No Books For You

So let me be clear. I did not go into Red Barn Adult Books to purchase anything, or to make freaky friends. I went only to satisfy my morbid childhood curiosity, and to get a glimpse of a subculture of society that has always intrigued me (intriguED. Past tense). It’s the dogged undercover journalist in me, what can I say? And the closer I get to leaving for a trip, the more bored and anxious I get. The more bored and anxious I get, the more I, er, tend to do stupid shit. It was either the porn shop or skydiving.

So my findings?

I’ve been more turned on while listening to a linguistics professor recite the Prologue of Canterbury Tales in Old English.

I’ve been more sensually titillated shopping for drill bits in a hardware store.

I’ve been more sexually intrigued by a Target display of throw pillows.

It was as antiseptic as a pharmacy. Efficient as a Blockbuster. Friendly and congenial as a Starbucks. Honestly, the scariest part was the parking lot. No lie. It was super sketchy, with rusted Dodge Darts and faded Chevy Camaros doing loops and donuts in and out of the gravel. I hightailed it out of there when a guy in a Ford Bronco with duct-taped windows (he looked like a mix between Burt Reynolds and Matthew McConaughey in “Dallas Buyers Club”) lowered his mirrored sunglasses at me and gave me a creepy smirk.

Yikes.

And while I cannot speak for all of the franchise locations, I found it ironic that the establishment I patronized did not actually have any books. And I broke my rule of not engaging anyone in conversation. I broke it within five seconds of walking through the door.

Me: (Walks in, a little bell rings politely, signaling my entrance).

Him: (Friendly-looking youngish guy looks up from phone) Hey. (Looks down again).

Me: Hi.

Me: (Looks around) Don’t you have books?

Him: (Looks up from his iPhone) No.

Me: (Pause) Isn’t that false advertising?

Him: (Stares at me, slight smile) Can I help you find anything?

Me: No thanks, just browsing.

Him: Aight, let me know.

Me: Thanks.

Me: (Browsing “gadgets,” and trying not to laugh) Nice selection.

Him: Thanks.

(Bell tinkles and shady male customer walks in and greets cashier. After a quick glance in my direction, he begins to talk. I subtly eavesdrop, thinking that finally, after all these years of wondering what goes on in here, I’m about to be privy to it. Drum roll, please…)

They proceeded to talk about ATVs, quads and Motocross. The customer eventually glanced in my direction, as if he wanted to ask me something. I made eye contact. Here we go, I thought.

Customer: That your Audi in the lot?

Me: Yep.

Customer: How you like it?

Me: Not bad.

Customer: How many miles to the gallon it get?

Me: Oh, um, I have no idea.

Customer: Well, how much it cost to fill it up?

Me: Well, I guess 40 dollars or so?

Customer: You don’t really know, do you?

Me: Not really, no.

Customer: (Laughs and shakes his head. I get the feeling I should be insulted, but I’m not sure why).

I left not too soon after that. They blathered on and on about four-wheeling, and I was both disappointed and overjoyed to observe that they ignored me completely while I browsed. Disappointed, because I knew this would be a yawner of a blog post. Overjoyed because, well, their lack of interest in me abated the dull tinge of worry I had that I might get murdered in there. How silly of me to think that. Obviously, since I am writing this, I’m very much alive.

That’s all I have to report. I’ve been to church carnivals that provided me with juicier material. I know I could have asked more questions about what went on in there, and I’m not naive- I know “things” go on in the bowels of those places, especially judging from the icky Google reviews.

Ew.

Dad was right. I’m too nice of a girl to know about such things. And while I won’t divulge what they sell in there, I will say that if you’re curious, you should pop in for a visit.

But no books for you.

Toys R Us

One of my favorite childhood memories was the occasional Sunday trip with my parents to the Berlin Farmers Market.

They’d load us in the station wagon, and we’d sail down the White Horse Pike, bound for comic book heaven. Dad would buy a big sack of warm soft salty pretzels and a bag of popcorn, and we’d sip soda and munch our snacks while perusing the concrete aisles of the auction. Archie comic books were ten for a dollar back then, and a small bucket of used golf balls was the same. I can still feel my dad’s strong warm hand in mine as he haggled with vendors, and it seemed to Little-Girl Me that he was the biggest, bravest, coolest man in the world. Once home, my brothers and I would settle in with our comic books and what remained of the pretzels, and dad would practice his chipping in the backyard while mom started dinner.

Simpler times. But that’s a tired cliché. Simplicity is, after all, relative.

There is another memory of that trip that has stuck with me for forty years. I obviously lived my childhood in books, not staring at an iPhone, so I would read in the car, occasionally raising my head to check out the scenery on route 30. Maplewood Restaurant. The Sweetwater Casino. The white horse statue on top of White Horse Farm Market. The exit for Ancora Psychiatric hospital.

(Note: the following is not meant to poke fun at the mentally ill. It is simply a memory from my childhood, and appears in this blog for those readers with a sense of humor. If you are easily offended, today’s post will only get worse. You’ve been warned):

Parents in my little Italian town referenced Ancora quite often, using its existence as a way to elicit our desired behavior. It was a cudgel that moms wielded to get the necessary sympathy and guilt they craved during a specific conflict. Veiled threats about Ancora were ubiquitous and ominous.

More stitches? Marone, you kids are going to send me to Ancora!

You did WHAT to dad’s car? Just drive me to Ancora, it’s more peaceful there!

Did you know that Ancora sends a van to our neighborhood at night to pick up all of the little girls and boys who stay out past their curfew? And once you’re there, they don’t let you leave? Home by 7.

That’s it. Get in the car, I’m taking you to Ancora. If you won’t listen to me and dad, maybe you will listen to the nice men in the white uniforms.

Terrifying.

Anyway, these landmarks on our Sunday drives were my point of reference, my line of sight, and I was especially intrigued by Red Barn Books.

I remember once asking my dad about it.

“What is that red barn, Dad, the building with no windows?” Although the dusty parking lot was all but deserted, the structure itself looked fun, like maybe it had cowboys in it, or a petting zoo. But I could read the sign: Adult Books and Toys. I remember thinking that it was strange and selfless that my parents had never, not once, stopped to go in it. After all, they were adults, and it was a store that sold toys just for them. What’s not to like?

I continued. “It has toys in it. And books! Can we stop on the way home?”

Dad glanced amusedly over at my mother, who was compressing her lips. I realize now that she was trying not to laugh.

“No,” he said. “That place is not for nice girls.”

Huh, I thought? Not for nice girls? How so?

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a nice girl. You don’t need to know what that place is. And it’s for adults only.”

I mulled that over, still concerned that my parents were sacrificing an enjoyable adult experience for us. My brothers were engrossed in their comic books, but I remember them murmuring under their breath for me to shut-up. They were always telling me to shut-up, but they knew better than to let my parents hear them say it.

“If it’s for adults only,” I continued, refusing to give it up and feeling my brothers’ death glares burn into my soul, “then you guys go in and we’ll wait in the car. But can you get me a book when you’re in there?”

My father’s exasperated sigh signaled the end of his patience with the conversation, and I could see my mother’s shoulders shaking, which meant she was laughing. Hard. I didn’t understand why. If anyone ever wonders where I got my sense of humor, it was from my mom. She was a hoot, and laughed at everything. I miss her every day.

“Mary. Stop it. We’re not going in there, and there is no book in there that is appropriate for you. I don’t want you to mention it again.”

Dang, I remember thinking, fine. If this is what I get for trying to help…

I crossed my arms, said a little Hummpphh, and got back to Betty and Veronica, who for some reason that I could never understand were always fighting over pale, skinny, homely Archie. But after that day, on every trip down the White Horse Pike, I would stare intently at Red Barn Books as we passed it. My mother would turn around halfway in her seat to look sideways at me and shake her head slightly as if to say, “No. Don’t ask him.”

But ten-year old me vowed that one day, when I was an adult, I would go in that Red Barn, and check out the adult toys and books. When I was an adult, no one could stop me, or tell me I was “too nice” to go in. How, I thought to myself, it is possible to be “too nice” for toys and books? I would find the answers one day, I vowed.

That day is today (Thursday). I have an interview to do at the Berlin Auction, of all places, and I am going to finally give in to my curiosity about what goes on behind those red walls. I mean, who goes in there, what do they talk about, what kind of toys, books and movies are available?

Here are my three rules going in:

  1. Dress impeccably to raise the mystique.
  2. Be polite, but do not engage in conversation, just let it unfold organically.
  3. Do not offer misleading information, like “Oh, I’m shopping for a gag gift for my friend’s 55th birthday party.” Let them think what they will think.

I’ll post about it on Monday. Have a great weekend.

Totally Bunk

pic of Kramer from Seinfeld

(Cheat day, today. Sorry, I’ll have something good for you tomorrow…)

Seinfeld episode “The Abstinence”

George: I’ve been thinking a lot clearer lately.

Jerry: That’s because you’re no longer pre-occupied with sex, so your mind is able to focus.

George: You think?

Jerry: Yeah. I mean, let’s say this is your brain. (Holds lettuce head) Okay, from what I know about you, your brain consists of two parts: the intellect, represented here (Pulls off tiny piece of lettuce), and the part obsessed with sex. (Shows large piece) Now granted, you have extracted an astonishing amount from this little scrap. But with no-sex-Louise, this previously useless lump, is now functioning for the first time in its existence. (Eats tiny piece of lettuce)

Elaine: But how come he’s gettin’ so smart? I stopped having sex with Ben three days ago and I don’t know no Portuguese.

Jerry: Are you all right?

Elaine: I don’t know. It’s just the last coupla days my mind has been, not good.

Jerry: Wait a second, I know what’s happening. The no-sex thing is having a reverse effect on you.

Elaine: What? What are you talking about?

Jerry: To a woman, sex is like the garbage man. You just take for granted the fact that any time you put some trash out on the street, a guy in a jumpsuit’s gonna come along and pick it up. But now, it’s like a garbage strike. The bags are piling up in your head. The sidewalk is blocked. Nothing’s getting through. You’re stupid.

Elaine: I don’t understand.

Jerry: Exactly.

Here is an email recently sent to me:

Reader: You haven’t posted about Nookie in awhile. Wassup?

Maybe because I’m not getting any, asshole, and there’s nothing to say. I’m funneling my energy into my writing, my workouts and my upcoming trips. Did I mention I leave for Alaska one week from today? I mean, I have plenty to do in my spare time and I don’t miss sex at all.

Sigh. Now if you’ll excuse me, I just remembered where I left my retainer in second grade.

Enjoy the video.

The Bottom Line

Time to address the elephant in the room. But please get comfortable, because this isn’t a sweet baby Ellie with pink ears. This is a formidable full-grown Asiatic bull elephant named Mojumba that charges you on an African safari.

This blog is as much cathartic for me as it is (hopefully) entertaining for you. And I find that when you let a thing fester and boil, it has the tendency to become infected. I used to share the following quote with my students. The identity of the author is buried in my old teaching resources, so I can’t remember who said it, and it is too obscure to find online. But it went something like this:

Sarcasm in language is like a dull-edged knife a neophyte uses to lance an infected boil. He hacks away at the boil ineffectively, causing more pain and infection for the sufferer, and providing little to no relief. Satire is a physician’s sharp scalpel- with one slice, he can diffuse the infection without unnecessary pain. In fact, the patient is barely even aware that the boil has been lanced, so clean and sharp was the slice.

Dr. Oves at your service.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are war, famine, pestilence and death. The Four Horsemen of Journalism are politics, religion, sex and money. Since I started this blog in October, I have, in some form, addressed the first three. Time for the fourth.

Money. Money, money, money. You’re already uncomfortable, aren’t you? Yeah, discussion of money has that effect on people. But you just sit back, have a cup of coffee or a drink, and relax. I’ll take it from here.

(Mary limbers up, does some deep-knee bends, stretches her quads)

So money. When you are married, you both have money. Whether you make money together or separately, it’s both yours. You spend it together. You invest it together. You know what you both have. Maybe it was yours to begin with, maybe it was your spouse’s, but now you share it. This is a wonderful perk of marriage, among many others, because it involves trust. Money is not any kind of barrier in propelling your relationship forward or backward. Even if you argue about it, it still belongs to both of you. In a marriage, money is just…money.

(I’m sure there are exceptions, but I think this is mostly accurate considering my reading demographic).

As a widow, money becomes something entirely different. I was completely unprepared when I entered the dating scene to discover that men tend to draw only one of two conclusions about widows my age: we are rich, looking to fund a boy toy. Or we are penniless, seeking a rich benefactor.

(Disproving both stereotypes has exhausted me to my core. Dating has been a disaster. I officially give up).

Now gird your loins, because Mojumba just bellowed. Because I wonder if a widow exists who manages to transcend those stereotypes?

Hm. Maybe a widow who has been working since the age of sixteen?

Who taught high school English for thirty years since the age of 22 while also teaching college courses at night, just to get her foot in the door at the college level?

Whose little boys missed her all day and then would cry when she left to teach night classes, because they wanted her to stay home to read books and snuggle?

Who spent entire weekends at the library, planning lessons?

Who watched stay-at-home mothers gab on the phone, play on Facebook, go out to lunch and walk the boardwalk every day, while she spent her days inside a small, cramped classroom teaching Shakespeare and loving every minute of it?

Who never understood stay-at-home mothers, women who seemed content to live off of their husband’s salaries?

Who was so intent on being a writer, that while she watched others socialize and sit on the beach and party and travel, she wrote for local papers, blogged on websites, and submitted op-eds, all just to make a name for herself in journalism?

Who once held six jobs at once while raising her children? Who is ultra-ambitious and independent? Who has always been wise about investing? Who still works at things she loves and now can actually enjoy the fruits of her labor?

I wonder if there are any widows like that. She sounds familiar.

She is me.

But sadly, being that the online dating world is cloaked in distrust, men don’t trust the women, and the women don’t trust the men. An independent savvy widow is not a “catch,” she is under scrutiny. She’s too good to be true, they figure, so she can’t be true. Men are so busy researching her income, mortgage, employment and cash holdings to really get to know her. If it wasn’t so insulting, it would be funny.

I take it back, it’s funny. I go on these dates, and I’m waiting for the day when a guy asks for a copy of my stock portfolio before he buys me a drink.

(I speak, of course, as a woman on the dating scene. I concede that the online scrutiny is no easier for men, and sometimes worse).

I miss dating in my 20’s. This is how complicated it got:

Boy: I think you’re hot.

Girl: I think you’re hot, too.

Boy: I’m kinda broke.

Girl: Me, too.

Boy: Want to date, then get married and make babies and money together?

Girl: Hell ya!

Boy: Let’s gooooooooo!!!

I want to have the same conversation with a guy my age:

Guy: I think you’re hot.

Me: I think you’re hot, too.

Guy: I have some money.

Me: I have some, too.

Guy: Want to date, then get married and make grandbabies and money together?

Me: Hell ya!

Guy: Let’s gooooooooo!!!

If only it were that easy.

And while it’s funny, I find it sad. I feel like whining, so indulge me. I’ve worked so goddamned hard on me. I’ve sacrificed a lot to get where I am. I’ve worked on my education, my career, my family, my fitness. Imagine a man ignoring my assets, only to define me by my…well, assets.

Someone recently had the temerity to ask me how I have the money to travel so much. I felt like Jack Dawson at the dinner scene in “Titanic”:

Companion: And how is it you have means to travel, Mary?

Me: Well, I work my way from place-to-place. You know, tramp steamers and such.

C: And you find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?

Me: Well, yes sir, I do. I’ve got everything I need right here with me. I’ve got the air in my lungs and a few blank sheets of paper. I love waking up in the morning not knowing what’s going to happen or who I’m going to meet. Just the other night I was sleeping under the Longport Bridge. Now here I am, on the greatest deck in the area, having a beer with you.

This post is not a criminalization of wealth. Quite the contrary. The quest for riches is a noble quest, one during which you become more of who you truly are. I have nothing against money, or men with money. I love money. Money offers freedom and options. Money helps one thrive. Money helps the less fortunate. Money is a thing.

But it’s not everything. And TBH, while it’s true I’m not looking for a man to fund my lifestyle, I’m also not looking to fund anyone else’s, either. A man has to bring something to the table.

Cuz trust me when I say I ain’t afraid to eat alone.

My friend is right, I need to chill. I need a drink. Or twelve.

So excuse me while I go have that drink. I’m going to enjoy my vacation here at my friend’s home and then play around at her fancy resort. And let it be said that I’m grateful for what I have, I have what I need, I can afford what I want, but I don’t need anything that I don’t already have.

Except sex. Yeah, I need that.

It’s Not Them. It’s Me.

I’m the worst at goodbyes. No matter if it’s a job, a tedious conversation, an event, or even a place, I’m like the Bad Breaker-Upper on “Seinfeld.” When I’m done, I’m done. If it’s over, it’s over. No parting gift necessary.

I’m No-Drama Girl.

So for whatever reason I feel the need to say adieu, I know it immediately and instinctively. I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach that says, “You’ve done all you can do here. You’ve gone as far as you can go here. You’ve had as much of an impact as you can here. Move on.” If I feel my presence is redundant or irrelevant, I will remove my presence from that person or situation without any hesitation.

Yesterday I got it again. That familiar feeling that said, “Yeah, it’s time. It’s time to go. You’ve overstayed your welcome. You have expended all the resources in your arsenal to make a difference. You can go no further.”

So after three years, I have completely deleted my Tinder account and subscription.

Yep, it’s the end of an era, my friends. I mean, I initially started this blog because I truly felt that Tinder was a great way to meet cool guys, and that it would be fun to blog about it. And I did meet some cool guys. But not many.

Yeah, that high standards thing again.

And truth be told, I’m exhausted with the whole thing. It was fun while it lasted, but for once in my life, I am going to say a proper goodbye. But where to begin?

At the end, I think.  

This past week my Tinder was set to Scottsdale, the location of my next trip. Within three days I had about 850 likes and 50 messages. I assure you that it sounds more exciting than it is, because wading through all of those likes and messages would be like a Tyrannosaurus Rex swallowing your diamond ring, and then taking a huge dinosaur crap.

Dinosaur crap= 850 likes and messages

Diamond Ring= The one cool, smart, funny, good-looking person worth your time

Hose= Your phone

Yeah.

(Disclaimer: Any reference to any guy in the following section is anonymous, because they don’t know my real identity off of Tinder messaging anyway. So no emasculation occurred with the publishing of this blog, I promise. I would never do that).

Even men on dating sites know that it takes a lot of hosing to find their diamond. And I just didn’t have it in me this past week. I got bored and exhausted, and then true to form, I started fucking around with these guys. I know it’s not nice, don’t you think I know that? That’s why I deleted my account. But it’s just that Tinder guys are so predictable.

Indulge me.

Tinder guys have to be careful. They always think they are being scammed. They are distrustful of you, of your pictures, of your whole story. They think you are married, or a prostitute, or a bot, or a foreigner who wants to come to America, or a floozy who wants them to deposit funds into her bank account. I grant them all of that. I have it on good confidence that it actually happens.

Because of this inherent suspicion, Tinder guys ask for your phone number almost immediately. They say it’s to “get off this site,” but they want to research you. Google you. Make sure you’re not a psycho. I get it. Strangely enough, I never do that with guys. What the hell do I care where they live or what they do for a living? But that’s just me. I usually don’t give out my number, but once in a while, if I meet someone who seems cool and normal, I will. I also sometimes do it just for the amusement.

When I give a guy my number, I could set a timer to the unfolding of the events. For example, after chatting with a guy for a day or so on Tinder Messenger:

Him (2:30 p.m.) “Hey you wanna exchange numbers?”

Me (2:35 p.m.) “Sure.” (I give him my number)

Him: (2:37 p.m. Text comes through) “Got it. Hey Jordie. This is Mike from Tinder.”

Me: (2:40 p.m.) “Hey. My real name is Mary.”

Him: (2:41 p.m.) “Oh. Ok.”

About thirty minutes of silence ensues at this point, because he is sitting in front of his computer, inserting my phone number into some kind of search engine. Once he has my name and location, he most likely cross-checks the few details I gave him for veracity and finds out that I am indeed real. Then I guess he inserts my first and last name into some kind of chick database, where you can obtain chick stats.

(What in the world is in this data base? Sex drive? Turn-ons? Nicknames? Maternal instincts? Portfolio worth?)

Regardless, the feedback he gets from that site or app must be accurate (and quite complimentary), because when he texts me back again after an hour or so, he is warm and receptive and seems to know everything about me. A guy this past week actually called me by an affectionate pet name another guy once used to refer to me. Coincidence?

Doubtful.

Anyway, Tinder guys love to text, and there was a time that I too thought it was fun. You know, breaks up the monotony of a day. But as of late, I have been getting really, really fed-up with it. All this past week I was texting stuff like this to total strangers:

“Listen, I’m not into texting. I’m a grown-up. If you want to meet in person, let me know”

“Why are you on here if you’re afraid to meet women in person? I’d really love to know, for my research.”

“You will never, not if you live a million lifetimes, get a nude picture of me.”

“Listen, how about you sit in your house and sext yourself? Then give yourself a hand. I’m going to the driving range. Go nuts, dude.”

In the five days I was on Scottsdale Tinder, I unmatched every single guy I corresponded with. But it’s not them. They’re just trying their best to make a connection. It’s me.

When I’m done, I’m done.

Monday was the worst. I got fifteen messages in two hours, and I spent a precious hour of my day sending bizarre messages back to men to see how fast I could turn them off. All just to amuse myself. Here are some conversations I remember from Monday:

Elmer: I live on a lake.

Me: Really? I have a boat.

Elmer: I have a pretty big dock.

Me: How big?

Elmer: About fifteen feet.

Me: A fifteen-foot dock? And you’re single? That’s hard to believe.

(He didn’t get it. I had to go further)

Elmer: Yeah, I am.

Me: Well, you sound awesome. I can be there in a few hours, do you have room for me to stay at your place?

Elmer:

Success. Conversation done. I’m sorry, Elmer.

Charlie: Hey Jordie, why did Tinder match us up if we live so far away?

Me: Well, I’m headed to Scottsdale soon.

Charlie: That’s cool. You’re lucky to be doing some golfing here, huh?

Me: Yes, I’m excited, but all the courses I want to play are so spread out.

Charlie: Ubers are everywhere.

Me: I don’t use Uber, I was kind of hoping you could pick me up at the airport?

Charlie:

Done and done. Sorry, Charlie.

Mike: Hey, that’s a nice resort you’re staying at.

Me: Yes, it came highly recommended.

Mike: Maybe you can show me your room? (Wink e-moji)

Me: I’d love it. You’re welcome to come up. There’s only one bed but plenty of room. It’s just me and my son.

Mike:

Bye Mike. My deepest apologies.

So I am leaving Tinder. I obviously cannot be trusted to use it with any degree of morality or forthrightness. But please don’t think I was using it as a tool for cruelty. I am not a cruel person. I think I was just looking for a challenge, and came up empty-handed. Time to look elsewhere.

Hinge?

Interstellar Love

Valentine’s Day is upon us. May I offer two pieces of advice?

Ok, men, first of all, never tell her to “Calm down.” Bad move. Something has obviously upset her enough to make her this emotional, and I know you know that it just makes her angrier, and makes her feel like you are invalidating her feelings. If you tell her to “calm down,” you will most likely get a response somewhere in the terrain of “Oh, you want me to calm down?” She will smile at you as if she is mulling over where she plans to bury your body, and then she’ll end with “I’ll show you calm.” It is at this point that hell-fire will rain down on you. For whatever reason that she is upset, by telling her to “calm down,” you are calling her a psycho-hose beast. And that’s never good. Ever throw gasoline on a fire? Tell her to “calm down,” and welcome to the burn unit, buddy.

And ladies, never say any form of the following to a man: “Whatever. It’s fine. Do what you want.” Because even though he knows perfectly well that you don’t think it’s fine, he will take your advice and go out and do what he wants. I mean, you TOLD him to. How can you blame him? You tell him he never listens, so you should be proud of him! He knows perfectly well that the undertone of that message is, “I actually have very strong opinions about this matter, but I will not divulge them because I prefer that you read my mind. And if you leave despite knowing that I am hurt, I will enact revenge on you when you get back.” Then he’ll go anyway. Why? Because playing 18-holes, going out on the fishing boat with his buddies, or gambling late into the night followed by a quick visit to the strip club is a hell of a lot more appealing than standing in the living room and getting bitched at. Men like their pain late, not early. They figure if they’re going to get bitched at anyway, they might as well go out and have fun first and earn it. Right?

Yeah, I was married for 25 years.

So men and women aren’t always the best communicators with each other. Which is odd, because in other parts of our lives, we manage to communicate just fine.

Talking to pets: (“Now Marley, chewing the throw rug was wrong. That was a bad dog. But I forgive you, buddy, I know you just missed me. Let’s make-up. Come here and give me a big, wet, sloppy kiss. Wanna go to the park later?”). Ok, so they can’t talk back. And they’re fluffy.

Talking to toddlers: (“Jimmy, say you’re sorry to the little girl for throwing that dump truck at her head. We don’t throw, do we? And Annabel is our friend, so we want to be kind. That’s a good boy.”) Fine, you’re much bigger than they are, and they have not yet figured out how to harness their verbal power.

Talking to bosses (“Of course, sir, I apologize. It was wrong of me not to check in with you before leaving the office for the day. Next time I will be sure to do that. It was unprofessional of me. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”) Yeah, so your paycheck lays in the balance.

But men speaking to women and vice versa? Sometimes it goes well, but sometimes it’s like men are speaking Shyriiwook and women are speaking Klingon. Sometimes it feels like we come from different planets.

Quite a disconnect.

John Gray’s book tells us: Women like to talk, men want to hide in their caves. Men are rubber bands, women are waves. Fascinating reading. But summarizing this book is not my point, and I’m fairly certain that I have no point. But since I have things to do, and I am not here to analyze you or your significant other, let me leave you for the weekend with one last tidbit.

It’s Valentine’s Day weekend. For God’s sake, just settle it in bed.

Xxxooooo

Secret Slut Scanner

(Readers: There is no way to overemphasize my frustration at my website redesign. Good things take time. I know it’s tougher getting to my daily post, but in the end, it will be worth it, so don’t give up on me. I will be working on it this week, when I am away).

Of course I didn’t buy it. Silly.

The whole shebang (pun intended) was way too sketchy. But when I exited from the video without clicking “Purchase Now,” I was lucky enough to be diverted to another shorter video reprimanding me for being foolish enough to not jump at the bargain price of $69.95 for a video package that would normally go for $7,682. And honestly, if there was a gun pointing at my head, and the difference between life and death was one guess as to how much this video package was going for, I would have lived. Of course it was $69.

How could it NOT be $69?

So while I did not purchase the final product, it did give me some extra information which I will now share with you. Since I don’t know what the “secrets” actually are, please enjoy my guesses as to what they might be.

“Stealth Attraction” Package:

  • Discover the ability to tap into a woman’s “animal brain”

(My guesses: Show up with takeout. Walk her dog. Separate the whites).

  • 33 words to sneak into conversation to get a woman hot

(My guess: “You’re so amazing and beautiful, and you’re so good to me, just tell me what I can do for you today- anything, you name it, even if it’s to just leave you alone.”

  • Ways to get her aroused once she’s already attracted to you

(My guess: Keep doing whatever you’ve been doing. She obviously likes it).

  • Cologne you can get at the neighborhood drugstore for less than $20 that will drive her crazy

(My guesses: Polo. Drakkar Noir. Gray Flannel?)

  • A nine-word sentence that will get her into bed

(My guess: “I just washed these sheets in All-Temperature Cheer”).

  • Single item to never leave out at your place or it will kill her libido

(My guesses: a can of Raid. Hemorrhoid cream. A One Direction CD?)

  • One accessory to always leave near the bed

(My guesses: A phone charger. A reed diffuser. A picture of his mother or dog. A plate of Oysters Rockefeller?)

  • How to help her develop “Boyfriend Amnesia,” so she’ll forget she has one

(My guesses: Rufies or a sledgehammer)

  • Seven secret arousal triggers

(The video divulges one of these to the viewer: Men should ask about her father in order to tap into her patriarchal desires. Seriously).

  • Seven bonus pamphlets:
    • Shagbook Formula (not real title)
    • The Secret Slut Scanner (having my own personal Secret Slut Scanner would have been worth the $69 alone. It pains me to not own a Secret Slut Scanner. I don’t know how I can move on with my life happily and contentedly without a Secret Slut Scanner. It’s all I can think about).
    • Sex Messaging Secrets
    • The Five Senses of Seduction (what colors will attract her, what foods will turn her on)
    • Silly Secrets (real title was vile, and crossed the line for even me)
    • Turn Back the Clock (foods to eat together to help virility)
    • From Friendly to Shagging (alliteration removed)

Imagine. All this for only $69. Amazing. I didn’t know we required so much work. Have a great weekend, and men, just remember:

When in doubt, just buy her some freaking dinner. Sheesh.

Patent Pending

(Readers: Thank you for your patience as my website undergoes a re-design)

Scene 2:  Patent Pending

“Are you binge-watching ‘SNL’ again?” my son said smiling, as he approached me. I had been on my laptop laughing for an hour straight, and I’ve been known to OD on “Californians” clips.

I immediately flipped down the screen.

“No.”

He stopped in his tracks.

“Then what’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I can’t show you.”

The infomercial video was hilarious in its comic inappropriateness. Sixty minutes long and titled “Stealth Attraction,” it begins by suggesting to the male viewer that he watch the video the whole way through, because it can’t be paused and also might not be available for much longer. For the record I watched it three times over two weeks to get the information down accurately. Still up. Still available. Still comedy-gold.

Yep, the narrator warns us that feminist groups are working hard to get the video taken down. That “feminist groups don’t want men to know these secrets, because the secrets have the power to break down women’s defenses and remove their ability to mate with the partner of their choosing.” Turns out these tricks are so effective that if used on an unsuspecting woman, she will succumb to anyone, anywhere, anytime.

My goodness, I thought. Do tell. I watched, rapt.

The video features a series of animated male and female cartoon characters engaged in a series of day-to-day interactions: at the gym, in a bar, on the street, and quite often, engaged in cartoonish sexual acts. The animated buffoons are caricatured with enormous features- big breasts and asses, low overhanging guts, and hugely exaggerated lips and eyes. Many scenes depict frustrated unkempt men with bad posture getting rejected by gorgeous females. Nothing they do or say seems to work.

But the makers of the infomercial make a promise:

Buy our TED-talk! This Product Will Get You Laid! Learn How to Attract Hot Women Using the Same Brainwashing Techniques Used by the CIA When Interrogating Prisoners!

Hm. I honestly considered the investment. While I don’t know the context of the product they were hawking, I honestly thought about plunking down the money for it. A good laugh and some valuable blog material are priceless commodities, and I have no doubt that it would deliver plenty of both. The thing is, I didn’t want to start receiving too many inappropriate promotional emails. I have enough crap in my inbox already.

But I digress.

The first 15 minutes of the video shows men getting rejected by women. But as you watch the men use the invisible secrets of Stealth Attraction, they undergo a drastic transformation. Their posture and physical appearances improve (somewhat), they walk with a more confident stride, they smile more unabashedly. Even better, the narrator assures the viewer that if he uses the secrets of program, he will be able to actually watch the physical manifestation of Stealth Attraction transform the woman before his very eyes.

Turns out the mental and sexual power you have over her will eventually manifest into a physical one.

Whoa. You don’t say.

In one poignant scene, a male doofus is talking to a woman over dinner. You are not privy to his words, but as he talks, you can see the woman begin to pant. Her face turns red. She loosens a button of her ill-fitting blouse, then another. She begins to touch herself in inappropriate places, and then suddenly, without warning, she excuses herself to use the ladies’ room.

(This is me when I get a hot flash. But I digress yet again).

The implication of her sudden exit from the table is that she is most certainly not going into the restroom to wash her hands. The curious fellow inevitably follows her into the women’s bathroom, to see for himself if she is doing what he thinks she is doing.

She is. You can’t make this stuff up. He joins in of course, and they do it right under the Xlerator Hand Dryer. Ruffles her hair just right.

Another particularly humorous scene takes place in a gym. A slovenly man is talking to a buxom blonde girl running on a treadmill (with her triple-G cartoon rack, I don’t know how she was even managing to stay upright). Her back is to him, and at first she’s ignoring him; then magically, for no apparent reason, she turns hypnotically in his direction. And while you can’t hear what he is saying to her, it is obviously significant enough to get her to push the “Stop” button on the treadmill. And suddenly, in a romantic twist of fate, they leave the gym arm-in-arm.

He had somehow achieved game. And in the next scene, the viewer sees that he got more than just game that night. Much more. Marone.

I have to buy this program. I don’t see any way around it. I don’t think I can sleep or live without knowing what he said to her.

The Lasso of Truth

I received some e-mails about the tone of my post on Monday. It was described as “severe,” “combative and aggressive” and “WTF?” But I’m not apologizing. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times: once a writer starts apologizing for her writing, she has lost her integrity. I stand by my Monday post. Besides, no writer can please every reader. Someone will ALWAYS be pissed off. If I stuck only to bland subjects, I’d end up writing about the water composition of cucumbers, and even then some jack-off would call me an idiot for not knowing that cucumbers are less water-soluble than watermelon. Or some shit.

So the post will stand as is. Besides, I got a lot of positive email from introverts who said I nailed it. We are vastly misunderstood, and need to stick together.

I remember vividly the first time in my adult life that I knew I was an introvert. When it hit me between the eyes that I was not cut out for that overly active social life replete with lots of people and vapid chatting.

I was a young teacher in my first teaching job, and my department supervisor had invited me to her Greek Goddess party. Everything in my body told me not to go. That it was corny, that there would be no men there so What Was-the-Dang-Point, that it was a waste of time, that my cozy apartment and my boyfriend were a better choice, that her friends were bound to be as flighty as she was. But she was my supervisor, and my professional idol- she had her Ph.D., something I wanted more than anything in the world, something that I’m still working towards. Truth be told, I was flattered that she asked me to attend. I pictured a sophisticated gathering of accomplished women, and I hoped to have the chance to pick her brain about doctoral programs.

It was nothing like that at all.

It was a disaster. Just a bunch of women wearing flowing dresses, gladiator sandals, and flowers in their hair, and carrying books about Isis and Diana. It was like a dress rehearsal for the Swedish Midsommar. Even then I was aware of pretension, and I just couldn’t summon the energy or the forced vivacity needed for such ridiculousness. This was thirty years ago, before mindfulness and positive affirmations became things of normalcy, so their chanting and dancing unnerved me. I was just waiting for these women to get out a Ouija board, trace a pentagraph on the ground and conjure Hecate. I didn’t know what was going on, so I just sat there balancing my paper plate on my lap while they talked about self-care. We went around the circle while women talked about poetry, baking, and yoga, and suddenly, it was my turn.

“Huh?” I said, when Meg said my name.

“It’s your turn, Mary, to share your favorite tool for self-love.”

Everyone was smiling and staring at me warmly, so I felt comfortable saying the first thing that came to my mind.

“Well, I use my vibrator a lot.”

Silence. I looked around the circle, seeing only blank faces. What was wrong? Why wasn’t anyone saying anything? What says self-love more than sexual health? Was this a goddess party or a dried-up frigid nun party? Didn’t they know that sexual gratification is a basic fundamental need? I looked down at my half-eaten wedge of quiche Lorraine, wondering if I curled up into a really tiny ball, if I could fit right into the indentation of the crust.

(Side note: Why is the subject of female masturbation such a taboo subject? What’s the big deal?  I’ve never understood it. Male masturbation is parodied in books, movies and in cartoons. I was pleased to log onto my favorite blog recently to see the post “Top Ten Vibrators Our Readers Recommend.” Now, this blog is about as white bread as it can get. It’s a mom blog. But she was evolved enough to broach this subject with her readers. It was a wildly popular post, and the moms appreciated it. She has further established herself as a badass blogger in my book).

The rest of the night I talked politely with the other goddesses, listening to them drone on about passion fruit, goddess dressings, Vera Bradley prints and healing crystals. But I was impatient for escape, pacing like Wonder Woman on the banks of Themyscira. And after that social disgrace, I realized that perhaps it is unwise to wield the Lasso of Truth with too much abandon. And needless to say, my relationship with my supervisor, while always professional, was never quite the same.

(Shocker. I guess once you picture a woman using a vibrator, it’s hard to imagine anything else. Stop).

So Monday’s post wasn’t meant as a “fuck you” to extroverts. Quite the opposite. The point of the post was simply that extroverts, while often annoying AF, are lucky. Society is formed around social interaction, so when extroverts do what comes naturally to them, i.e. attending New Years’ Eve parties and Jimmy Buffett concerts, eating Buffalo Blasts at Cheesecake Factory and pretending cookie swaps are fun, they are celebrated.

But when introverts do what comes naturally to them, i.e. solitary mountain hikes, book mobiles, cave burrowing, and cauldron-stirring, they are vilified. And very often, our routines are highly suspect. What are they doing, people wonder? Binge-watching “Malcolm in the Middle”? Assembling bombs? Masturbating?

I’ll tell you what we are doing when we go off alone. We are re-charging. If you’ve never heard anything about the social batteries of introverts, then the following should prove to be revelatory.

Did you know that the more introverts are alone, the more charged we get? That silence, solitude, solitary pursuits, all charge up our batteries? Think of that feeling of satisfaction you get when your phone is fully charged or when you have a full tank of gas- that is how we feel when we get time alone (conversely, for extroverts, it is people and activity that fills their batteries. But I’m not here to talk about those psychopaths).

Personally, nature does it for me. Solitary travel does it for me, independent study and exercise does it for me. Reading, writing, cooking, quiet art museums, all do it for me. Quiet time with my dog used to do it for me. But social interactions drain me, like being at a concert and watching that little battery icon on your phone slowly deplete. I began this past weekend with 100% power, and various social interactions drained my battery:

Paid my bill at a restaurant and thanked the friendly hostess for a wonderful meal: 1% drainage.

Checked into the inn and chatted warmly with the perky desk clerk: 2% drainage.

Discussed my travel purpose with the bartender while I sipped my martini: 5% drainage.

Waited for my turn to enter a trailhead and engaged in casual banter with a family of four: 10% drainage.

Asked for directions from a nice couple on a hiking trail and pet their dog while telling them I just lost mine: 15% drainage.

Got into an in-depth discussion with the souvenir shop owner about the heritage of the elephant figurines I liked: 20% drainage.

Talked on the phone with my dad about the election: 30% drainage.

That’s some serious drainage.

But luckily my battery goes back up as soon as I go back into solitude. Even getting back into my car between hikes and listening to music pumps it back up. But I can’t hide at remote mountain inns forever. I eventually have to return to my life and deal with phone calls, electricians, neighbors (I’ve been avoiding them because they want to offer me dog condolences, and I’m not confident I won’t burst into tears), that follow-up interview, my oil change, banking people, cleaning people, blah blah blah.

By 5:00 p.m. on most days you can find me cowering on my couch, with a charger sticking out of my butt.

When I was first married and a young mother, socializing was far more necessary than it is now. And even though I did it better back then, it still didn’t come naturally. I would attend parties with my pathologically-social extroverted husband, and since he liked to stay out late, we would drive separately, or I would arrange to leave with a friend. If the party was close enough I’d walk home, sometimes in the dead of winter. I would pay the babysitter, check on my babies, put on my comfy clothes, and sink into the couch with relief that it was over.

Although for introverts, it’s never really over. We will always have events to attend that we don’t want to attend, people to deal with that we don’t want to deal with. And we will do so, as pleasantly as possible and to the best of our ability. We might do it so well that you would never guess we were introverts. There are people in my life that think I am an extrovert, because they have only seen me in full 100% charged mode.

So have patience with us and just remember: if you really loved us, you wouldn’t invite us. Anywhere.

How to F**k Like Zuck

Warning: Controversial material follows

In 2017, I emerged from my 25-year marriage like a walking anachronism, like a befuddled character in a corny time-machine movie.

I was Marty, stumbling out of his Delorian into 1955.

Peggy Sue, reawakening smack dab in the middle of 1960.

Richard Collier, walking out of the Grand Hotel into 1912.

Marty, Peggy Sue and Richard all had their Achilles’ heels, the things that revealed them as the anachronisms that they were. Marty wore a strange, beeping watch, Richard donned a dated and defunct pin-striped suit, while Peggy Sue smoked grass and indulged in pre-marital sex to the great consternation of society in general.

My chronological infirmity was simply one question: how does a widow in her 50’s actually date? Meet men? Acquire sex? I’ve spoken to many single women and men my age over these past three years, and we have all reached the same sad conclusion:

No one meets organically anymore. At least, no one in my age bracket does. We used to think we could get introduced to someone through friends, get approached in the gym, the supermarket, in a bar or restaurant, bond over a cool activity like boating or golf, maybe even meet someone while traveling.

How naïve we were.

I’m embarrassed to say that the picture I had in my head of a man walking up to me and saying, “Want to get dinner this weekend?” was so off-base it wasn’t even in the ballpark. It wasn’t even in the stadium. How about a man getting my number from someone, and then actually calling me? Is there anything better than, “Listen, I hope you don’t mind my calling you like this, but I got your number from John. I really wanted to talk to you, maybe take you out for a drink?” I remember distinctly that men used to do that. It’s so ballsy.

Men don’t do that anymore, apparently. They stare. They walk past your house. But they don’t stop. They don’t ask you out. Because Facebook gets in the way.

Facebook always gets in the way.

Will someone please forward this message to Mark Zuckerberg:

Facebook sucks. You suck. I think you have single-handedly caused the global ruination of the sexual and social dynamic. No one knows how to act, think, socialize, flirt, seduce, or talk anymore because you have made damn sure that the only way people know how to interact is to slap some stupid pictures up on a computer screen with a few insipid captions, and present this false-front to the world. I hate you and everything you stand for.

I’ll be honest, I know so little about Facebook that the following description could be wrong. But it seems to me that in 2020, men request to “friend” you, right? How emasculating. Sometimes it’s not even a request to “friend” you, sometimes it’s just a “suggestion.” Jason is a “suggested friend.” So now what? Now fucking what? Don’t waste my time, Jason. I hate you, too.

(I’m sorry, Jason, I don’t hate you, despite the fact that you probably hate me now for suggesting that Mark Zuckerberg has emasculated you. Nor do I have contempt for men who think Facebook is a good substitute for picking a woman up, walking up to her door, kissing her on the cheek, taking her hand, opening the car door for her, telling her she looks beautiful, having a lovely dinner over great conversation, then having hot date sex. You’ve all just been hood-winked by Mark “Tiny Weenus” Zuckerberg).

Regarding date scenario above: Just because I like sex doesn’t mean I’m not a hopeless romantic.

So the way I see it, if making Zuck even richer than he already is the only way to meet men, I’ll stay happily single, thank you very much. HAPPILY. Besides, any relationship that starts with “friending” is doomed from the start. Friendship, great, but “friending?” What is that? How in the world would I ever get turned on by someone who can’t walk right up to me and talk to me the way a man talks to a woman? What would our story be over an anniversary dinner?

“Oh, remember the day you requested me because of a friend suggestion? I played hard to get and didn’t accept right away, remember? But I finally did, and sent you a friend request, and then you accepted it. Then remember I messaged you? Your message to me was so funny, and I complimented the dress you were wearing in that picture with your college roommate. Then we ignored each other for two more weeks, just posting pictures, like foreplay, then you waved at me, and then we messaged for three weeks before I finally worked up the nerve to ask you out. Good times.”

Puke.

I prefer Tinder. I’d rather have a guy message me, “Wanna f**k?” than wait three days on Facebook for the honor of Jason accepting my friend request just so I can look at pictures of him at his daughter’s wedding.

Facebook is just so…PG.

To Jason: These are just my opinions and are obviously not representative of every woman. There are plenty of women who get off on the harmless and asexual Facebook method of dating cat-and-mouse, complete with the silly games and the sexual innuendo. Alas, I’m not one of them. Sucks for me, I know. So be it.

I envy Peggy Sue. At least Peggy Sue Got Laid.