Get in the Bath or Get a Job

Sit in my studio, paint, think, go take a bath, eat, think some more, change the music, write, paint a little, think. It’s a great job. It just doesn’t always pay too well. Rembrandt ultimately forfeited his swanky house and claimed bankruptcy. Gauguin was banned from France at one point. Not that he objected to his Tahitian exile as he clearly made the most of his situation. Pollock may have been able to create some wealth if he hadn’t died in a drunken car accident. Some artists have done very well such as Renaissance painters, sculptors and architects like Bernini and Raphael who enjoyed regular patronage. Marketeers like Koons, Hirst and Murakami are wealthy. These are the celebrated. What about the rest of us? There’s plenty of talent that isn’t awarded the necessary props from those that can catapult an artist into a spotlight that generates cash flow. For the unhighlighted this sadly means we have to get a job that pays regularly. This may or may not relate to our medium. It does mean less time in the studio, which, for me, translates into underdeveloped ideas. Not to mention a general dissatisfaction with my life and a sense I’m not doing something right.

There has always been a symbiotic relationship between the wealthy and the creative. We already know why artists need the wealthy. The wealthy, such as the Medici family who supported artists like Botticelli and Michelangelo, need to appear generous and altruistic to temper their ambition and greed in turn avoiding minor robbery to murder attempts and rioting. (The 99% are considering their options) It also doesn’t hurt that a great artist can document a family’s power and nobility for all time. The paintings Napoleon commissioned that hang at Versailles make him appear as formidable as he wished he had been. And taller. Artists make homely daughters of wealthy patrons palatable and the money keeps the artists in bread, wine and fetishes.

I haven’t indulged in any fetishes in a while. My lack of patronage has kept me painfully restricted to life on a ledge debating whether just falling off might be the better choice. At least it would be an interesting choice. Standing here merely fighting the cold wind waiting for an invitation inside where it’s warm and lovely is wearing me out. I succumb to my parents’ nodding approval of my alleged fortitude. I’m not that strong. I’m weak. Too weak to just let it all go and run amok! God, I’m dying to just run wild for a while. And I do mean dying. As in my soul shriveling to a fragile withered leaf devoid of even one squeeze of green succulence. I guess I don’t want to lose my house or ruin my credit score. One day, when this is all over and I’m solvent again I’ll be glad I held on? Jeezus, I really don’t know the answer to that. Why is it always some undisclosed magical day on the horizon that holds all milk and honey? What about today for Chrissakes? What if I don’t make it to that horizon line? Technically we never get there. So what the hell am I doing then?

I spend time in wealthier circles. I had a conversation with a man I knew in high school who lives a rat race 14 hour day existence. He’s done very well for himself, but has to keep it up to keep it all up. He colored with envy despite my comparative poverty because I do get days like today that are what I hope every day could be. I painted, ate, bathed, thought some thoughts, and painted some more, then went to an opening for someone else’s thinking and painting where we can all think about what we are looking at and discuss. I live alone and don’t have kids. I have a luxurious life. I did not have the money to go to NOLA this New Year’s with my cousins. I wouldn’t have minded watching my maize and blue win the Sugar Bowl! It was the soul of that city that was the real attraction and I bet I can get there another time when I can fully embrace all the flavor of New Orleans, not just as a celebrating football fan on Bourbon Street. I’m torn between what is considered grown-up behavior and what appears to be utter irresponsibility but is really creative exercise. I am creatively out of shape. While normies join Weight Watchers, I’m looking for a bit of debauchery. (Thinkin’ NOLA should stay on the to do list)

There is some discussion on creative genius whether it appears early or after years of study and practice. It’s both. The difference with the late person is constant dissatisfaction. A sense that a goal isn’t being reached. While some contemporaries hit their zenith at 25 and run with it for a while, I’m still waiting. My experience has shown me what great art looks like. I’m never sure I’ve made anything worthy of leaving the house let alone adorning noted gallery walls. Cezanne didn't hit the bigs until he was 50 and regularly shredded paintings out of frustration. In contrast Picasso, sure of his talent because it was established when a young ego can easily agree with such an assessment, progressed confidently with plenty of patronage to support his endeavors. I’ve had off and on patronage. The current economy has reduced support solely to family. I have a Theo in my parents, a cousin and a few close friends. I’d be out on the street without them. Basic needs are met. My challenge is in meeting creative needs so I can get on those walls.

My one unique attribute is I have a head for business. Despite the patronage I do have, it’s not enough. I still need a blech, choke, ugh, job. I’ve managed to begin to translate my Hollywood moment into some opportunities that are, gratefully, in the arts. I like that I’m resourceful and know how to manage the money I do have. My situation would be significantly worse if I didn’t. The challenge is to hold onto the assets I have ‘til that rapturous day of renewed solvency and still let loose enough to cultivate a painterly mind that generates work I’m excited about and proud of. Work that even I can tell is pretty good.  

Like the spiritually devoted, one cannot sustain a meditative state. Life always intrudes. At tonight’s opening, I had a discussion with one of the facility’s directors about the band of painter ladies who take classes there. They are financially secure so their lives are strings of days like I had today, yet they find room to complain. RUFKM? Those of us who need that damn job dream of their situation. Is it possible we have it better? Isn’t life where the art comes from? What do I draw on if I’m not living? Why aren’t these ladies traveling, exploring, taking young lovers? They live close to the vest and adhere to social perimeters. It shows in the work. It may be well composed (often not) and nice to look at (often not), it isn’t provocative, it doesn’t challenge. The most brilliant minds I’m acquainted with in Detroit are constantly struggling for work/money. The comforting news there is I’m in very good company. I’d rather be in the mix not knowing where my next paycheck is coming from than have it so comfortable I don’t take any chances because I’m afraid of discomfort. I am afraid of not getting what I want. The only way to have a shot at getting what I want is to get out there and live. So I suppose I have the life I want and need to meet the goal that hasn’t manifested yet. Huh. Guess I’ll go soak in the tub after all this thinking and then maybe paint something.

As I Am

Barcelona. Paris. Painting. Writing. Woody Allen you’re killing me. I was never a fan. I saw the value in “Annie Hall” and other neurotic biopics but they didn’t thrill. These recent films (“Vicky Cristina Barcelona” and “Midnight in Paris”) are fictitious in character but are an accurate description of the creative and his/her struggle. We are perpetually tortured. Drinking, drugs, sex can provide a reprieve from the torment. It can just as well destroy everything. I dream of New York in the ‘50’s. In hindsight it appears the equal to the romance of Paris in the ‘20’s with a little edge, same amount of booze, less sex. Not as edgy as New York in the ‘80’s. I was making art then. In Detroit. So close. What about now? Is it happening now? Could they see it when they were in the middle of it? Did Degas know? Hemingway? I think Toulouse-Lautrec may have had his suspicions. Pollock and de Kooning were too drunk. Basquiat may have taken the most vicious thrashing. If it weren’t for Warhol, he’d have been totally alone save the vultures.

Making art and making love are virtually the same experience if I’m with the right person or in love with phthalo blue at the moment it’s on my brush. What’s the point otherwise. It’s all just rote then. Where’s the beauty? The luxury? Unless I can’t tell you what day it is or if it’s hot or cloudy, why bother? I’ve tried to force it hoping for just a tiny shimmer of that. If I’m not lost, it can’t be found.

Does the good art always come from the struggle? Seems all the greats have fantastically weird lives. Because of the struggle the love is so much sweeter. It’s in such contrast to the daily grinding minutia that’s hell bent on wearing me down to mediocrity. I get atta girls for my willingness to resort to manual labor to pay a bill. I don’t find it admirable. It’s pitiful. Sad. Nothing takes me further away from the cracked window I’m experiencing at this moment. Nothing slams that bit shut quicker or with more conviction. If I don’t have my contemporaries to hole-punch this wrestling match (4 more and I get one catatonic depression for free), I could be departed from this openness permanently. No ordinary sun for me. It’s a bitch of a choice that’s no choice at all.

I can’t resist the chase. Those glorious, yet painfully transient, moments when the universe opens up and shares its secrets. It can happen on a transcendent plane, sure. Spectacular. It can be just as stunning when I hear “I’m just going to say it” from a man I’ve been in a smoke and mirrors dance with for 20 years. Takes some age to have the courage to speak your heart. I had to wait for that one. Worth it. It’s all so bloody worth it. Just don’t ask me on a cloudy day. I’m waiting to take a walk in the rain with someone who doesn’t mind getting wet.

Concrete Leaves

How does he get from “let’s do something for real this week”, calls on Wednesday for Saturday, adds “I’ll call you Friday” with the details, to no call Friday and no show Saturday punctuated by a lameass text sorry about tonight, I fell asleep? When the Friday call didn’t come, I already knew Saturday was off and made alternate plans. I couldn’t decide if I should even contact him to ask what happened. I did. I wanted to know. He concluded his pitiful text asking if I’d had dinner? Really? You expected me to not only be available (of course I’m home waiting and pining for your call) but to still meet you last minute? Do enough girls agree to this guys actually thinks it’s acceptable?

My pasty out of shape neighbor bought a new leaf blower. He’s clearly not mechanical because he kind of blows the leaves around the yard leaving patches of exposed grass with few leaves actually making it to the street. He had the balls to stand on our property line and blow his leaves into my raked yard. While I watched him do it. You did not just do that. What the hell is the matter with people? You know I’m waiting until he goes to work tomorrow and raking those leaves right back onto his lawn. Asshole. This is how the whole Hatfields and McCoys dispute started. With a leaf blower and some dickishness.

A friend of mine is in the middle of a divorce. She left him stating she didn’t love him anymore. She promptly moved back in with an ex then commenced weeping and pleading she doesn’t have any money and can my friend give her his second car, the rings and pay for her overdue electric bill? Are you fucking kidding me? For a chick, that’s quite a set she’s got there. Steal crafted.

I’m no wallflower. When my marriage began to unravel, I tried to discuss the circumstances with my husband and unearth a solution. When that didn’t happen, I spent a month setting myself up before I told him I was done.  I opened a checking account and moved money into it, took his name off certain accounts, moved valuables to my parents’ house. I’m a reasonable person. Until it’s time not to be. You screw with me, I’ll do what I have to. He got served on Devil’s Night. That’s my favorite part of the story. Pure poetry. He was genuinely stunned appearing to have no reference for this action. Where the hell have you been? Did you think that conversation wherein I mentioned I was considering a divorce an empty threat? You underestimated me. Most do. Until they wake up one morning and their leaves are mysteriously back on their lawn.

Festering Human Putrescence

This has been festering since the news broke. The thoughts I’ve had on others' comments are a whirlwind in my head I haven’t been able to anchor long enough to construct the simplest of sentences. The spectacular contradiction between what I grew up knowing and what has come to be the truth is staggering. My Grandfather, captain of the 1933 National Championship Michigan Wolverine football team, taught me what it meant to be a Michigan Man. He plays the game with toughness, sure, but also with honor and integrity. After graduation, Gramps wound up Harry Bennett’s right hand man. If you don’t know who Harry Bennett is, google him. Mr. Henry Ford hired him to keep the unions out. Back then, they muscled them out. My Dad claims Gramps never beat anybody up. He always maintained “they had people for that.” I think it’s the Fonzie phenomenon. You have to have hit someone at least once to establish your fear based respect. The family has a certain admiration for Gramps’ stint as a professional thug. Are you talkin’ to me? I have thug genes in case you want to take this outside. Americans love a badass. I adored Gramps. We all did. I was completely aware that even as an old man sitting in his favorite leather chair appearing quite innocuous, he could kill you with his bare hands. Ford Motor needed to match the local Cosa Nostra with their own brand of intimidators just to keep from getting fitted with a pair of cement shoes. The mob leaned on Ford, Ford leaned back. In those days there was honor among thieves (I think you can classify either side in this contest as such) and sometimes a good punch was necessary to keep the peace. Gramps ultimately abandoned his post, much to the bitter disappointment of Mr. Bennett. Gramps had a strong compass for fairness and would occasionally revise his role when his sense of injustice was stirred, resulting in hilarious and poignant stories the family retells regularly.

After my Grandmother died, I assumed her season ticket to Michigan Stadium and sat next to Gramps for several years. He impressed upon me the importance of annihilating your opponent, but to do it within the rules. Not sure his thug exploits were completely within the rules, but at least it was man to man, face to face. Akin to a holding penalty? Face mask? Dirty, but part of the game? Ok, I love my Gramps and may be rationalizing a little. Leave it. He can still kick your ass. From the grave. That’s how tough he is. Point made, move on, sheesh. I remember when Penn State joined the Big Ten and the first time they came to the Big House. Joe Paterno. My God. In my book he was second only to the mighty Bo Schembechler. During a pre-game warm up I watched Coach Paterno walk up and down the rows of players and speak to every single man. Even the ones who wouldn’t see a down that day. I was in awe and impressed. Joe Paterno was the gold standard for integrity. Other teams were getting busted for breaking NCAA rules in order to sign the hot players. Not UM or Penn State. I admired a coach that could run a clean program and still beat the pants off damn near anybody. You could be honest and still win. Oops.

What I see happening in the hands of men with power is heinous. From the church to Penn State, the offenders chose their stuff, titles, money, prestige and influence over the welfare of another human being. They tortured and tormented a weaker someone for what? To feel even more powerful? Kept silent to maintain his legendary post as the winningest coach in college football history? That legend has an entirely new ring to it. Sports’ farthest fall from grace in the history of ever. You’re epic, Paterno. Human putrescence.

Why can’t we stand up for what’s right? From student bullying to political posturing, what are we so afraid of? We’re Americans for Chrissakes. Even Hermione Granger knows how to throw an effective punch. We’ve become a nation of cowards. It’s time to name names. Come clean and speak straight. I’m going to tell you this. I could have lied and kept all the money the productions paid me last year like Ariana Gallery did. Ann got paid $15,000 by ABC to rent art to Detroit 1-8-7. She cited the labor involved in preparing the art for delivery and paperwork left no commission for the artists. They’d get national exposure in return for the use of their work. Really? You got $15,000 and you couldn’t manage even $100 payout? You are that greedy, desperate, what? An acquaintance of mine claims her as his friend and explained that she has “a different way of doing business.” “Yeah,” I retorted, “unscrupulous and I don’t want anything to do with her.” When this event went down, I decided to take the high road and not engage in gossip or badmouthing so I didn’t name her. Is it the high road then if I let her get away with it? If I don’t call her out and other artists fall for her bullshit? I’m calling it. I paid the artists that got rented through me more than I paid myself. I felt that was fair because it was their art. Maybe that was foolish. But I can sleep at night. I feel really good about what I did and I think it may have helped a couple people.

From Lehman Brothers and Bernie Madoff, to the church and Penn State. To the Republican candidates that remained silent (during a debate) while a cheer rose in the crowd over the death penalty and the dismissal of an active fighting in Afghanistan because he’s gay, I’m thrilled to be small and fighting hard for what little I have. Those in power not only have no idea what my life, our lives, is like, and don’t care. If G. W. Bush woke up with my money tomorrow he’d shoot himself in the head. I think this kind of power wielding has been going on for a while. It’s been covered up because those that knew would have forfeited something they didn’t want to lose. Fame, Power, Wealth are that important to some. It’s unfortunate the days of being able to reconcile it via a hot poker up the ass then flung naked into the street are over. How’s it going Edward II? Ouch. We could use a little of that kind of crime and punishment. If only my Gramps were still alive. Once he’d gotten over his heart being broken, we may have enjoyed some old school justice. I’m headed to Home Depot for a bag of Quikcrete. Who’s with me?

Put the Whopper Down

If only we were pissed enough to invent something akin to the guillotine (don’t want to be a diabolical plagiarizer, originality has much more shock and awe value). Let’s cart families like the Bristols and Johnsons to the town square whilst we pelt them with the rotten food they’ve forced us to live on then lop their heads off. Think that’d get the 1%’s attention?

We've been conditioned to think individually and as such we are powerless. For the love of god man. Put the whopper down and pry your fat ass off your disgusting couch. I hope you realize the Bristols view us with disdain, a pitiful shanty town of lemmings. And when I say “us” that includes millionaires to crackheads. And when I say “Bristols”, of the Bristol-Myers Squibb behemoth, I mean those that manage to maintain a hubris about themselves despite never having  worked a day in their lives, didn’t earn $1 of the money they live on, have never accomplished a damn thing and are a complete waste of space yet control everything. And when I say “everything” I mean to include the White House, Congress, Ben Bernanke as well as what we eat and what we believe we can't live without, their products. The truth is the power is with us. The masses. We have numbers. What if we don’t buy Kleenex? What if 300 million people simultaneously pulled what money we do have out of those colossal banks? Those bastards would notice. They NEED us to maintain their homes, cars, compounds, planes, yachts, really soft toilet paper made from Swedish rabbit fur, etc.

I want to hurry up and add I support capitalism. Bristol, Myers and Johnson saw an opportunity and took it, expanded it, maxed out the potential. Isn’t that the dream? Some of the anger I have is jealousy. I wouldn’t turn down a chance to live like that. I don’t really notice the disparity in their life and mine when I’m solvent. But when things take a nasty turn, all of a sudden I’m mad and screaming for my rights! I do think there has been perversion of what our country was founded on. A political post was a service position, not a career. You did your term, then went home to the occupation you had before you served. Our representatives were truly “of” the people. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Those that live on their personal Ponderosa, paid for by us, are missing humility. It happens when wealth is passed down to a generation that didn’t build the wealth but had it handed to them with no effort on their part other than a trip down the birth canal. I’m disappointed it wasn’t me. I think I’d feel better if they showed a little gratitude. Or if their head was rolling around in a basket.

Goody Good

Money. It’s a hit. Don’t give me that do goody good bullshit. Money isn’t the root of all evil. The LOVE of money is. When there isn’t a lot of it, it’s supremely difficult to keep god and art first. It’s all I can bloody think about. I had a conversation with a fellow artist/sufferer Saturday night and it’s somewhat comforting to know I’m not the only one who burns up good studio time worrying about money. I’m hoping to remedy this habit. ‘Cause that’s all it is at this point, habit. I’m enjoying the worst economic year I’ve had in 20, yet the government thinks I have too many assets for Medicaid and a Bridge card. Their definition of destitute is possessing less than $100 in cash with no hope of at least $25 coming in the next couple days. I never thought I was destitute. I just need a little help. I’d prefer to keep said assets, my house and paid off car, since that’s all that’s left.

Art is an absurd career choice, but I made it. I had some crazy idea I could be financially successful and make art. It is possible, but I think I have a better shot as a 5’2” female in the NBA than riches via art. My background in Bloomfield Hills was awesome in several ways. Education not withstanding, Dad’s monumentally cool job at Sports Illustrated afforded suites, VIP parking, 4 star restaurants and a country club membership, all available with valet of course. I never doubted the presence of money. It never occurred to me I couldn’t get it. Until I married a man who decided that, due to my father’s station, he could spend what he wanted. One problem. It’s Dad’s money, not mine. Our 3 year marriage concluded with cumbersome debt and the IRS camped on our doorstep. I’ve haven’t felt secure since. I don’t seem to realize that I wasn’t the problem. I am responsible. I can count on me. Too late. Once traumatized, the scar is set. I’m hoping the trauma of the past 3 years will overshadow that old scar and grant me a new one.

I take responsibility for choosing poorly in marriage. I’ve done nothing but play by the book since. “That’s your first mistake,” I can hear my old lawyer friend Tom saying. Ha. He’s likely right. Regardless, I worked hard, invested in a house and an IRA, kept my debt load to a minimum with the American Dream lit up on the horizon. Nope, it was an oncoming train. Along with millions of other Believers, I lost damn near everything I’d worked 17 years for. Once the shock wore off, it was time to figure out what to do. As you know, Hollywood came to Detroit and granted a year or two reprieve until, again, powers I have nothing to do with, destroyed that. I have felt like a leaf in the wind. I have never experienced anything this scary. Way more frightening than my idiot husband. I could kick him to the curb and start over. I have to choke the banks and the government down. Live on next to nothing. Yet, here I am. Warm, dry and fed. I’m hoping that I can finally learn that no matter what I’ll be just fine. Somehow. I have amazing family and friends. I’m rather resourceful. Being a fraidycat saver doesn’t hurt either. I know how to pinch a penny. Ask Peg. I rarely pay retail. I’m much more patient that I thought. I can wait for damn near anything. Wait for it to go on sale. Wait for someone to help me. Wait for a job to come in. Wait for love. While all this waiting is going on, I’m free to make art. I’m committed to reversing my worry habit. It’s been my go-to response for 20 years. It hasn’t accomplished much. I’d rather spend that time painting, writing, or dare I say it, dreaming? I’m not too old to dream. I don’t think the banks or the government can regulate those? Better get after it before they figure out how.

Girls Gone Wild

There is no experience like being in Michigan Stadium for one of those epic gridiron match ups. I’ve been going to games since I was 10 or 11, after we moved back from New York, or I would have started earlier. In those days, every game kicked off at 1P, none were televised except M/OSU, which was pretty much always for the Big Ten Championship, usually decided on a field goal. The family held season tickets starting in 1934 after Gramps graduated having captained the 1933 National Championship team. I adored Gramps and Grandma and football Saturday was just an afternoon out with them. You dressed for the game then. Blazers and wool pants. Women pinned yellow mums to their lapels. Cocktails were served in actual glasses at a tailgate that didn’t require a parking pass. And we regularly pasted every team that dared enter that stadium by 50 or more points. Superstitions were reverently observed to ensure that record. I got to witness moments that make every ESPN highlight reel, not the least of which was the John Wangler to Anthony Carter touchdown pass. I’ve watched some of the greatest coaches in college football history from Woody Hayes to Joe Paterno, and, of course, the mighty Bo Schembechler. Watched Desmond Howard earn his Heisman and framed my home game ticket stubs from the 1997 National Championship. For me, that stadium wasn’t about the game as much as it represented time well spent with my family. We could have gone to the library every Saturday, it just happened we went out to Ann Arbor.

Change is inevitable. At last night’s instant legendary game, seated in front of my cousin Linda and I were 2 hold outs from the old days. They barely clap and never participate in cheers. My old section, section 2, was loaded with these kinds of fans. The wave always died at my section. If it made it through section 1, the students gave us a resounding cheer. That stadium is so large, when the crowd sings the Victors, our side of the stadium is one beat behind the students. It takes the sound that long to travel from one side to the other. These days, the fans are the 12^th man on the field. It was deafening in there last night. I can’t describe what it feels like to be part of a 114,804 crowd all focused on the same thing (even the ND fans). The air is electric and the camaraderie is unparalleled. Yet, these two fans sat there in their old school reserve pissed that we weren’t towing the propriety line. Linda and I received everything from their offended fingers in ears, to the stink eye to a final pinched faced, pursed lipped, “you girls are really something.” You bet your maize and blue ass! That stadium was way overdue for a makeover. The throngs of fans like those two old schoolers prevented that change for years (Money calls the shots and, whew, there’s a lot of money out there). I resisted it myself. It was Gramps I didn’t want to let go of. Dad, after 60 seasons, called it a day. I did what I could for as long as I could until the perfect storm of my eroding personal economy and surging ticket prices finally did the Fays in. I walked out through the gate at that last home game and said out loud, “the Fays have left the building.” 70 years in total attendance.

Turns out it wasn’t completely over. My biological mother’s family is enjoying third generation alumni. The last couple seasons I had tickets I shared them with cousin Dave. It was really odd for me. Nice, but odd. I didn’t get seriously acquainted with this side of my family until I was an adult. Hard to book a plane ticket from New York to go visit fam in Michigan when you’re 8. But, they’re pretty cool, so ok, let’s go to a game. Isn’t this a happy surprise! Like Dave’s wife wisely says, “it’ll either be a good time or a good story.” It’s both. I love going out there with them. I love when Linda comes to town from Texas and we hook up with her now sophomore daughter at the tailgate. One decidedly Gould trait is a great set of lungs. And guess what? Girls like football, too. We cheer our livin’ butts off! Holy hell, alert the media! Girls gone wild. I feel sorry for that couple alone in a sea of screaming fans, mad that we were so raucous. When we scored that winning touchdown with 8 seconds on the clock, it was an uproarious reaction. The entire stadium erupted. Mass hysteria. Glorious Victorious. I was home by 1A but couldn’t sleep until 3A I was so jacked up. Those two fans missed all of it to nurse a resentment. I completely understand where they are coming from. I don’t like change either. But once embraced, you get to scream, hug, high five and dance with total strangers in one purely celebratory moment. And my family. It’s still about family. I have a brilliant, kick ass, loud, passionate family. And chicks who cheer. Emily Post may have to update her files. I don’t think the Goulds have plans to tone it down any time soon. GO BLUE!!!!

Pride and Spinster

Jane Austen said it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should refuse an offer of marriage. Not much has changed. The offers are weaker, but still met with disbelief by the proposer. I had a man who was very enthusiastic about spending time with me, even willing to refer to the outings as actual dates, but never once asked me what I like, where I might like to eat, anything I might be interested in. He continued to make specific offers he thought were amazing and never figured out why I kept rejecting him. I mean, how could I possibly entertain such an option when he was clearly brilliant? How do I explain the couple guys who did consider what I’m interested in, made corresponding dates, but never went for a good night kiss? Even after 4 or 5 outings? Seems I remember something about learning to be friends with a woman. My favorite bullshit offer is the “hang out” offer. The best some men can muster is the opportunity to bask in his presence as long as he doesn’t have to account for anything up to and including sex. At least in Jane Austen’s day there was some sense of propriety, a woman’s company was worthy of effort and sex rarely came without commitment. Not that a man wouldn’t accept a salacious offer, but the participants were risking dire social consequences, particularly women, keeping most corsets tightly laced.

The excuses are more creative and seemingly sensitive. I fear the art of courting is dead and we have no one to blame but ourselves. Women do the calling now. We do the chasing. We are the breadwinners and keep the household. What’s left for him to do? Younger guys seem hapless but they do know what to do. They are just so infrequently called to do it. Why climb to the first branch, let alone to the top, when they can pick fruit up right off the ground? Sure that fruit has some bruises, maybe it’s been there a couple days, but it’s easy. We made it easy. I’m all for liberation and equality, as I’ve clearly and frequently stated. I prefer living in an era I can earn my own way and don’t have to stick myself with some fat bald guy in order to ensure my family’s survival. But, damn girls. We can still make it a little difficult to get to the vagina. All we have left is the Promised Land. They can spend some time wandering the desert looking for it, working for it, sweating for it. Those that fall over with their legs open are making it increasingly difficult for those of us who don’t. Self respect is a great thing. Gaining a man’s respect is a worthy pursuit. When did that ensure a cold winter?

If you want to give it away I can’t stop you. I’m just hoping there’s a man out there who’s not afraid to stake a claim. Boys can keep walking. Don’t even bother to fill out an application. The answer is no. Unless by some miracle you look like Benecio Del Toro, then by all means, let’s hang out. Was that my corset coming undone? How on earth did that happen? Oh dear.

It's In the DNA

I’m not convinced the sexual revolution did women any favors. There is still an appalling disparity in pay between men and women for the same job. Women chase careers while still the primary at home. The area I see the most distressing result is in dating. I’m eternally grateful my orgasm matters. What I find astonishing is the cavalier attitude I’m met with in its pursuit. I am beyond exhausted with the I-can’t-commit-but-let’s-still-have-sex offer. You don’t really believe that’s possible? Other than women keep insisting it is. Men don’t have to work at it anymore so they’ve gotten lazy. They very often claim they like strong independent women. Why? So you don’t have to do it? She’ll just handle it? Is she truly strong if she allows a man’s complete absence in their daily responsibilities but still gets in bed with him every night? Any woman who accepts that doesn’t think much of herself. The man in that situation doesn’t like himself either.

Men haven’t gotten up to speed with their new role. Neither have women. It’s in a man’s DNA to be the provider and protector of their family. To deny him this undermines his confidence. Women can earn a living and keep a tidy household, but I think she needs to let her man be a man. A man who feels like he’s the conqueror instead of the conquered is happy and therefore, a better partner. So how does he fill his need to feel like a captain of industry and still let his woman fulfill her potential without being intimidated, or worse, give up on his. It’s going to take a very delicate balance that requires trust and respect. Values that have taken a beating over the last couple decades.

Women cast off subservient roles in the 60’s. They fought hard for 20 years and finally won a seat in the board room. We have our own money. We own property. We have some power. We can get pregnant without the benefit of a lover. Once a woman discovers her own power, she no longer needs a man. But what if she wants one? As a society we’re going full circle. From bra burnings back to cramming ourselves into Spanx. I grew up when the likes of Gloria Steinem were breaking ground for my generation, an era unknown by younger women who are living in the result but don’t have a corseted reference point. We are obsessed with coupling up and getting married. Yet, marriage is less and less effective. Let’s take an honest minute and acknowledge that marriage is a religious based institution. And if I want to get on a feminist diatribe, I can claim it was created to keep women caged and obedient. Holla to the burqa. There will always be subscribers to marriage. In this new landscape, what does a loving partnership look like?

It is only in recent history I am able to live the life I live and no one bats an eyelash. I own my home and live in it by myself. I am starting a business from scratch. I’m not a pariah, a lesbian or a bitch. Just a gal with a brain in her head that’s not afraid to use it. I’m also kind of cute. I get a lot of cougar offers. I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t inflate my ego a little. As much as I’m flattered, I’m equally offended. I am that strong woman. For real. So make me a real offer. The man who knows I’m worth it won’t have to make much of an effort at all. It’ll be like breathing. Easy breezy. I can’t believe I have a woman this cool to hang out with. I’m there because you were man enough to step up and claim me. Trust, respect, courtesy and manners are awfully good company. 

** I want to hurry up and add that this is sadly from my own dating experience. I do know some amazing men who are happily, equally married to truly kick ass women. It's the source of hope for me. Otherwise, it's a Frank Pentangeli ending.