Gay Marriage: An Exercise in Getting Over Ourselves

Oh boy, here we go. You know when you’re on a conference call and you have to pee but you hold it because you don’t want people to hear the noise and get mad at you and you haven't learned how to mute your phone yet? Totally never happened...

That’s basically what I’ve been doing lately. Only instead of pee, I’m holding in how I really feel about gay marriage. But in light of North Carolina’s awesome, not-at-all-backward news this week, I simply can’t hold it anymore.

In all seriousness (don’t worry, that won’t last) I’m not out to patronize or offend anyone. There are people in my life whom I love dearly, and they disagree with me. And that’s fine. This is America, where we can disagree and vote and eat things like this all day long. Yay freedom!

However, as a humanist and a Christian and someone basically impaled by her own empathy (I cry at the beginning of Cialis commercials), I have to put in my two cents. Deep breath, exhale, and here we go...

Can we please be honest with ourselves? Because this debate not about religion. It never has been.

If it were, why not legislate adultery or working on Sundays? Those aren’t even buried in Leviticus, which also forbids getting tattoos and eating owls, and tells us that a woman must sacrifice a lamb and a pigeon in order to purify herself after giving birth. I happen to like pigeons.

So don’t tell me this is about religion. It’s as much about religion as it is about Fun Dip. And politicizing Fun Dip would make it significantly less fun. It would be more like Bummer Dip. Or Manipulation Dip. Is that what you want??

I guess my point is, let’s stop the charade. I’m a Christian, and you’re ruining it for me. Don’t poop on my cereal and tell me it’s part of the flavor.

And now for the lightning round, where I will attempt to dispel common objections to legalization in twenty words or less.

Sanctity of Marriage - Two things: 1.) Heterosexual divorce rate and 2.) If another person’s marriage really affects your own, it’s kinda your problem.

Slippery Slope - If illegality is the only thing preventing someone from marrying a meerkat, then we have bigger issues.

Polygamy will Follow - Constitutional amendment outlawing polygamy. Done.

Raising Children - No credible sociological studies to imply that gay parents are somehow less qualified. Also, this.

Look, I’m not saying I know it all. All I’m suggesting is that we freaking get over it already, legalize and get on with our lives. This is America - let’s be American. Our kickass constitution is specifically set up to prevent religiously-based legislation. So let's be American and stand up for equal rights - it’s what we do best. Well, that and chicken wings. And guidos.

Anyway, I promise you no smiting will occur. Because unless some trickster has been replacing my Bible with a fake one (oh, YOU!) then I really don’t see the problem.

On a Facebook debate recently (shut up, I’m not proud of it) a young lady said the following to me in order to defend her position (for outlawing same-sex marriage.)

“If I’m wrong, no harm done. If YOU’RE wrong, then you’ll have to answer to your Creator.”

Actually, Facebook girl, if you’re wrong then you’ve spent your entire life denying equal rights to millions of people. Whereas the Jesus I know would be pretty forgiving of those of us simply trying to level the playing field. I sleep like a baby at night - do you?

Alright, I’m done - back to bathroom humor.

Purging (not the bulimia kind).

I haven't blogged in like six months, and I feel like sarcasm is going to start coming out of my butt. To put that in perspective, I haven't blogged in 12 mosquitoes' lifetimes. The last time I blogged, it was the mosquito Middle Ages. Mosquitoes were totally torturing each other with foot barbecues and exploiting peasants the last time I blogged. Think about it, history nerds.

Anyway, I'm so full of embarrassing stories and misplaced Midwestern guilt that I almost walked into oncoming traffic this morning. Go-kart traffic, not real traffic. It's not like I mugged an elderly blind veteran  or punched a goat.*

So in the spirit of starting anew, I'd like to issue the following series of apologies. But like any good neurotic, I tend to feel bad about things I haven't done as well as things I have. As a result, some of the things in this list are entirely fictional. This also, conveniently, gives me a neatly packaged defense in a court of law.

I am sorry for...

• Trying to have a heart-to-heart with you at a bar that completely comes out wrong/offensive/ending in a story about a cat video.
• Not ever calling you back in a timely manner (mom).
• Throwing your pet turtle off the pier after you made fun of my "jean socks" idea.
• Losing your wedding invitation and screwing up your logistics.**
• Forgetting your name when I should know it well enough by now to write you an acrostic poem. 
• Breaking into your house and eating all your olives. 
• Anything I've ever done/said/tackled/eaten after drinking whipped cream vodka.
• Leaving more than one pair of shoes at your house (sorry M, T, and B).
• ______________________ -(insert grievance here)

Okay, I guess I feel a little better. Consider the slate blank for about the next five minutes, at which time I will inevitably commit another sin against basic human decency.

On another note, I'm going to start blogging more, and whether than makes you smile, cringe or constipated is really your problem. 

*I actually  might have done those things on Cinco de Mayo - there's really no way of knowing.
**In all seriousness, this is by far one of my worst, most shameful habits. It's like my brain is a colander and wedding invitations are the noodles that get overcooked and smush through the holes. This will be the reason I get into heaven but have to get a job picking up angel dog crap or something.
***Brandon LaChance eats kittens. I have proof.

I'm Still Alive! Ed note: sort of

I'm sure many of you stopped checking The Guys' Girl about six weeks ago, and trust me, I don't blame you. The Superficial goes thirty minutes without a post and I'm already putting cat treats inside the sliding glass door to torture the strays.* I'm no stranger to a short attention span.

I promise to blog more regularly, but I've been super-de-duper busy applying for teaching jobs I'm not getting *said without irony while crying and eating Santa candy*. Point being, I'll be back to making astute observations about humans both with and without penises before you know it. Pinky swear.

In the meantime, enjoy this.

*Not really, I'm a vet's daughter.

Money: The New Feminism

It's no secret - I've been a bit squeezed for cash lately. And by squeezed, I mean I had a mild panic attack after being charged a dollar-fifty for parking earlier today. So maybe "squeezed" isn't the right term - it's more like I'm being slowly smothered to death by a giant dollar-shaped pillow while giant animate quarters laugh and beat me about the knees and ankles.*

They say money can't buy happiness, and I agree. Case in point - I live in the land of the super-wealthy soccer moms who threaten you with graphic bodily harm if your car comes within fifty yards of their child. I've lived everywhere from South Side Chicago to small town Ohio to occupied West Bank, and the scariest people I've ever encountered are wealthy, middle aged white women. I'm completely serious.

So money doesn't buy happiness (or sanity), but no money gets you discounted shitloads of insecurity and crushing self-loathing.

I've found that there's an interesting dynamic between the sexes when it comes to money. Many of my guy friends have told me that there is a lot more pressure on a man to prove himself financially viable. The man, they tell me, is supposed to be the primary breadwinner - able not only to support himself, but a moderately sized family by his mid-thirties. I tend to agree that our evermore androgynous society has yet to catch up with this particular brand of heteronormativity, but I also think women are underestimated. I, for example, look to my checkbook for the single greatest factor of my feminine liberation.

The implications of a M.C. Hammer-esque checking account can be a bit more complicated for women, especially those who consider themselves independent and empowered. My temporary inability to earn makes me feel a bit like a traitor to my gender. Hey - look at me! I'm a woman with a master's in the liberal arts who is probably going to end up cocktail waitressing in a Catholic Schoolgirl outfit! We don't have the pressure of thousands of years of tradition, but we do struggle against the distinct possibility of becoming a stereotype.

Sidebar: I took a long walk last night to contemplate the next step in my job search. I wound up at the Redondo Beach harbor at sunset, and I leaned over the metal railing, squinting into the distance and entertaining deep thoughts about my future. I was on the verge of epiphany when I realized how rapey a harbor probably gets after dark. Rapeysense - another feminine super power.

I guess the only thing we can do is try to remember that our self-worth is not entirely tied up in dollars and cents. Friends and family matter too, especially if you can sell them. According to the NASDAQ, the price of Gingers just went up.

*Based on an actual dream I had.

Why We Really Hate your Ex-Girlfriend

About a year ago, I introduced Freckles to Kevin (named after Kevin Arnold.) Kevin was my high school boyfriend and my first love. He wooed me over popcorn and paper football at the bowling alley when we were both acting too emo and antisocial to join the game. It was a perfect start to a teenage romance, full naive anticipation with just a touch of angst.

The magic didn't last, but Kevin and I went on to become great friends. We visited each other at college and even played wingman for new love interests every now and then. But although it had been ten years (uuugggghhhhh) since we broke up beside the science lab, I was a bit anxious to introduce him to Freckles. He's an extremely well-adjusted ex, but an ex nonetheless.

Nothing could have prepared me for the massive man-explosion of heterosexual bro love that ensued. They loved each other; having me in common was just a bonus. As I watched them that night in Chicago taking shots and laughing at each other while dancing to "All the Single Ladies", one thought emerged like a fart bubble in a hot tub: This would never happen with girls.

Most straight guys I know see girls one of two ways:

1.) The ones they would sleep with

2.) The ones they wouldn't

That's not to imply that they always choose to act on it; the former is simply sexualized and the latter is not. Once they've made that distinction, other factors determine their behavior (social propriety, relationship status(es), risk/reward assessments, etc.)

I can't speak for all women, but for me, these two distinctions are flanked by several different shades of gray. Here are some examples:

1.) Men I find attractive but not sexy.

2.) Men I find sexy but not attractive.

3.) Men I find both sexy and attractive but would never sleep with because I love them too much as friends.

4.) Men I find neither sexy nor attractive but might sleep with if they are particularly funny/smart/good at sports.

5.) Men whose sexiness is no longer a factor, because I'm as likely to sleep with them as I am a lamp or a mid-sized sedan.

To add to the complication, the categories are fluid. The fact that I dated you once means almost nothing - you could easily now be a 3 or a 5.

I think Freckles instinctively knew that Kevin was as much a threat to him as my life-sized poster of Legolas. Perhaps it's because of my tendency to have close guy friends; he knows I keep it clean.

But the way we see it, your ex-girlfriend is just someone who fits into your first category. And it seems to me that men's categories aren't quite as flexible as ours. In man categories, a girl can move from a 2 to a 1, but movement the other direction is much more rare. Once a man decides he would sleep with you (though not necessarily call you the next day) then boom. You're a 1.

(This is barring, of course, some sort of enormous physical change or a sudden obsession with hamsters or doll-collecting.)

The point is - we see your ex-girlfriend as a 1 for life. She could cure cancer or save me from a pack of angry badgers, but she's still someone you used to sleep with.

Oversimplified? Unfair? Maybe. Enlightening? Hopefully.

Peace and Die Hard Marathons,

The Guys' Girl

Deep Thoughts that didn't come out of me

It's an amazing time to be alive. Infuriating and convoluted - a time when we're not even sure who the enemy is, much less how to bring them down - but amazing nonetheless.

I was experiencing a moment of writers' block today and I opened one of my favorite books, 1984, in an effort to leech a little creativity from Uncle George, everybody's favorite nut. I happened to open directly to this passage:

Talking to her, he realized how easy it was to present an appearance of orthodoxy while having no grasp whatsoever of what orthodoxy meant. In a way, the world-view of the Party imposed itself most successfully on people incapable of understanding it. They could be made to accept the most flagrant violations of reality, because they never fully grasped the enormity of what was demanded of them, and were not sufficiently interested in public events to notice what was happening. By lack of understanding they remained sane. They simply swallowed everything, and what they swallowed did them no harm, because it left no residue behind, just as a grain of corn will pass undigested through the body of a bird.

-George Orwell, 1984

I know this is not particularly funny nor is it related to the gender gap, but this is one of those passages that makes me want to be a better writer. Think of old Georgie when you read your daily coverage of Occupy Wall Street (as you should - you might not agree with it, but it's history.)

Is willful ignorance the only thing that allows us to maintain a comfortable level of sanity? Is that why nerds are so bonkers?

...and back to our regularly scheduled penis jokes.

- the Guys' Girl

Gold Diggers - A Dude's Guide to Survival

"It's just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor man." -my Grandma

I live in LA. That means a lot of things - great farmers' markets, a pet hotel and nail salon on every block, and DUI checkpoints at three in the afternoon. It also means lots of women who date men for their money.

I'm not knocking it. Really, I'm not. For me, dating for money is like becoming a vegetarian. I see its merits, I've thought about it a couple times, but ultimately it's just not for me. So I'm not talking to the ladies out there who judge the quality of a man by his checking account; I'm talking to the guys who date them.

Every girl is at least cognizant of a man's financial situation when we decide to date you, and most of us just want someone stable. It's a natural and totally healthy thing, like having a AAA membership. If we're dating someone seriously enough, we want the guy to at least carry his weight. Shit happens. If we lose our jobs or pop out an offspring we'd like to think that you can support us for awhile.

The women I'm talking about are the ones that don't even bring a wallet on your first four dates - the women that suggest weekends in Cabo or Aspen when they haven't worked in months. These are the professional daters. They read articles like "How to Marry a Millionaire" and go to the grocery store in lip liner and stilettos. And frankly, guys, you should be able to identify them from a mile away.

(For concision's sake, let's call them Ariels. Remember how Ariel fell in love with the gold statue of Eric before she met the flesh and blood version?)*

I have no problem when guys who have money date girls who want it. Why not? All relationships have a selfish component; it's about fulfilling a need. Otherwise, what's the point? But, too often, smart men start relationships with an Ariel and then act surprised and put off when she starts going for the cash. It comes with the territory, fellas.

If you want to date a high maintenance girl, then by all means, shave your chest and start polishing your Amex. But you have to adjust your expectations accordingly. You can't eat 25 hot wings and not expect it to hurt the next day. The Guys' Girl knows that all too well.

So, each guy has a decision to make. Date these girls, or don't. It's that simple. But if you decide to take on an Ariel - be warned. Don't expect them to wake up one day, realize they love you for who you are and stop paying attention to your investment portfolio. It would be like us expecting you to magically stop thinking about sex every 28 seconds. It's against your nature, and it's against theirs.

So do yourselves a favor and stop making it more complicated than it has to be. Because believe me, we've had it figured out for years.

Peace and Jack Daniels,

The Guys' Girl

She night be an Ariel if...

-You know how many karats she wants in an engagement ring and you've been dating for six weeks.

-She suggests an expensive bottle of wine on the first date and starts texting when the check comes out.

-She doesn't say thank you... for anything.

-She treats the waiter like he's a living, breathing poop statue.

-She tells you she's an Ariel. If she admits it, she means business. Respect her, believe her, and don't expect her to change for you.

*He just happened to be a prince, anyway. I wonder if the ending would be different if he'd been a busboy or a part-time personal trainer.