Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Men and Women (Page 4 of 11)

Are Mojitos Gay?

September 24, 2008 / / 83 Comments

I am writing a screenplay with another writer back in Los Angeles.  We get along well, but waste a lot of time getting into ridiculous arguments on the phone about the direction of the scenes.  The problem is that we have different word views about men, women, and relationships.  I am married.  He is not.  I have interests that could be considered “metrosexual” — like enjoying Broadway musicals.  He is more of a guy’s guy who watches sports every night.  I find many of his ideas sexist and filled with stereotypes.  What bothers me the most, is that I have a nagging feeling that his views better match that of the average American movie-goer, who is usually an idiot.

We are working on a comic scene where our two lead characters go to a bar, try to talk to two hot babes, and then get rejected for some funny reason.  He calls me with an idea:

“The two guys are talking to the hot girls, both with great tits, and everything is going well, and then the bartender brings the guys over their drinks — and it is two mojitos — and the girls look at them funny, as if they are gay, and then split.”

“What?  I don’t understand.” I ask.  “The girls with the tits LEAVE because the guys ordered mojitos?”

“Yeah, they think the drink is gay.”

“That is ridiculous.  I like mojitos.  I thought they were supposed to be trendy.  And no girl is going to leave because a guy ordered a mojito.”

“You haven’t been to the bar where I go.”

“That’s because you go to some stupid redneck bar.  Which is a little weird, considering that you are Japanese.  But our characters live in Hollywood.  They’re cool guys, like the guys in Swingers.  They would have no problem ordering mojitos in a hip bar.  And no girl would have a problem with a mojito, or think they are gay.  I’m not putting that into any script with my name on it.”

“Ok, so let’s make it like they order two of those fruity drinks with the umbrellas?”

“Like Mai Tais?”

“Exactly.”

“I like Mai Tais, too.”

“They’re pretty gay.”

“What is the matter with you?    Are you saying that if I go into a bar and order a Mai Tai, everyone around me will think I am as gay as Clay Aiken.”

“Yes.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“What do you know?  You never go to bars.”

“Well, make believe it was a Tiki bar, like Trader Vics.”

“Our scene is not in a Tiki Bar.”

“Still bullshit.  And I don’t appreciate these lame gay stereotypes.”

“Why, are you gay?”

“No, I’m not gay.”

“So, what do you care?”

“Because it is stupid.  You know, the next time I am in a bar, I’m going to order a Mai Tai just to f*ck with your mind.”

“Not with me there.”

“Are you homophobic or something?”

“No, but if I am in a bar wanting to get laid, I’m not going to give off the message “I am gay” to the girls by ordering a mai-tai.”

“So, what are you saying — that if you order a scotch, you’re sending the message, “I have a big dick.”

“Even gay guys will say a mai-tai is gay.   Ask one.”

“You want me to ask some gay guy if he thinks a mai tai is gay?  That’s insulting.   There is no such thing as a “gay” drink.  There are gays who like lemonade and gays who like Diet Coke.”

“Ask around.  Ask all the women on your blog.  I guarantee that they’re all going to say that if they went out on a date with a guy and he ordered a fruity drink with an umbrella — that something is different about this guy.”

“What if I was Hawaiian, a manly Hawaiian, but this drink reminded me of home.”

“Even Hawaiian guys don’t drink those fruity drinks with umbrellas.”

“What if I just came back from Hawaii, where I f*cked seven different girls, and I am drinking this Mai-Tai because it reminds me of how manly I was while I was there, and how I f*cked a different girl every night, and I tell this story to one of the girls, and she gets totally turned on by me drinking a fruity drink with an umbrella, because she knows it means I am a total stud.”

“Sorry.  She will still think it is gay.”

“What if after I finish the drink, I take the umbrella and stick it in my arm without showing any pain, to reveal how manly I am.”

“OK, you got me there.  Then she would f*ck you.”

“Great.  Let’s write that scene.”

Three Years Ago on Citizen of the Month:   The Funeral

What I Can Teach Neil About Making a Women Really Really Happy!

August 7, 2008 / / 31 Comments

Today’s guest poster is Linsey from Uncouth Heathen.  I knew she was special from the minute I read her About page:  “I began with a major in Biochemistry, switched to History, then Political Science, Philosophy, Psychology, English and finally settled on Humanities, graduating after eleven (11) years of haphazard learning. I now possess a degree that qualifies me to do exactly nothing at all.”  Now that’s my kind of blogger.  When I noticed that she was gay, I decided to get personal — and make her write an entire post for my benefit:  “What I Can Teach Neil abut Making a Women Really Really Happy! ” After all,  most of my male blogging comrades seem to be clueless.  “If you want to impress a woman online, send her a photo of dick!” said one guy.   “The way to make a woman happy is to jump on her the first thing in the morning and three minutes later ask “What’s for breakfast?”  Oh, and driving her around in a sports car.” said some male blogger who went to BlogHer this year to pick up women.  Linsey ended up writing a wonderful post that completely gets to the point.  It also taught me something important.  Linsey, why aren’t you a therapist?

What I Can Teach Neil abut Making a Women Really Really Happy! (or “For The Record, Asking If She’d Have Sex With A Mannequin Will Only Make Her Really, Really Uncomfortable”) by Linsey

Before I started to write this on Sunday night, I asked my wife, Janie, if she was happy. I didn’t tell her why I was asking because I wanted an honest answer. Perhaps I wanted to feel like I had something to say here and her happiness was some sort of special credential I needed to carry on. I was certain she’d tell me she has never been happier in all her life; that she would go on about how every day with me is like nothing else in the world that matters and nothing can dampen her joy, not even the asshole who keeps cooking hamburgers in the bathroom at her work. As it turns out, my wife is not happy, generally speaking. Ain’t love a bitch. Thank you, Mr. Citizen of the Month!

After a long discussion into the wee hours of Monday morning about how Janie can be happier, I decided to attack it at another angle. I thought I’d get better feedback (feedback that didn’t involve my crying wife asking me how she could have wasted her best years) from my sister and her husband who have been married for over ten years. On our ride into work Monday morning, I asked them what they thought it took to make a woman really, really happy. My brother-in-law said that asking a question like that was akin to asking who God was. My sister shot him a look the likes of which I hope never to see again, there was some cursing, a few hurtful things were said at high volumes and then they stopped talking for the last 15 minutes of the ride.

On Tuesday night, I asked my dad how he has managed to keep my mom happy for the 41 years they’ve been married. He couldn’t hear me. His eardrums are damaged from 41 years of my mother’s screaming and I suspect that his refusal to get a hearing aid has something to do with that, too. I can’t ask my brother because we don’t talk anymore. Besides, his current girlfriend has broken up with him no less than 30 times in the last year and, well, that doesn’t sound like happiness, to me.

If you’re looking for an answer from me or anyone in my family, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. I’m with comedian Wanda Sykes on this one: “You can’t make a woman happy. That’s like trying to cure a fatal disease. The goal is to treat the symptoms so you can comfortably live with the illness.”

What I think she means is that I am not responsible for the happiness of any woman other than myself. That’s the same thing my therapist has been telling me for five solid years. What I guess I’m trying to say to you, Neil, is that you can’t be responsible for the happiness of any other woman than yourself, either.

In the absence of any personal or familial wisdom on the matter, I did some serious Internet research and found this article dating back to the summer of 2006. If you don’t want to bother reading it, let me just skip to the part I think you may want to know. The article quotes a gentleman who heads up something called the Happiness Project wherein he states that “the major cause of unhappiness for women in the 21st century is a lack of meaning: What’s the point?” Maybe if you want to make a woman really, really happy you have to help her find meaning. But you know what? You can’t always help someone find meaning in their life. Like my wife, for example. She’s a librarian. She has a degree in motherfucking Information Science and she hates that god damn library. That doesn’t have anything to do with this, I just wanted to say that because what the hell is that about? I want my $20,000 in graduate school payments back, with that attitude.

Next, I came across this BBC article from 2002, wherein so-called scientists “discovered” that semen makes women happy because “the mood-altering hormones in semen absorbed through the vagina help to boost women’s mood.” What this looks like to me is that some guy got tired of wearing a rubber and wanted to prove to his girlfriend that really, in the end, it was going to benefit her. Sure, there’s the off-chance there might be unwanted children or a burning itch in her genitalia, but she’ll be so happy on account of that semen that nothing else will matter! Well, let me just tell you something to prove this bullshit wrong, and it isn’t about me and how happy I am without semen in my life because, you know, if I had some of that I’d impregnate my wife and save us a few thousand dollars in fertility treatments. I’d be able to spend that fertility money on better things like booze and Ikea furniture. Let me share a story about my friend. We’ll call her Karen. You see, Karen and her husband are trying to have a baby. Trying really hard. They’ve each had fertility tests, she’s had surgeries and, apparently, a lot of the sexual relations, but she’s not happy. A neighbor recently offered her husband a “#1 Dad” Mariners t-shirt and she started to cry because she thought he was mocking their misfortune, their inability to have the child they so desperately want. A child they’ve been having so much sex in an attempt to conceive that she should be shitting rainbows and unicorns and mountains of whatever mythical creature signifies happiness to you, on account of all that sperm being showered into her vagina. But she’s not. In fact, she’s now refusing to allow semen into her body more than once per week because, in her words, “please, who needs that much spunk in their hoo-ha?” It doesn’t seem like semen is the answer to me, or to Karen.

The search for meaning seems like a good starting point to finding happiness. I know that I’m constantly searching for meaning. Why am I here? What is this life all about? Why is Living Lohan still on the air? There are so many questions and, I believe, we are all asking them, conscious or not. If you want to make a woman happy, you need to work on two separate things: First, search for your own answers, and then help her along, supporting her as you travel that path together. The reward of relationships is the journey, in discovering together what it means to be alive, to have a purpose. It’s like they always say in those episodes of (NERD ALERT!) Janie’s favorite show, Xena: Warrior Princess, especially the ones where I’m certain that during the commercial breaks Xena and Gabrielle are enjoying relating to one another, if you know what I mean. And what I mean is that they’re sweaty and naked and having dirty homosexual lesbian lady gay sex. I’m sorry, I got distracted. Lucy Lawless has the nicest teeth. Anyhow, relationships are about what you can learn from one another, how each can make the other a better person. It’s like how Xena is less murdery because Gabrielle is such a pussy and how Gabrielle finally learned how to kick a guy in the balls because Xena told her where they were. Lesbians don’t always know that sort of thing.

The truth is that I don’t know how you or anyone else can make a woman really, really happy. I know that I’m happiest when I find a purpose to my existence, however small it may be. Tonight I brought my beautiful wife some M&Ms because she was having a bad day. When I gave them to her, she looked at me with joy in her eyes and said that I always knew just what she needed at any given time. For that brief moment I knew my purpose was to bring bags of candy-coated chocolate pellets to the woman I love. Then she took her shirt off to reward me and I had a whole new purpose that I can’t talk about here.

I Woke Up Today with a Penis! Can My Marriage Survive?

August 5, 2008 / / 37 Comments

Today’s guest post is written by blogger/mother Marinka of Motherhood in NYC.   Marinka and I are fairly new to each other online., but she’s funny — and I adore funny women.   But her name brought up some red flags.   “Are you Russian?” I asked Marinka.   Yes.   She and her parents has come from the Soviet Union when she was very young.  A-ha!  A Russian-born woman!  I know her type VERY WELL.  She will get you drunk on vodka, have her way with you, break your heart, and then toss you into the Black Sea.  So, here you go, Sophia — I mean Marinka — I’m giving you a ridiculous topic just because I’m passive-aggressive!

Who’s Afraid of Dick Woolf (With Not-Very-Sincere Apologies to Virginia and Mr. Wolf)
by Marinka of Motherhood in NYC

Ladies, ever wonder if your marriage would survive if you suddenly woke up with a penis?  Why not ask  your partner?  It will bring you closer and make for lighthearted conversation. 

I ask my husband if he would still love me if I were to sprout a penis, and he says “yes” so quickly that I become instantly suspicious.  I mean, who can agree to something like that without mulling it over, maybe running a few Google searches and having a heart to heart with friends or maybe a mental health expert or a dozen.  At the very least, shouldn’t he be asking me why I was asking?  Or how this penis would happen to appear?  Or if I’ve had my meds adjusted recently?

The more I think about it, the more obnoxious his “yes” becomes.  As far as I can tell, there were only two possible reasons for it.  First is that he wasn’t really listening to what I was asking, and even if he were, he just wanted to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible and this was the best way to get me to shut the hell up.  Second is  that in my sudden penis growth he sees an opportunity for an early retirement as he parades me around the talk show freak circus circuit and cashes in.  I am uncertain which option is more offensive, but I do know that my evening plans of watching “Gossip Girl” are on hold.  Indefinitely.

“What do you mean ‘yes’?” I ask him.

“What?” he says, leading me towards Theory Number One of Not Listening To Me.

“You would still love me and stay married to me if I had a penis?  Isn’t that weird?  Wouldn’t you be alarmed and maybe concerned and skeeved out?”

“I guess.”  He shrugs.  I sometimes think that shrugging by adults is a defense to most crimes committed against them.

“So, why do you say ‘yes’ if I asked you if you’d still love me?”

He looks at me as though I were asking a completely ridiculous question.

“I said ‘yes’ because I thought that your getting a penis was an unlikely event, like something that we won’t be facing in the near future—along the lines of ‘will you love me forever, no matter what?’”

“WHAT?”

“What ‘what’?”

“You mean when you’ve said that you’ll love me forever, no matter what, you meant it the same way you mean ‘I’ll love you if you have a huge penis’?!”

“How do you know that you’d have a huge one?”

“Oh please.  I wouldn’t have a fun-sized one.”

“Ok.”

“What do you mean ‘Ok’? You think that I’d have a tiny dick?  You have some fucking nerve.  You don’t really appreciate me, do you?  You’re constantly emasculating me.”

“Are you PMSing?”

“Fuck you.”

“Let me grab my ankles, now that you have a penis.”

“Well, if you had a mangina, it would totally be over between us.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“A mangina.  A male vagina.”

“Look, if you are not PMSing, you’re insane.  What is a male vagina?”

“You don’t understand anything.”

“Thank god for that.”

So yes, apparently,  my marriage would survive my growing a penis.  As long as we never discussed it.

I Have a Dick, Just Like the Writers of Techcrunch

July 28, 2008 / / 65 Comments

My head was spinning from all the posts, and twitters, and comments over the weekend about the BlogHer article  in the Style section of the New York Times.  Most of the discussions were similar:

“Why do male bloggers get into the Business and Technology section while women bloggers are relegated to the Style page?”

There were numerous mentions of the patriarchial society, about how men are taken seriously and how women are belittled as mere mommybloggers.  Some women said that they were proud of their “girl” interests — it enabled them to start online businesses and to be courted by companies.  But — these women naturally wanted to be taken as seriously as the male bloggers who get into the Wall Street Journal.

I agree.  I’m all for an equal playing field.   Yea, women!   Is there any blogger out there who loves women more than me?  But many of the comments that I read — particularly by women — made me depressed.

First of all, I live in this patriarchal society, just like everyone else.  I have to deal with the stereotypes — the fact that technology, business, and politics are considered serious and manly pursuits.  How many self-deprecating jokes did I have to make on Twitter this weekend to hide the fact that I loved “Mamma Mia?”  While mommybloggers set up successful online networks, I have to explain to my male friends what I do as a blogger.  If I didn’t make up some practical reason — “hey, maybe I’ll get laid by one of the hot ones” — they would think I am wasting my time.

“How much money do you make on your blog” asked a friend recently.

“Uh, nothing.”

Weird looks of disdain.   I can’t even say I got even a free wii, like so many of you.

The patriarchal society affects me.

My readership is 90% women.  Why?  Because most men don’t give a crap about what my mother made for dinner last night.  Men read and write blogs about technology and business and politics.  These are the worthy pursuits for men.   To most men — there are the professionals and there are the hobbyists.  This is a clearcut hieararchy as tightly controlled as who gets into Guy Kawasaki’s private party at BlogHer.

What I found surprising this weekend was that so many women seem to think the same way.

Every time I saw a female blogger write the expression “male blogger” this weekend, it was a code name for “tech” or “political” bloggers like Techcrunch or Daily Kos.  It was as if these female bloggers had the exact same viewpoint about male blogging as the New York Times.  While “Female Blogging” represented a wide range of views, from writing about shoes, knitting, to talking politics, “male blogging” was still dressed in a suit and tie.   I read the term “male bloggers” countless times, not once described in a way that includes me.

Come on ladies, I know you are trying to win some power for yourself, but don’t use rhetoric that diminishes me.  Don’t say “male bloggers” when you really mean male tech bloggers or male business bloggers.

I am a male blogger.

Give men the freedom to expand their horizons in the same way you want for yourselves.

Sex in the Male City (in honor of BlogHim ’08)

July 17, 2008 / / 34 Comments

New York City may have nine million residents, but it is a small town when it comes to meeting available women.  Or at least so it seems when we go out on the town. 

At a half past ten, I was dressed to the nines and entering Maxwell’s, located on the corner of Right Now And Everyone Was There.  On a normal night, I would never make it within ten feet of the velvet rope, but ropes seem to jump by themselves with a friend like Robb.  He is what Glenn would call “a trifecta” — a high-profile attorney, one of the Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors according to New York Magazine, and currently representing the daughter of the biggest real estate developer on the Upper East side, in a nasty divorce case that makes it to Page Six as frequently as she has gotten DUIs in the Hamptons.

So, there we were, in Maxwell’s, four attractive single men, Robb -the lawyer, Jake – the ultra-successful financial analyst, who never said no to a nice pair of legs, but always dropped her as fast as a T-bill in his money market account, Glenn – the former ballplayer, now a sought-after commercial artist, the only man I ever met who had slept with seven different women in one week, but who secretly would throw everything away just to become a stay at home dad, and me – the under-employed writer, currently living with his nice Jewish mother.

I spent much of the night thinking about Atlas, and how he struggled to hold the world up, despite his powerful arms.  What does friendship really mean to me and my friends?  Are we like four Atlases?    Would we always be there to help each other hold up our own little worlds? 

Of course, our conversation in Maxwell’s revolved less about Greek Mythology then our favorite topic — male shoes and fashion.

“Hey, Neil, my main man, are those Dockers you’re wearing?”  asked Glenn, admiring the fit.

“F**k no,” I answered.  “I wouldn’t wear those piece of sh*t pants again after the Docker/Levi Strauss Company screwed me with that “free flight” that ruined my going to BlogHer.”

A gorgeous model sashayed by, catching our attention.  This was not just any model.  This was Ashley Maran, the latest cover model in Vogue.  Our conversation quickly turned to our second favorite conversation — the fairer sex.

“I’m breaking up with Annie,” said Robb, batting first, hitting us with a foul ball.

None of us were surprised, but we were a bit sad — we actually liked Annie.  She was a Mets fan.  So, we pressed him for more info.

“One of the reasons I was initially attracted to her was because she is a dentist.  I figured — a dentist, oral sex, a perfect match.   But she gave the worst blowjobs I ever had.  How can you explain that?  She even used her teeth!”

We all cringed in pain.

“Didn’t they teach her about this in dental school?”

We all agreed that this was a legitimate reason for dumping her like a third-rate draft pick, even if she did like the Mets.

Jake had oral problems of his own.  Jake had been dating a busty stock broker from Goldman Sachs, and apparently she was bullish on him going down on her.

“That’s all she wants.  Apparentlly, she can only have an orgasm through oral sex.   I mean she’s been going to therapy for years because of this.”

We all agree that Jake was practically a Mother Theresa for sticking around with this woman for longer than he ever has with anyone else — nearly three weeks.

“You know me, I’m eager to help out.” said Jake.  “I drive you guys to the airport whenever you need me.  But not driving my c*ck between her thighs is torture. ”

Jake looked like he was near tears.  Robb gave him a sympathetic hug.

“I can’t sit there for two hours with my tongue doing all the work,” Jake continued.  “I’ve lost ten pounds this month because my jaw hurts so much, I’m too tired to chew any food.”

After we all consoled Jake, It was now Glenn’s turn on the witness stand.

“I sometimes wish I could just settle down, have a child, and become a stay at home daddy.”

For years, I never understood Glenn’s fantasy of being a SAHD.  Here he was, a big success with a fancy Soho condo, women up the wazoo – and he wants to throw it all away?  For what?  For dirty diapers and daddy blogging?   But New York can do that to you.  It gets at you.  It wears you down.

“I just want to meet the right woman.”  said Glenn, sighing.  “But it feels as if the only women over thirty in New York are either taken, unable to commit, lesbian, or trans-gendered men.”

“What about Lisa?” asked Jake. 

For the last month, Glenn had been seeing Lisa, the cute V.P of this hip new internet marketing firm in Chelsea.

She’s very passionate, but a little too short.” said Glenn.

“Short?  What are you talking about?” asked Jake.

“Well, I mean she’s compact.  She’s 5’2″, and when we are in bed… and I’m a big guy, so… uh…”

“Are you saying your d*ck is too big for her p*ssy?” asked Robb.

Glenn nodded.

“Has this ever happened to any of you?” he asked.

“Of course” we all said, nodding, as if this was a frequent problem in our lives.

Finally, it was my time to be grilled, like salmon filet at Tavern on the Green.  I could feel the guys looking at me as closely as they would a brunette’s tight ass as she climbed on the Stairmaster at the Crunch Gym in Tribeca.

“What about you, Neil?” asked Robb.  “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.  You getting any action in Queens?”

I think it was Isaac Bashevis Singer who said, “The best stories come out of the daily experiences of your own life.”  So, I took the writer’s advice.

“Well, I went to McDonald’s for a cup of coffee and as I was drinking it, I got a major hard-on.”

“Was the girl at the counter really hot?” asked Jake.

“No,” I said.  “I think they just added too much sugar.”

After a long, uncomfortable pause, Glenn changed the subject.

“Have you heard from Ms. Big?” asked Glenn.

The others looked at each other, concerned.  Was it too soon to bring up the name of Ms. Big?

“I IM-ed with Sophia last night.  She’s in LA.”

They all were eager to know what she said.

“Well, she sent me this message: 

 “You should start seeing someone there.” 

I said, “A woman?” 

She wrote back, “A man or a woman.” 

I answered, “A man or a woman?!  I don’t get it.  Are you saying I should start seeing someone — like going on a date?” 

She said, “No.  I meant you should start seeing a therapist in New York.””

My three friends laughed.  But it was OK.  I know that if I were Atlas, and had to hold up the world with my skinny arms, they would be at my side, helping me carry the weight.

Update:  BlogHim 08′ recap

I’m Back to Being a Man

May 31, 2008 / / 33 Comments

I’m sorry I was such an insecure woman yesterday.  I’ll try to be a better woman next year during “Write Like the Opposite Sex Day.”   A woman that will make you proud.  That you will want to befriend.

Next time, maybe I’ll be Janet, a strong-willed female poet, a single mother living in the South. 

“I come from from Mayflower stock, but there are demons in my past.   I live in a great big ‘ol house that my late father owned.  I loved my father and was heart-broken when he died.  I dote on my son, watching him grow up to be a man.  My best poems are about death.”

Another possibility is Kendra, a fashion model living in Paris.

“I’m very flamboyant.  I’m cold to other women   I’m confident, knowing that I’m idolized by everyone.  I’m knock-out gorgeous and my face is on magazine covers. Even though I’m not supposed to,  I eat pastries.   I have two big secrets — I don’t like people.  Or modeling.” 

 I’d probably be most happy as Angie — a playful, small town waitress in Vermont. 

“Some may say I am a child at heart.  On Fall mornings, I run outside, still in my pajamas, and jump into the colorful leaves, much as I did when I was a tomboy at seven.  I’m plain-looking, but don’t worry about it.  I have a “good personality,:” as my mother would say.  I  have three lovers.  I have sex five times a week.   Last night, I was with Tom, the chef from The Tamarick Cafe.  I loved feeling his calloused hands on my ass as I moaned deeply into his strong manly chest.  In the morning, I drank my coffee, rode him again until I came, and then went to play in the leaves.  If I had more money, life would be perfect.”

On Friday, several of you wrote blog posts “written as the opposite sex.”  They were all funny.  But we all made the same mistake — we reached for stereotypes.   I’m curious if we would have had more realistic results if we just wrote our regular blog posts, then changed a few gender-specific words here and there?   

Are we really that different in the way we write?

And seriously — do women really see men as such gruff horn-dogs?! 

For me, Christine’s post came “closest” to being one actually written by a man.   As the winner of my first real “contest” on “Write Like the Opposite Sex Day,” she wins a DVD of  the movie classic, Tootsie!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Good Humor

Today I Am a Woman

May 29, 2008 / / 53 Comments


My name is Neilochka.  I am a mother of two living in Los Angeles, who doesn’t really feel like she belongs.  I am insecure being around some of my more successful friends and wish that my husband was more attentive to me.  I like to bake scones, play board games, and kiss by the fire.  I miss my parents back home.  I am size 12 and trying to lose some weight.  I am from Wappinger Falls, NY, a small town upstate New York.  I graduated from SUNY Albany with a degree in Psychology.  I was working in marketing when I met Josh.

I had plans to go see “Sex and the City” with Megan and her friends tonight, but I wasn’t in a Carrie and Miranda mood.  Do I really want to sit through two hours of self-absorbed women negotiating relationships, looking absolutely terrific, AND living in NEW YORK?  As a former hipster gal myself (I lived in New York for six months after college before I moved back home), now mother of two — who now finds herself shopping at Costco! (can you believe it?), I have nothing in common with the Sex and the City gals anymore.  My life has not been “Sex and the City” for a long, long time.  Will someone please buy my book, “Diapers and the Poop?!”  Seriously,  I wouldn’t even have the time to write it with Kyle jumping on the couch every minute, making believe he is Iron Man (although he calls himself “Iron Chef” — hee hee).

Megan and her friends are nice,  and the screening was at the movie studio, but I didn’t feel like fighting the traffic.  I’m also a little insecure around Megan’s friends.    Last week, Erin had a birthday party for her seven year old at — get this — the Pantages Club in Burbank!  A nightclub for a child’s party!  I remember my seventh birthday party — at the Wappinger Falls bowling alley.   We had a Carvel “whale of a time” birthday cake.  Remember, this is LA.  Even Chuck E. Cheese has valet parking.  Now I’m worried about where we should have Kyle’s birthday party.  Josh suggested we rent out the Griffith Observatory.

Sometimes, I wish we had never moved to LA.  Josh says I’m just being silly… or depressed.  He means well.  I mean, I know there are a lot of cool Moms who live in town, who are able to juggle being a Mom and still being hip and trendy, like Rebecca from Girl’s Gone Child and Stephanie from Baby on Bored, but they are superstars compared to me.  I’m just a small town girl at heart. 

I’m thinking of going to synagogue on Saturday for the first time in twenty years.  Josh says he won’t go with me.  He doesn’t believe in any of that.  But I spoke to my sister, and we agree on one thing — I hit the lottery with Josh.  He is a darling.  Today, he sent me flowers from the office.  I think he’s a keeper.  Or he wants sex.  Bad.  Ha Ha.

I know work is everything to Josh, but with the internet, he should be able to write his animated cartoons anywhere he wants, even from upstate New York, near my parents.  I could even go back working with the marketing firm.  I need to look for freelance work.

Well, listen to me.  Blah blah blah.  I know… always complaining when I should be telling you how lucky I am.  I am lucky, knock on wood.  I even lost those extra three pounds this month.  I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and said to myself, “Not bad!”  I hope I win that wii fit on Redhead Momma’s blog.  I have a long way to go before I reach my ideal weight goal.  Soon is high school reunion time… and BlogHer.  Does anyone need a roommate on Saturday night?!

Are you guys going to watch “Lost” tonight?  I know I am.   Sarah B. was so funny on Twitter today. 

“If Sawyer takes his shirt off once more, I’m leaving my husband and marrying him.”

Sorry, Sarah.  He’s already taken.  By ME!

Toots, y’all.  xxxooo — Neilochka

(This is a project of “Write Like the Opposite Sex Day.”  Please comment on this post as if you were of the opposite sex)

Others changing their gender for one day:

Memarie Lane is a man.

Finn is a man.

Anymommy is a man.

Melanie is a man.

Christine is a man.

And check out the amazing haikus written for Haiku Friday  (also here) by women… writing the haikus as if they were men.

Masculin, Féminin

May 28, 2008 / / 28 Comments


(how I visualize myself as a woman)

I’ve given a lot of thought about masculinity and femininity in the last few days, since I first mentioned this idea for “Write Like the Opposite Sex” Day.  This week — my blog, my therapy, my marriage, and my sex life all converged at a point somewhere in my brain. 

I’ve come to a definite decision about something.  I am a man.  I’m a man despite being pegged as a “female writer” by the Gender Genie (thanks Schmutzie).  That’s right.  I’m a man and I’m proud.   Even when I watch “All My Children,” I watch it like a man.  Sophia and I watch it completely differently.  I pay attention to the ridiculous plot.  Sophia notices that “Kendall is anorexic.” 

I’m honored that so many women choose to read this blog, but I’m not really sure I would ever want to be one of you.  Sure, it would be nice to be allowed to speak at BlogHer, but who the hell needs it?! 

I like being a man.

Men, we’re the lucky ones!  Sure, the women can have babies and be all “nurturing,”  but WE have our penises, and they can’t take that away from us.  I guess they can try to take them away, either physically or emotionally, but when I say penises, I don’t just mean our large and strong c*cks.  I mean the penises in our hearts.  The ones that makes us MEN.  You know what I’m talking about.   The woman NEVER will.

That said, I would make one helluva woman.  Just like the Michael Dorsey character in Tootsie.  If you are a male reader, do you think you would be a good woman?

If I were a woman, I have no doubt that every male reading this right now would be killing himself to get to know me.  You would totally want me.  I would be such a sexy woman.  I would show cleavage, but not too much.  I would know exactly when you are looking at my ass.  I would surprise you with my off-the-cuff remarks.  I would be funnier than you are.  You would say to yourself, “I have never met such a f**king amazing woman in all my entire life.  She’s as cool as a MAN, but he’s a woman!”

Sure, I know I sound like the ideal woman to you.  But don’t waste your time thinking about it.   If I were a woman, I would not go out with any losers like you!   Bloggers – heh.  A waste of my feminine time.  A woman like me deserves better.  I expect better.  I mean,  I can hang out and bullshit, and be one of the guys, but I also want to be treated like a princess.

And don’t try to use any two-for-one dinner coupons at the Olive Garden with me, you cheap assholes.

The plan is still the same for Friday — Write as the Opposite Sex Day.

“Write Like the Opposite Sex Day” – A Question

May 27, 2008 / / 25 Comments

Note written an hour later after emailing with Jane:  OK – forget this post!  Write Like the Opposite Sex Day will go on like I said in the last post.  But I’ll keep this post up anyway just so you can see how neurotic I am, and how quick I am to change ideas when I hear criticism, although she was completely right on.   But who cares!   Gotta have balls, like a male writer, and stick to my guns!

Jane made an interesting comment on my last post.  I decided to quote it as a separate post. 

Not meaning to critique your idea, my dear Neil, but stereotypical behaviors and expressions are probably not that involved, outside of some comedy, in the true-to-life expressions of most modern male and female characters. . .they just perpetuate the stereotypes. 

Maybe for your next contest, you could consider blind entries — people writing  characters — and then guessing whether the author is male or female.  That would go above stereotyped expressions into who really might understand the opposite sex more.

(Please don’t hate me.  I adore you!  [she said that, not me])

Perhaps she has a point.  If a writer tries to “write” like the opposite sex, won’t the results be characters who are stereotypes?  Sure, it may be funny, but it won’t help us understand the other sex any better, or create strong characters.  After all, not all women think about shoes all the time, like the gals on “Sex and the City.” 

I’m a man, right?  I don’t watch football.  I rarely drink beer.  I watch “All My Children?”  How do I fit in?  I worry that if we try too hard to write like the opposite sex, the results will suck.

If I am going to write like “a woman,” maybe I should avoid thinking of her – first and foremost — as a woman.  She is a human being.   A mother in North Carolina might have more in common with a male Eskimo than another mother down the block.  Maybe the mother and the Eskimo both have phobias about snakes, or both had a controlling father!   I can delve into a female’s character motivation and emotional state without even thinking about her gender.  Wouldn’t this be the best way to make a female character three-dimensional?

When I talk to you on IM, I don’t say to myself “this is a woman.”  OK, sometimes when I look at your photos on Flickr I do, but that’s for another reason.   And it usually sounds like “This IS a WOMAN!” and my mouth is hanging open.  You are a person first, a person with neurotic character flaws — before you are a woman.    Some of you like to cook and some of you play roller derby.  Some of you do both.  And what’s wrong with me watching “All My Children?!”  And most of these external things are just the surface of the real person.

Of course, there are some stereotypes that exist because they are true.  Men and women act differently.  Our brains are different.  And there are differing social constraints.  But real character is internal…. what goes on in the brain.   Honestly — I have this strange feeling that some of you nice mommybloggers who write about knitting and cooking, are way more kinky and perverse in your minds, than any of us guys talking about our “dicks” all the time.

So, what do you think?  Should I continue my contest the same way I outlined it earlier?  Or will we just get stereotyped nonsense without stretching our writing skills?  Or should I change it to Jane’s idea? — you send me a paragraph of something you wrote as yourself, and then something written “as” the opposite sex.  Anything you want.  I will post them without revealing the author’s name.  Others will then vote on each piece — was it written by a man or a woman.   It would be like in the old “To Tell the Truth” game show:  “Will the real man or woman please stand up?”  Later on, I will reveal who wrote each paragraph, with a link to your blog.  The one who fools the most people wins!

I’m all about destroying gender stereotypes!  Would Jane’s idea be a better way of doing this?  What do you think?

And yes, Tootsie DVD will still be given to the winner.

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