improvisers have to play on what the audience says.” Then another type—a longform type—is called “Harold.” I know, right?

Despite Syd’s constant (and not hushed) interjections, we avoid the spotlight. Syd’s next item on the agenda is to subject me to Gameworks.

Game Playing

I’m sure this place is stellar to teenage boys and people in their 20s—even the standard-issue, intoxicated 30-something—but I am none of these things. If you’ve never heard of the place, it’s essentially a two-story warehouse of arcade games. Games from floor to ceiling. Gun games. Joystick games. Driving games. Games against Man. Games against Beast. Games that look like they belong in a casino (again, Vegas!). Oh, and a bar with many TVs.

Syd demonstrates his skills firing a plastic gun. He forces me to try, so I play a good sport, and I take up a plastic gun. I aim for the big screen.

I suck. I don’t understand how I’m supposed to be aiming at the little animated, angry people on the game screen. I die time and again.

Syd is disappointed. Syd tells me to try this and do that. I still suck. “How have you ever fired a gun?”

Me: “This isn’t a REAL gun! I’m FINE with a REAL gun! And I don’t shoot PEOPLE!”

Syd grabs my hand and practically drags me to some game where I’m supposed to be a firefighter.

Dear God. I stand there in my dress and heels on floor-pad things (I have no idea what that’s about) and attempt to put fires out on the screen with this ginormous fake hose. I think of my friend Mike, an actual firefighter, and I can imagine him laughing.

I actually didn’t suck at this game, but let’s face it: Accuracy is loose with a fire hose. I think I did hose down one of my comrades, but I did save the girl. Why is it always some screaming woman that needs to be saved? Oh, wait…why is there no hero firefighter saving me from my date emergency?

I’ve redeemed myself with my fake firefighter abilities, so we move on to a game where I’m expected to drive a Humvee on a racecourse. Seriously? The race of DEATH!

We get into this huge mock Humvee, and we have to buckle our seatbelts.

I’m concerned.

What exactly is this game going to do? 

Is there a CHANCE I’m going to get THROWN?

I tell Syd that on a moon launch motion ride at Disneyland, I had to put my head between my knees lest I vomit all over my father-in-law. It was horrible. I was sweating. I was dizzy. I realized it was good I didn’t pursue aeronautics. I even cried.

When it was my turn to drive, I didn’t do too badly until I jumped some hill and hit a wall, upon which I removed my hands from the wheel to cover my eyes. Syd yelled that I shouldn’t take my hands off the wheel. I realize that, but again, I just went into a wall with a Humvee. Apparently this doesn’t end one’s life in a game: I was still in the race.

Next, Syd LOVES this game where you have to guess how much money is left in suitcases. He explains that this is a real TV game show. He wants to bet and bet. Again, Vegas!?

I am not a gambler: I like to keep my money or put it towards something I want to own. I don’t want to purchase “chance.”

I’m no fun.

Syd plays several rounds of this game and finally insists I help guess which suitcases have the big bucks in them. Just to be done with it, I throw out whatever number I see first on the screen each time. I ask if I can phone a friend. Syd tells me “that” is not THIS game, that’s another game. (This is only funny to me.) The goal is to accumulate tickets to exchange for items you’d essentially find in a Cracker Jack box. Excellent!

Syd begins namedropping, my favorite. Poor Syd: I smile politely and nod my head, but I fail to swoon.

Syd pulls out the big guns: “Do you remember ‘Robocop?’” Oy, I remember the movie, yes. Well, according to Syd, he walked into a bar somewhere awesome, and the actor who played Robocop shouted “SYD! SYD’S HERE!”

He continued, “Pete (Peter Weller) put his arm around me, and I hung out with him and his entourage for the evening. Pete’s AWEsome! Blah, blah, blah…”

As if. That makes no sense. Syd is a pharmaceutical rep. Insert suspicion here.

Syd finally amassed a handful of tickets, so he exclaimed “Come on, Kate! Syd’s gonna get you something nice from the shop! Whatever you want!”

I still want to phone a friend.

So the “shop” is pretty much what you’d expect. I feel more pressure than I should to find something—anything—I want in exchange for the tickets. I decide I want Pop Rocks. You know, how fun is that? I haven’t seen Pop Rocks in over 20 years!

Well, Syd already appropriated most of the tickets to pool ball key chains. I get it: He plays pool well. I didn’t much contribute to the ticket stash either.

Syd seemed to have scored the biggest win with a handful of these little pool ball key chains. He couldn’t get a complete collection unless he committed to more games, so I wondered how he decided which ones he had to have. By the time he was done picking his balls (yes, I’m being snotty), I was resorted to a candy necklace. It was actually far too small to be a necklace but too large to be a bracelet. (I later decided it was a candy garter of which Syd was never going to see.)

And so ended my date with Syd, Sydself, and whatever…I’m tired.

Syd declared how wonderful it was talking “to” me.

Exactly.

As I drove away, I finally phoned a friend and considered the odds I would have a date with The Jimmy from India with a U.K. accent and a motormouth.

Better than craps.