Manhattan, the Universe, and Everything

A single Manhattanite's diary of her life in The City, plus various odd commentary. plain_jane_jones1@yahoo.com

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Update on the Match.com Experiment

Men love secretaries. At least, that's the response I'm getting. Since "altering" my profile to make me appear to be a secretary at a large investment bank downtown, the declarations of love just keep pouring in. Below are emails sent from potential suitors, with my comments in blue:

  • I know I am outside of your search radius, but I had to send an email to compliment your profile. You seem like a very interesting person. Complex, sophisticated; a nice blend of yin and yang.
  • Complex and sophisticated? I state in my profile that I am just as happy at Red Lobster as at any white-tablecloth restaurant. I purposely styled my profile to make the girl seem as "complex and sophisticated" as a Will Farrell flick.
  • A 25-year-old claiming to make $150,001+ in "Financial Services" writes: "I especially like the part in your profile about hamburgers and bud light." Note that my profile stated that "Nothing beats hamburgers and a few Bud Lights". That part is actually true, if by "hamburgers" you mean the Foie Gras burger at DB Bistro, and by "Bud Light" you mean "Jameson On The Rocks". I think I'd rather go sober for the rest of my life than drink a beer that had "Lite" in its name.
  • Your smile is amazing! From what I have read in your profile you sound like everything I am looking for and then some. You seem very down to earth, well rounded, and most of all a true sweetheart.
  • Maybe that's because I state that I'd rather spend 2 weeks' vacation in Dayton, OH than in any exotic locale if the love of my life was from Dayton, OH. Which he would never be...

Some of the emails comment on my profession.

  • A 36-year-old man claiming to have an Ivy League MBA writes, "What does your dog do that is so bad? Are the bankers you work under even worse? Just curious." Note that I actually liked his profile and responded back, telling him my real profession and making up the white lie that my job is sometimes so mind-numbingly boring that I feel like a secretary, so referring to myself as a secretary is occasionally more accurate than disclosing my real job title. He never responded back.
  • A 26-year old Wall Street trader offers the bit of support: "So, how does a sweet girl like you stand working with a bunch of stuffy egomaniacal bankers? It must be complete hell!"
  • A cute Aussie banker writes: "I love the synopsis of your job!"
  • An associate at a private equity fund writes: "Clearly you're not spending enough time with big-ego finance types, because you're not getting enough of it at work." I emailed this one again, disclosing that I wasn't really a secretary, although I am treated like one at times which motivated the "job cynicism" in my profile. Never heard back.
  • A new-to-the-city Englishman with multiple degrees, who is looking for "someone who I can laugh with (very important) and share some intellectually stimulating conversation with...hopefully over a nice bottle of wine or a couple of beers" writes: "I liked your profile - you seem unique, confident and interesting (and attractive) - I may be someone you might be interested in - I'm ambitious, fun and well traveled and educated - but I think also a genuine, good guy." Again, I emailed him, confessing the truth about my job. Again, radio silence. However, I have to wonder about why he emailed me in the first place if he's seeking intellectually stimulating conversation. I listed my favorite authors as Nicholas Sparks and Dan Brown, for shit's sake, and described myself as the "quintessential girl next door" whose hobbies include "brunch" and "window shopping".

Final Analysis: Men like non-threatening, vapid twits. OK, not all men, but an overwhelming amount of men claiming to make $150,000+ in "Financial Services" have emailed me since I altered my profile to come across as a small-minded, naive little secretary who loves cheap beer and airplane fiction, and doesn't know terribly much about the world outside America.

When the truth is disclosed, they run for the hills. Maybe it's the lie they don't like, and I should wait to spring the truth on them after 3 or 4 dates. I will try this tactic, and keep interested minds posted.

Monday, November 27, 2006

The Bachelor Finale - A Douche Decides

Who will L'zo pick? The Constant Virgin or the Imbecile?

9:05: Flashback time. A few snippets of conversation from the final 2 horses in the race:

Sadie: "I'm an innocent, good girl who is saving herself for marriage and I don't feel comfortable sharing something like that right away."

Jen: "I definitely was a Daddy's little girl."

9:10: We meet the Borgheses. ABC refers to his mother as a "Princess". Jen in the limo can't get over the fact that her in-laws might end up being a "Prince" and a "Princess". You simpleton. For the last time, they are NOT royalty. To her credit, she actually gets the eye makeup right and manages NOT to look like a cheap transvestite.

9:15: Jen says: "I think Lorenzo is amazing and I really care about him and I could see myself with him long-term. He has the qualities that I look for and we have a, a spark, you know." Profundity to rival that of Keats.

9:21: The Bachelor Intern prods Princess Borghese to read Jen's palm. She predicts that Jen will meet her first husband in a Wal-Mart, her second husband at the Daytona 500 and her third husband off Eharmony.com. She will have at least 3 children, one illegitimate. She will move with her second husband to Newark and they will live in a duplex.

9:26: Sadie arrives. She looks like Kirsten Dunst with those bangs and that adorable snaggletooth. And you have to love that houndstooth print dress. Style points for Sadie.

9:30: Momma Borghese reads Sadie's palm. She predicts Sadie will get married twice but sleep with 5 people before she dies. Her first husband will be a doctor from Newport Beach who will divorce her for a girl 15 years younger after she bears him twins and gains 20 pounds. Her second husband will be 10 years younger than her and black, and they will live out their days operating a scuba shop in Roatan, very much in love.

9:40: The Producers put the bug in Momma B's ear to invite both Jen's and Sadie's parents over for brunch at the same time, so hilarity can ensue (why does hilarity always "ensue"? Why can't it "befall" or "arise" or "commence"?).

9:42: Jen's dad states a desire to pray "to the Pope" in hopes that he won't make a complete fool out of himself. As Checkov said, if there's a gun on the wall in Act 1, it should go off by Act 3. Thus, we should expect this season's Supporter of Second Amendment Rights to act like a dumb ox at least once before the Brunch Charade ends.

9:50: The moonshine finally kicks in. Jen's coach, err, dad finally puts Foot in Mouth when he declares that Sadie will "finish second", but at least should be happy about "medaling".

10:05: Jen toasts with her mother to the possibility of her being a princess. For the love of the good ol' US and A, someone please shut this dolt up. The gullibility and provinciality of the Jens of the world epitomize everything wrong with America as we are perceived by The Rest Of The World. The Borgheses were never part of Italian monarchy. Haven't these people ever heard of Google? However, it's arguably ABC's fault. This isn't college football here. The media can't crown a prince like it can crown a national champion. Still, I can't pass up an opportunity to insult Jen's mental acumen.

The final dates: Jen goes horseback riding, Sadie sails. Sadie gives Lorenzo a booklet detailing everything she thought she deserved in a man, whereas Jen engaged in the mistake of TMI by running her mouth about how much she believes she is falling in love with him.

Sadie gets out of the limo first, which means Jen wins. She's wearing a suspiciously bridal Grecian-inspired gown that accentuates her silicone-enhanced cleavage. He does dump her, and Sadie tries her best to be "mature and gracious", which means she's fighting every instinct to clock him, as she should. She mutters that she feels foolish because she thought It was Real. Girlfriend, we all think It's Real at one point or another, and then we get dumped for, well, a blonde teacher.


We expose our spunk and our quirks, whether it's our virginity or our affinity to bad sci-fi or adventure racing or French cinema or falconry or WWII trivia. We share those odd bits about ourselves in hopes that The Guy will notice our uniqueness (or madness) and love us all in spite of, no, BECAUSE of all our oddities.

But, He ultimately won't. He'll meet a nice, pretty blonde teacher from a small town with a giggly laugh and wide eyes, fall in love with her, and break our hearts.

Epilogue: L'zo gives Jen the Daddy's-Girl-Turned-Princess the diamond, but doesn't propose (which probably silently crushes her). She's bubbling all over like a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon that's been disturbed too much before opening. Finally, you're a princess, just like your Daddy always told you that you were. Just keep telling yourself that, and you'll live happily ever after. Ignorance may lead to bliss after all.

Q for the Audience: How long do you think it will take Jen to grasp the concept of the Grid System?

Holiday zen


Nothing makes one think of the baby Jesus more than drunken co-eds dressed in Santa outfits chucking iceballs at one another in the Bethesda fountain.

Yep, the Holidays are here. I've realized something about the Holidays. After a certain age, say, the age one graduates from school and becomes a Productive Member of the Workforce, the Holidays become a net loss. You're not 9 anymore and don't eagerly pray for that Super Nintendo or pony or Hermes birkin bag or Ipod or Scarlett Johansson calendar or whatever kids are asking for these days. Your duty now, as a wage earner is twofold - (1) buy gifts for the non-wage earners (read: kids) you know, and (2) buy "payback" gifts for your family as gratitude for all those years that they bought you exactly what you told Santa you wanted. Yep, Mom and Dad shelled out for that Sega Genesis back in '91; time to reciprocate with an Ionic Breeze air purifier, Broadway show tickets and a 500-pixel digital camera.

But giving is the fun part of the Holidays for us wage-earners.

Back as students, the Holidays had a special kind of magic. The arrival of the Holidays meant that Finals were coming, and when the hellish ordeal of academic examination was over (in early-mid December), it was time to attend a few raucous congratulatory parties, then drag our gin-sodden selves to the airport for that glorious plane ride back to Home Sweet Home, where the most intellectual topic for debate was whether the right college football teams were playing in the BCS title game, and the most stressful test we'd have to pass was whether the bouncers would believe our fake IDs at the NYE party. The Holidays were 3 weeks of study-free bliss; a time to catch up on high school gossip (who got engaged, came out of the closet, did jail time etc...) and sleep.

Now as a wage-earner, nothing is for free. Take a couple of weeks off for Christmas to go home, and those are two weeks that you can't spend in Kenya in March. Don't take any time off, and, well, you're working on Christmas eve, and back in the office on the 26th, and who wants that? Sure, we can make a few more tax-deductible donations to feelgood charities, bake inedible sugar cookies, stare at the Lord & Taylor windows, push our way through the tourists gawking at the Saks snowflake light show, down a few Christmas Martinis and pretend we didn't hook up with Brady from Private Equity at the office holiday party. But the Holidays just won't be the same.

Until we have kids, that is. And the cycle repeats anew.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

How God Punishes You For Not Getting a Professional Degree



B of A, apparently basking in the afterglow of merger (with MBNA), decides to have one of its employees sing a cover of U2's "One", but changes the lyrics so the song is now about the profound nature of ... credit cards. Only rarely have I seen such douchebaggery. Standout lyrics are below.

"We've Got BankOne On the run/What's In Your Wallet? It's Not Capital One/it's Us"

"We'll live out our core values/while the competition crawls/'cause they want what we have got/but it's only here/at Bank of America"

And then the resounding chorus:

"One bank/one card/one name that's known all over the world/one heart/filled with spirit/with feeling/share it! One bank/working every day/to bring higher standards, higher standards, one...."

Sunday, November 19, 2006

More Armchair Anthropology

In the name of pseudo-scientific discovery, I changed my Match.com profile. The Old Profile stated my love for novels by Palahniuk, Orson Scott Card and Hunter S. Thompson and my (somewhat ambitious) yearning to run a sub-3 marathon before I die. My "headline" was lovingly ripped off from the title of an old-school Bond movie. It also exposed a weakness for Puccini, gin, the Firefly series and journeys to parts of the globe to where the U.S. government advises its citizens to suspend non-essential travel (Nepal, anyone?). It also stated my occupation, educational level and income. Most importantly, it was all true.

I thought it was a damn good profile, the kind that Bond himself might linger on for a few bits of time. However, it got a lukewarm reception from the menfolk, with my biggest fans being 45+ divorcees looking for women aged 18-29, and the occasional U.S. or British army officer stuck in Afghanistan. But radio silence from the men I actually wanted to hear from, namely men aged 24-32 with at least a Bachelor's degree and a six-figure salary.

So I got inspired. Enough episodes of The Bachelor have taught me that it's not the craftiest horse that wins the race, but the best looking. And if you don't have the looks, at least be Nice And Non-Threatening.

My new profile thus depicts a girl who makes $35K a year as a secretary at a large investment bank in the financial district. Her "likes" include brunch, volunteer work and reading chick lit in the Park. She lists her love of window-shopping in Soho as indicative of an affinity to the outdoors. The profile contains the ol' chestnut of describing one's self as "the kind of person who is just as comfortable in high heels as she is throwing back beers with the boys". The "new me" claims to be just as happy eating at Red Lobster as at any 3-star Michelin eating house. She lists her favorite color as pink and Yellowstone as a much-loved vacation spot.

And the hits just keep on comin'.

Men that I "winked" at six months ago that never, ever responded now send me emails proclaiming how my affinity to brunch makes them think that I have "something interesting to say, unlike most girls", and how I seem to have the traits that they view as relationship-quality. For some reason, they never fail to find a way to weasel What They Do and How Much They Make into their introductory emails. Hedge funders with Princeton degrees and $150K+ salaries profess, "from your profile, it seems we have alot [sic] in common!"

Humph. Turns out that when it comes time to relationships, men prefer Miss Moneypenny to Honey Ryder or Pussy Galore.

On an unrelated note - 5 Songs To Download Now:

1) The Great Gate At Kiev (from Pictures at an Exhibition) - Mussorgsky
2) Romeo and Juliet - Dire Straits
3) Sonho Dourado - Daniel Lanois (Friday Night Lights soundtrack)
4) Catch The Wind - Donovan
5) Breathe Me - Sia

Monday, November 13, 2006

The Fantasy Dates

Jen: Stockholm. During the day, they go to an amusement park where Jen wins a fat, fluffy red thing, probably at the producers' urging. This inane trollop's pet word seems to be "You know". She is utterly incapable of profound thought, even though she claims to be trying to open up to him, and even though L'zo claims she is opening up to him more than he ever thought she would.

The sad thing is that I have a sneaking suspicion that Jen is probably what most men want to marry. Has career goals, but is in a "nurturing" profession. Blonde. Doesn't pepper her speech with SAT vocab words that she actually knows the meanings of. No detectable competitive streak (which will be Sadie's downfall). Former cheerleader. Probably thinks Stockholm is somewhere in the U.K. Somewhere, out in the ether, the Man I Am Still Reluctantly In Love With has probably met a girl like Jen and is rapidly falling in love.

Lisa: Budapest. L'zo expresses hesitance as to whether he'll even give her the fantasy suite card, but he eventually caves. He confronts her on her Bachelor obsession, asking her why she chose to apply for the show when she thought Travis Stork was a tool and could have easily thought the same about him.

Hello. This isn't Flavor of Love. It's The Bachelor. Everyone has seen this show before and probably has opinions of Bachelors of old. With the exception of Agnese, it's fair to say that every woman who agreed to be on The Bachelor is a tad obsessed with The Bachelor, so why single Lisa out? And Stork was a tool.

L'zo then quizzes her about her past relationship history. Apparently, 3 weeks after she broke up with a guy she loved she applied for the Bachelor. Lisa tries to cover her ass by saying she applied on a whim and never imagined she'd get this far, but somehow manages to only convince the Prince (and the audience) that she's been used and discarded by a filthy amount of men.

Sadie - Sicily: The first words out of her mouth are about her virginity and that goddamn fantasy suite card. With no never-mind to the fact that accepting The Card does not mean accepting his cock.

L'zo surprises Sadie with scuba diving, to which she responds, "Oh, fun!" with sorority-rush effervescence. However, the big L doubts whether Sadie and him would have "chemistry behind closed doors", which, translated, probably means he's wondering if he'll have to spend the night with a bottle of Jergens and warm champagne.

Every time Sadie mentions the fantasy card, take a drink. She proclaims that she wants him to see her as a "classy, conservative woman", but by raising the issue ad nauseum, she comes across as an unfinished child. But in the end, she decides to "take the risk." Sadie, dahling, attempting to climb K2 is a risk. Biking across Afghanistan is a risk. Walking around Detroit without a piece is a risk. Slipping in your red T-shirt when you're washing your whites is a risk. Blathering endlessly about your virginity on national television is a risk.

"Move over Jen and Lisa, he's MINE". The virgin's got some spice.

Rose Ceremony: The Prince gives his obligatory speech about how sorry he is that he has to break someone's heart, but we know he's really not. There are 2 roses left. There are 3 potential recipients (4, counting Chris). He then attempts to convince them (or the audience) that he's not the kind of guy who dates 3 women at a time. Shit, you live in New York City and you're a relatively successful businessman. If you're dating 3 women at a time, that's a bad week.

Roses to: Sadie and Jen. Duh. I should have watched Heroes instead.

After the Rose Ceremony, Lorenzo then calls Lisa out because she mentioned she applied to the Bachelor to "have fun". And that worried him. OK, Lorenzo, I'm not saying you ditched the wrong bitch, but if you think any girl is going to apply to this show to seriously find love, BEFORE she even knows who the Bachelor is going to be, you're an idiot. Crap, I'd even apply For Fun. Free trip abroad, a ready-made group of companions, enough gallons of alcohol to fill an Olympic swimming pool. And you can't get a free pair of sapphire earrings on REI Adventures.

Lisa should have walloped him for that one.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

A Brief Trip to America


Yes, this is actually a photo of the town I grew up in.
Saturday found me on a train to upstate Connecticut to attend a wedding of a childhood contact of mine. I'm of two minds about weddings. They're either triumphant, beautiful occasions that lift your spirits (read: awash with free-flowing alcohol), or they make you feel like shit.


This wedding was the latter. I arrived to the chapel seconds before post-time, thanks to traffic. Yes, I actually had to drive, which means that I could not drink. Seeing as how complimentary booze is one of the primary reasons people attend weddings of acquaintances, I was already in a sour mood.


I was put in an even more ill disposition when I noticed a few familiar faces from my high school days. Not only did they look stunning and oh-so blonde in their bridesmaid's dresses, but they all had rocks on their fingers. The ones in attendance sans ring were definitely coupled up and well on their way to the altar.


It was then it hit me. I am the only single person here.


I surmise that this is what life is like in The Rest Of America. Twentysomethings marry other twentysomethings. They graduate high school, get a solid education (both bachelor's and masters) from the top local university, get the best job they can in the local city, fall in love with local people, move to the suburbs (if they aren't living there already), and breed. They get jobs -- and good ones at that -- at one of a handful of large corporations with their headquarters nearby. They buy matching golden retrievers and Ford Expeditions, take annual vacations to the same hotel in the same cliched holiday spot every year, and join the P.T.A.


While, at first blush, it seems like a rather colorless existence, I couldn't seem to shake the fact that these girls I knew in high school - whom I had my first beers with, attended my first rock concerts with (on the lawn!), discussed my first clandestine hook-ups with - are nearly all married off, while I'm languishing in singleton limbo in arguably the greatest city on earth.


I began to wonder...if I had chosen to go to the local state school instead of a fancy private university on the other side of the continent, and chosen to stay within a 200-mile radius of where I spent my formative years (like most Americans do), would I have found love at 20 and be married by 25, birthing children at 29 and attending parent-teacher conferences at 35?


Tolkien may have said that not all those who wander are lost. However, it seems like us wanderers - those who uprooted ourselves from our respective Shires to experience culture shocks and personal glory (both in our careers and otherwise), and engage in all sorts of envelope-pushing adventure - may have found that Love has passed them by.


Or, it may be simply that there's just nothing for those people to do except get married. In Manhattan, when bored, we go to the Frick Collection. We join the Junior League or Zog Sports. We train for the marathon. We create fashion lines, write screenplays, stalk celebrities, take our guitars to Union Square and play Wish You Were Here or the Buckley Hallelujah to gain some under-the-table income. We dream up ways to crash the Tribeca Film Festival and the Heisman Awards Ceremony, and search for the perfect pitcher of sangria. We drink ourselves silly on cheap pinot grigio at Soho Stroll and end up purchasing $1,800 ball gowns at Ralph Lauren, only to return them two weeks later.
But we don't get married. Maybe that's our mistake, who knows.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

CRITERIA

We all have them.

Don't try to deny it.

We may call them by a different name, such as "preferences" or "guidelines" or "standards". We may not even view them as sufficient, or necessary.

But we all have them.

Yep, that's CRITERIA. It's a dirty word, but if pressed to answer, most people will state a preference which they usually act on when they are looking for a mate.

Dating websites ask users to pick their preferred height, body type, race, income and educational level, hair color, religion and geographic location of their most preferred mates. Some, like Eharmony and Chemistry.com even go so far as to only allow you to view "matches" which fit your criteria.

So why do men get so mad when girls have criteria?

The argument usually goes something like this: The woman will list an exhaustive laundry list of traits that look something like this:

-Non-smoker
-No hairy backs or back acne
-Subscribes to [Y] religious belief.
-Loves to do [X], because I love to do [X], and can't imagine dating a guy who can't do [X]
-Conservative but not racist
-Exhibits good manners, even to those he thinks aren't important
-No shorter than 5'10"
-Believes that hitting children is NOT an acceptable form of punishment
-Mature sense of humor (no South Park, Borat etc...)
-Ambitious, intelligent, goal-oriented (read: makes more money than I do)
-Drug free
-Can't have an accent from [A], [B], or [C].

whereas men just say they'd be happy with a nice girl with blonde hair and big tits who isn't much of a feminist, keeps herself in shape, and is younger than them.

Thus, women with criteria are real See-You-Next-Tuesdays.

However, in practice, we use our criteria in much the same ways as university AdComms view SAT and GPA. SAT, GPA and National Merit status are equivalent to looks, intelligence/income, religion, and other such "big" factors; and "soft factors", such as extracurricular activities, are like "chemistry". The hotter you are (and the smarter you are, too, if you're a man), the more people will want to date you. However, if there isn't that special zip, that undefinable chemistry, a person can fulfill all the easily measurable criteria and still get the ding.

The bottom line is, love can't be fit into boxes that we check off. Sure, we may blather on about how we prefer a people of a certain height, socio-economic background, religion etc..., but when it comes to love, the whole transcends the sum of its parts. Or, at least I hope. Since I'm a 32B who's as brunette as they come and isn't getting any younger.

A question for discussion...
Do men really have less criteria than women? Or is it a case of men being just as picky as women, but since women are more able to articulate their preferences (or think more than men do about what they want in a mate), they have longer lists?

Thursday, November 02, 2006

From The Mailbag

Some comments (and emails) warrant greater visibility, without being relegated to the "Comments" section. So here goes.
  • Sue said (about The Theorem): [D]oesn't your theorem rest on the assumption that the relevant calculation is purely financial? It seems to me that there are other risks involved in infidelity (i.e., public display of moral failure, kids living in split homes and the consequent emotional problems, etc.). How do those other potential risks work into the calculation?

Dollars are the easiest to quantify. You can add other non-monetary risks to the equation by either placing a dollar value to them, or just scrapping dollars as a measuring stick altogether and measure Dnp in "utils" or some generic economic unit of measurement.

  • Lee F. writes: From Jane's description of how "relationship guy" treats her, he's clearly operating under the delusion that there is something beneath Jane's exterior, something worth having a meaningful connection with, something that runs deeper than fashion, money, and superficialities. What happens when he discovers that there isn't?

Maybe that's what he's looking for. I see many bright men with ditzy blonde dingbats who can't speak 5 minutes without bringing up celebrity gossip or their latest trip to Bloomingdale's. If these blonde dingbats can get - and keep - their men, then I won't have a problem either.

  • Suzy writes: I think your math is off. Its not "Racist" + "Superficial" = "Slut" but rather "Racist" + "Superficial" + "Slut" = you.

Calling Suzy - state how, in my blog, I have shown myself to make derogatory comments to protected classes of citizens, or enumerated my sexual conquests. Also, can you at least find a more creative way to make fun of me than to call me a slut? You essentially proved the point I was trying to make in my posts by doing so.

  • Huskerhornfan writes: To those who have at least some working knowledge of the game of baseball and its history, this is not only a good series. It's a great one. Both teams are from awesome baseball towns. While there is no cubs-type curse, one team came from out of nowhere and hasn't been competitive since the late eighties.

Unfortunately it got the lowest ratings out of any World Series in history. Which is sad, because you're probably right that it should have been "great".

  • Anindi writes: Ur blog is a much better read than that Noer can ever aspire to be..it's a pity that in this day and age he could get away with a column like this...Anyways keep the good work up!!

Why, thank you. I do hope you're still reading.

  • Bowerybob writes (about internet dating): the key (as with everything) is to learn to read the ads. there are pearls among the shit, and if you (I, a guy) respond in kind (tone; manner; vocab) to those select few, you (I) actually do have a chance to meet a few good (wo)men.

Thanks for the advice. I guess the best thing about internet dating is you can somehow gauge the intelligence of a person by their profile. If a girl drops lines like "Princess looking for her prince!" or lists her interests as "Brunch" and "Shopping", that can be quite telling.

  • Matt Rivera writes: I think I'm starting to love you, Plain Jane. Please keep writing.

My first e-stalker; what a landmark.

  • Anonymous writes: A lot of people who behave this way (looking down on most of the country) actually grew up in middle-class or upper-middle-class suburbs, even though they live to bash the suburbs.

Duh. If you live somewhere and have a negative experience there, you tend not to say terribly kind things about such a place. It shouldn't surprise anyone that people who bash the suburbs have actually lived there.

Last, but not least, my personal favorite

  • J. writes: People hate you, and with good reason. You look down your nose at everyone different than you and then turn around and pretend to embrace people from all different backgrounds. You make me sick, and judging by message boards talking about your shitty little blog, I'm not alone.

If you think this is a "shitty little blog", do what I do when I encounter crap, and don't read it. When I come across a shitty blog, I browse to a different website that's more entertaining. Besides, if my shitty little blog has inspired message board conversations and what, like, 5 posts from you, then you can't seem to get enough of it, eh?

SWANS, i.e. Strong Women Achievers, No Spouse

There's a phrase about statistics: "Statistics are like bikinis. What they reveal is tantalizing, but what they hide is vital." Keep this in mind if you read Christine Whelan's book, "Why Smart Men Marry Smart Women", which, according to the author, "[shatters] the myth about success and singledom".

The gist of the book is fairly obvious from its front and back covers. It reads as a metaphorical middle finger to men like Michael Noer who assert that intelligence and high achievment are turnoffs to men, especially intelligent, high-achieving ones. It also serves as a kick in the ass for all "woe-is-me" singletons who blame their unmarried status on how men are Too Intimidated (or, alternatively, how men Don't Want To Be Challenged, or Only Want A Pretty Face).

One such statistic is that 92% of high-achieving men say they are more attracted to women who are successful in their careers, while almost 90% reported that they wanted to marry a woman who was “as intelligent as they are, or more.” I wonder about the sample size of the men surveyed, or if these men knew they were being surveyed for purposes of writing a book geared toward convincing intelligent female singletons that the reason why men don't want to marry them is not because of their intelligence. I also wonder how each of such 92% define "successful".



In practice, men I've informally "surveyed" have had varying opinions on the topic. While few are as adamantly against coupling with smart women as Noer, some men believe that educated, ambitious women have more "hang-ups" and life stressors and would make less fulfilling mates. Other men find ambition, intelligence and confidence such a turn-on that it borders on fetishism. One man enjoyed dating an attorney because she was at the office all the time and didn't have to deal with her much (quite the winner, he was), and another man - an HBS grad, no less - had no qualms marrying a woman who used the word "ecliptic" to describe the city of Asheville in her wedding invites.

In short, I've found there to be an "optimum point" of intelligence/ambition/success, and if a woman goes beyond that point, those qualities start becoming turn-offs, as opposed to turn-ons.
In other words, the book would be much more telling if it were written by a smart man.

Question for the Audience: While few men actively seek stupid women, exactly where is this optimum point? Is there one? Would you prefer to date the 20something equivalent of Condi Rice, Hillary Clinton or Sandra Day O'Connor over a nice, pretty girl who worked in the marketing department of Ralph Lauren, graduated with a 3.6 from a flagship state school and never got a bad annual review in her life but didn't really have any ambition to "rule the world" or otherwise achieve some degree of elite level in her career or other pursuits?

Quiz Yourself! The book also has a website containing Cosmo-esque quizzes where women (of all intelligences!) can predict the age when they are most likely to get hitched. There's also a quiz to test if a woman is among the SWANS, i.e. Strong Woman Achievers No Spouse, who Whelan claims will get married, but just later.

Note: For other blog discussions on this book, click here.

Red Fridays

I received an email from a friend of mine advertising a grassroots movement to wear red on Fridays to show your support of our troops (and arguably those of our allies as well) in combat zones around the world. Relevant parts of the email are below, in case anyone is interested. Thanks, L.Y., for passing this along.
Very soon, you will see a great many people wearing Red every Friday. The reason? Americans who support our troops used to be called the "silent majority." We are no longer silent, and are voicing our love for God, country and home in record breaking numbers. We are not organized, boisterous or overbearing. Many Americans, like you, me and all our friends, simply want to recognize that the vast majority of America supports our troops. Our idea of showing solidarity and support for our troops with dignity and respect starts this Friday -- and continues each and every Friday until the troops all come home, sending a deafening message that ... every red-blooded American who supports our men and women afar, will wear something red. By word of mouth, press, TV -- let's make the United States on every Friday a sea of red much like a homecoming football game in the bleachers. If everyone of us who loves this country will share this with acquaintances, co-workers, friends, and family, it will not be long before the USA is covered in RED and it will let our troops know the once "silent" majority is on their side more than ever, certainly more than the media lets on. The first thing a soldier says when asked "What can we do to make things better for you?" is ."We need your support and your prayers." Let's get the word out and lead with class and dignity, by example, and wear something red every Friday.

The Hometown Dates

First up is Sadie, the Poor Man's Grace Kelly, the Wonder Bread Virgin. Her droopy nose suggests botched rhinoplasty, and her lisp suggests prepubescence but she still makes a pretty picture, as most San Diegans with USC degrees know how to do. Her family seems pleasant but mention that they'd want her to be with a man who "loves God". Translation - Lorenzo, you'd better start stocking up on the Jergens.

Status: Rose, and she'll make the final 2. However, since the producers are focusing on giving her the Virgin Edit, i.e. focusing on her sexual status more than her budding romance, she'll lose.

Next up is Lisa the Freak. If she were on Coney Island, people would pay to shoot her with paintballs. If there were a Bachelor drinking game, two of the rules would be "Drink every time Lisa brings up her Timeline" and "Drink every time Lisa mentions the cost of those earrings". The girl claims to know how to play the "Bachelor" game, but what part of Don't Go On Reality TV And Look Like A Kook doesn't she understand? I'd bet that she'll have a tougher time meeting men after her 15 minutes are up than Monica Lewinsky did.

Highlight of the date comes when her "friend" who spilled the beans on Lisa's timeline to Our Beloved Non-Prince. Clearly the producers were in in this because Lisa's getting the Freakshow Edit, meaning that she's being typecast as a cliche, namely, the Wedding-Obsessed Freak.

Status: Rose, but will get the ax next week.

Third up is Jen, obviously channeling The Simple Life as she picked her outfit. Jen, the trucker-hat-and-army-print look reached its crowning zenith when Nicole Richie stuck her arm up a cow's anus. But since you seem to get your beauty inspiration from Hilton, Richie, Tara Reid et al, it makes sense.

The highlight of the date came when The Bachelor Intern gave you his fishing pole so you could reel in a baby shark! And then kiss it! No never mind that the thing could have bit your precious face off, the producers are giving you The Winner's Edit to make you look down-to-earth, even if you are a vapid, money-grubbing whore with a substandard vocabulary. If only it were a stingray...

We then find out she is an only child and her dad likes guns. We also find out that she's her dad's "Princess". Did any of these facts surprise anyone?

Status: Rose, and she'll probably win. You know she's getting The Winner's Edit because the producers are going through great pains to make her look good and not turn her into a caricature.

Last comes Agnese. Despite her family's inability to communicate with L-Zo (who didn't even bother to pick up a guidebook learn a few customary Italian phrases), these were the most wholesome and normal folks of the whole bunch. So what if her mother looks like Keith Richards and her sister may be hotter. Agnese conducts herself with much more poise and grace than any of the Final 4 (Sadie would win this award until she opens her mouth and gives her 12-year-old lisp). After some awkward attempts at communication, the family busts out the food and wine (lots of it), and then starts dancing with masks. Quirky, but wholesome - the way family is supposed to be.

Status: No rose. L'zo sheds some crocodile tears as Agnese leaves, while giving her the obligatory "You're beautiful but I have to kick you to the curb and don't really care to see you again" speech. While in the limo, Agnese makes us all realize that she's much more capable of profound thought than any of the remaining 3 contestants. She clearly got the Future Bachelorette Edit, i.e. the edit the producers give to the girl who doesn't win, but probably should have if There Was Any Good In This World.

Don't worry, Agnese. You're not the only girl who naively walked into an adventure and ended up falling for a dashing foreigner, only for him to push you aside in his pursuit of a few vacuous lemon tarts.