Shot down again.
My post Tuesday in which I imagined myself a misunderstood inner city almost-dropout stud muffin and Michelle Pfeiffer my earnest, misguided but highly desirable schoolmistress (yes, Mistress!) received some unexpected comments.
In the totally imaginary persona that I assumed, I may have said some things that I myself in real life don’t actually believe. The short version would be along the lines of Oh, my God, Miss Pfeiffer, please don’t quit teaching and if you wear that little red dress you wore in The Fabulous Baker Boys I’ll do anything you ask, even memorize poetry that may or may not have been written by homosexuals. Or in other words, as far-fetched as it is, as remote the possibility, what I think when I look at Miss Pfeiffer is Hooeey, I want to roll around and get dirty with that!! Something like that. Doesn’t matter who she is, or that I have like, zero chance of even touching the hem of her granny gown, let alone unzipping her little red party dress.
The comments were split between…
- Yowzah! This is a prime cut, wink wink, and
- Memorizing poetry won’t work, you ignorant schlump.
The guys generally saw where I was going (or where I was coming from – I really cannot talk Street), and wanted to go there with me, damn the torpedoes. The women (I will never call you girls, because I respect you too much) said, with one exception* that my shallow approach would not work. I’m not sure if they meant it wouldn’t work on them, or it wouldn’t work with Miss Pfeiffer, or it just plain wouldn’t work with any woman, period. But the suggestion arose more than once that I knew it wouldn’t work, or at least I should have known.
So there it is again: All men are pigs, we only want one thing, we completely fail to understand women, and the one thing we want will be withheld from us because of our lack of understanding.
Are there exceptions? Sure, the ethereal Shelley’s and Byron’s who write the damned sensitive poems in the first place, and their spiritual descendants, the fevered fellows in the frayed turtlenecks who drink coffee in the Student Union (they smoked in my day, but I’m guessing that’s over now) and seem to dwell in that angst-ridden fantasy land where the higher sensibilities rule and Big Drama is the order of the day.
And I’m not even sure about those guys. They might be pigs, too. I know they have at least some of the qualifications.
So what is the answer to this Big Question? We have to get together, boys and girls. We have a programmed need for each other. We actually want to be in love with each other, I think. But, perhaps due to God’s grand sense of humor, the boys must forever keep guessing at the secret password, and the girls keep changing it (I can say girls here because I said boys, OK?) while wistfully seeking a man who understands, who is sensitive but still very strong, rich but not obsessed, sexual but only with them, rugged but soft… well, I’m not making a Great Expectations video here, but you know what I mean.
As always, my heart overflows with confusion and love.
* But Steph has made sort of a career of charmingly missing the point. She does it so well that she makes me think I’ve missed the point. Wait a minute. I have missed it, haven’t I?
“the ethereal Shelley’s and Byron’s who write the damned sensitive poems in the first place, and their spiritual descendants, the fevered fellows in the frayed turtlenecks who drink coffee in the Student Union (they smoked in my day, but I’m guessing that’s over now) and seem to dwell in that angst-ridden fantasy land where the higher sensibilities rule and Big Drama is the order of the day.” I love this description! And for the record, I ‘got’ that you were speaking with a mask & I was playing along. If I thought that you were speaking from your own personality I would have went ape shit about the “fag” poetry comment (& been utterly shocked at my misjudgement of you)….(-:
This kind of discussion is endless. Anything we suggest will be immediately shot down, no matter how accurate the suggestion might be. Salmon spawn upstream, the sun rises in the east, men don’t understand women, and there’s not necessarily a satisfactory explanation for any of it. So I’ll just skip straight to the irreverent part of my comment.
Women want Johnny Depp in the bedroom, Johnny Depp with an apron in the kitchen, Johnny Depp with a tight Snap-On shirt in the garage, Johnny Depp with a toolbelt and/or vacuum cleaner around the house, Johnny Depp and his money when shopping, Johnny Depp with glasses in the library, Johnny Depp with a dusty book and a brandy snifter in the study, Johnny Depp without a voice when they just want to be held, and Johnny Depp with a genius IQ and Dr. Phil mannerisms when they want advice.
Sometimes they also want Johnny Depp with a guitar, Johnny Depp with a motorcycle, Johnny Depp with a professional sports career, and Johnny Depp with the IQ of Fabio on Nyquil (for when they don’t want to feel threatened intellectually).
And then there are the times when they just want Johnny Depp.
t1 – Come on, baby. I know you’re smart. Now relax and let me help you out of that tight sweater.
d’cat – Jeez, thinking back over the women I have known, I realize you’re right. This has got to be tough on Johnny. Maybe this is why God created Orlando Bloom. I can’t think of any other possible reason. (Also: Any discussion worth having is worth having endlessly.)
Knowledge, surrender, and luck. Know what you want in a person and who you are. Surrender to the right woman and don’t run from commitment. Be lucky enough to find someone and the only way to get lucky is to try.
This is all I could think of about how I got lucky.
Or you could just be really really good looking like Johnny Depp or Zoolander.
Ahhhh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just luck and chemistry.
Hey Larry,
I’ll share my secret password if you’ll share yours.
“Also: Any discussion worth having is worth having endlessly.”
I wasn’t trying to say that the discussion wasn’t worth having. I was merely trying to camouflage the fact that I have nothing meaningful to contribute. I understand my lady pretty well, but the other 3 billion or so are a complete mystery.
I’ll take a combo of Digi’s 1st comment & Ay’s comment. You men are no picnic sometimes either. And LArry, what you’ve seen is all yer gittin,’ didn’t you see the part under the picture that said to remove the shirt click “here.” I told you you should’ve read all the words…..(-;
Aydreeyin – If you can create your own luck (that’s what my coach told me), can you create your own chemistry?
Theresa – Are you trying to upset the universe? That’s a serious security breach, sharing your password.
D’Cat – Your contribution was quite meaningful. I am grateful for your comment. I enjoy endless discussions on topics that can’t be easily resolved. Every now and then, on a one-to-one level, one gets resolved…
t1 – We assume you have all the control and are pulling the strings, or yanking the chains, as the case may be. I don’t know how much more compliant we poor, victimized boys can be.
Sorry I’m a bit late. Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom?? Why do women find these skinny men with Down Syndrome eyes attractive?
Kristi – You’re not too late. Why don’t you talk to your sistahs, research this a bit, and get back to me?
Maybe that’s been my problem all along … no mystery.
Theresa – That’s part of the weirdness, isn’t it? The guys are drawn to the aura of mystery, then complain that we “can’t figure you out.” Anyway, you’re mysterious enough…
we women usually completely misunderstand the men….
LArry, sometimes the chemicals just don’t react well together. Fizzles and booms and knowledge and luck.
Eh, I don’t believe in secret passwords. I take the Popeye approach–I yam what I yam. For some, that’s enough; for others, too much. What I’ve found is that some men sigh in relief, and we proceed to have a beautiful relationship (of whatever dimensions), while others WANT someone who’s going to be demanding and bitchy and materialistic. Of course, I’ve done lots of things in my life where I’ve been mostly surrounded by men, so I’ve learned a lot of your secret passwords just by paying attention. Guess what: they’re the same as the passwords of most women worth knowing.
As for Michelle, shit, I hate poetry and lean strongly toward men, but I’d learn poetry for her.
Emma! – May I call you Goldie? I didn’t think so. So glad you could join us at revision99, where we continually refine. Don’t you think the men who want demanding and bitchy have, shall we say, low opinions of themselves? Essentially, aren’t they saying that they want to pay for it?
I think many people–men AND women–are afraid of real partnership. Partnership (no matter the dimensions of the relationship) means honesty and truth–first off, with and about oneself, but also toward the other person. I think demanding/bitchy/materialistic (and the male versions of same) are ways of hiding from the honesty that real partnership requires. Understandable, I suppose–suppose someone doesn’t LIKE who you are?!–but hiding it behind things and attitudes doesn’t seem to work so well to me.
You can call me anything you want; a rose by any other name, you know . ..
Goldie – Fear of partnership. If what drives us is biological, who needs partnership? The way we are wired, shouldn’t domination or seduction be enough?
Well, first of all, I’m not a biological determinist, and I’m especially not a reductionist, so, no, I don’t think domination or seduction are the only or even the most important colors on the palette. I think that we’re profoundly social beings–the multitude of languages, the tremendous effort we put into communication, are as much a part of who we are as anything else. Don’t misunderstand what I mean by partnership, either; I think there can be a world of partnership in a one-night stand. What I mean, I think, is an underlying assumption about equality: Not some precisely added-up calculus of abilities or something, but the notion that the other person/people is/are worth no more or less than I am. Given that, I think the possibilities for interaction are much more interesting. Domination, eh; sooner or later there’s gonna be a bigger dog.
Which I suppose gets back at your low-opinion thing, doesn’t it?