Part One (as I am aware that tomorrow is Game Day)
As of late social scientists, anthropologists, psychologists and the woman who wrote that ballsy article for The Atlantic in July called “The End of Men” have recently begun to speculate what the world would look like if there were no men.
Well, I’ve got news for you, sweethearts: you are—so to speak--a bit late to the game.
Any female living in Ohio, myself included, has been witnessing this sudden—if temporary—disappearance of men every autumn Saturday since the day we were born. Officially, the weekly phenomenon is called “The Buckeyes are Playing.” This, interestingly enough, is also a handy phrase that can explain away all sort of otherwise inexplicable activity and unacceptable behavior among carriers of the Y chromosome.*
I am aware that women who are not natives of Ohio may think I am exaggerating or writing in jest. Their naïveté only leads to pointless anxiety.
Case in point:
Frantic text from non-indoctrinated woman (an East Coast native who at the time was dating my brother**) on what she perceived to be an idle Saturday afternoon: “OMG,M! Have you heard from your brother? Is he OK? Is he dead? I haven’t heard from him in like three hours and he hasn’t returned any of my 15 phone calls.”
Calm, if somewhat condescending, text from me: “GF, the Buckeyes are playing.”
Final frantic text from same non-indoctrinated woman to my brother after the fifteen phone calls: “WTF?”
Calm, if somewhat condescending, text from my brother: “GF, the Buckeyes are playing.”
It should be noted here as well for the non-indoctrinated woman that close cousins to the response “The Buckeyes are playing” include “The Buckeyes lost,” as in “GF, why is your living room wall punched in?” or “Why did I see Andy standing on the bridge alone crying hysterically Sunday morning?” and “The Buckeyes Won,” as in “Wow, GF, so you’re telling me that Andy just woke up this morning, went out and bought you a new car filled with 24 dozen roses?” or “GF, was I imagining things or was that Andy passing out chocolate bars and free beer in Ohio City last Sunday morning?”
Take home lesson: Sunday behavior among Ohio boys is determined by Saturday’s final score. As someone wiser in this matter, I suggest to women everywhere who are dating or married to Ohio boys that if the Buckeyes lose, just bake your man brownies (No peanut butter in the batter! No need to rub it in his face!--I'll explain in next post) and don’t take his bridge strolling too seriously (there are after all, only six more days until possible redemption at this point). If Ohio State wins, on the other hand, the following Sunday would be the time to tell him that after much thought you think the eggshell white he used to paint the entire interior of the house last week is maybe just a tad not white enough and you’d really like to see it---pleeeeease, baby--redone in porcelain white.
*as near to impossible as I find this to understand, some Ohio women I know seem to disappear and otherwise act strangely during football season as well. When confronted, they initially exhibit symptoms of the nonchalant and somewhat defeatist "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em" mentality. It quickly becomes apparent though that faking interest in OSU sports is a slippery slope. Within weeks, women who were once perfectly sensible have been seen sporting red mesh football jerseys and spouting off statistics with a thoroughness formerly reserved for counting carbs.
**I have witnessed my brother's fanaticism first hand on many occasions. He is part of an elite sect which takes vows of week-long silence following a loss.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
The Pitch: Do I Look Like a Batter to You?
Boys are always playing a sport. The evidence is in their use of sporting terms off the court. For example, if they nail a new client, 99% of men will say at some point—even just to themselves--“score!” Or they will opt for the more obnoxious “And he scores!,” which is almost always accompanied by that gesture when one arm goes out and then in while one leg is momentarily lifted off the floor. This need for third person play by play commentary follows boys well past adolescence.
In recent weeks it has been brought to my attention that the use of sports-related vocabulary is a favorite among men who are trying to date a woman. Of course there is the ubiquitous “No, man, I totally struck out with her.” But there is also “the pitch.” Oftentimes, “striking out” follows “the pitch.” The pitch entails a presentation of information about the man that is intended to be impressive enough to the woman that first base is at least visible when squinting.
In recent weeks I’ve also noticed that the amount of so-called relevant information offered in the pitch is indirectly proportional to the amount of time a man has to make the pitch. The less time a man has, the more he has to show off. So, if a woman has accepted an invitation to dinner, she can expect a more diffused pitch in which bits of impressive—if boring and somewhat slimy-- information salt and pepper the conversation over the course of several hours.
Boy says:
Glenmorangie on the rocks and a glass of the house pinot noir= “You know, I used to sneak Glenmorangie in a flask to my World Economics class. Wharton profs soooo didn’t care.”
Buffala Salad: “I learned to appreciate the simplicity of a salad with really great olive oil while I was traveling for two months in Italy last summer. You’ll have to come with some time.”
Mahi Mahi with Garlic Mashed Potatoes: “I felt like such a drone on Wall Street. Capital investment is much less constrictive.”
Chocolate Pots de Crème: “I normally wouldn’t eat this. But I did run the Boston Marathon last weekend. Doesn’t hurt to treat oneself, now does it? Go ahead, have some. You’re a little on the too skinny side.”
Espresso: “I felt a little off balanced, you know? As though my entire life was consumed with the dire need to make lots of money. So I took in a stray beagle puppy and I bought season theatre tickets. I’ve found Saturdays are much more pleasant when they start on my boat and end in a standing ovation.”
Fair enough. You hear him, as any woman can expect a reasonably good effort if a man has several hours to impress her. However, the true MVPs of the pitch shine when time is short. And I am of the opinion that the slightly more mature man performs better in this sudden death* situation than a rookie.**
Let me illustrate. Say you are a woman who goes to the gym regularly. And say that one Tuesday evening you are doing your thing on the treadmill when one of the aforementioned more seasoned players hops on the treadmill next to you and says somewhat nonchalantly “So, beautiful, how much longer do you have to go? You’re going to make me look bad if I’m next to you."***
This is not small talk. The opportunist is determining the precise time frame in which he has to make an effective pitch. Now, of course you are annoyed because all of a sudden there you are—on a date! between mile six and seven in yoga pants and your hair in a bun. You are gasping for breath, your legs are not shaved, and despite the fact that this creep is creeping you out, you refuse to cut your workout short due to your recent spike in chocolate pots de crème consumption.
“Five minutes left,” you barely choke out. Your relative lack of adequate oxygen is an advantage for the visiting team. Reciprocity in conversation, after all, is such a time waster during the pitch.
As has been my observation, you astonishingly may learn the following in 5 minutes about a man who is truly genius—if, again, boring and somewhat slimy--when it comes to the time-restricted pitch:
1. He is a doctor. Either of the spine or of the hearts of infants.
2. If he is the first sort, you really should come in for some full-body alignment work soon. Pro bono, beautiful.
3. He is a third degree black belt.
4. When not aligning the spines of tragically disenfranchised youth or when not at the hospital performing emergency surgery on the tiny heart of co-joined newborns, he offers free martial arts lessons to inner city orphans. The Big Guy Upstairs, after all, will one day inquire what it is exactly he did with all of his disposal income and Wednesdays off.
5. He single-handedly tripled the number of some kind of nearly distinct exotic panther when he took in three or four cubs from either Mike Tyson or some other Hollywoodish friend whom he still meets occasionally for seared tuna. You’ll have to come with some time.
6. He has both an outdoor and indoor pool. The indoor pool is for when he can’t escape to Bali in February—and of course, you should come with sometime.
7. He loves to pamper women, beautiful.
8. What? No! His daughter and ex wife are perfectly accepting of any woman he is dating even when she is the same age as his daughter. Slumber parties with them catered by Wolfgang Puck have even been known to occur on occasion.
9. He’s really into Napa in the fall. And really—you should come with.
10. He can’t see even one ounce of body fat on you, beautiful. Which is why he would love to take you to dinner on Saturday. He knows the chef at this restaurant that serves the most extraordinary chocolate pots de crème you will ever have.
*to be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea if “sudden death” is the appropriate term here, but anyone who knows me and my fairly pathological aversion to sports spectatorship in general has to give me credit for even writing a post related to sports.
**rookie move of the year, boys: texting does not qualify as wining and dining. It does not make a woman swoon, nor does it mean when she responds that the two of you are dating.
***If this makes you want to gag just reading it, imagine the “conversation” at 9.0 mph on a respectable 5% incline.
In recent weeks it has been brought to my attention that the use of sports-related vocabulary is a favorite among men who are trying to date a woman. Of course there is the ubiquitous “No, man, I totally struck out with her.” But there is also “the pitch.” Oftentimes, “striking out” follows “the pitch.” The pitch entails a presentation of information about the man that is intended to be impressive enough to the woman that first base is at least visible when squinting.
In recent weeks I’ve also noticed that the amount of so-called relevant information offered in the pitch is indirectly proportional to the amount of time a man has to make the pitch. The less time a man has, the more he has to show off. So, if a woman has accepted an invitation to dinner, she can expect a more diffused pitch in which bits of impressive—if boring and somewhat slimy-- information salt and pepper the conversation over the course of several hours.
Boy says:
Glenmorangie on the rocks and a glass of the house pinot noir= “You know, I used to sneak Glenmorangie in a flask to my World Economics class. Wharton profs soooo didn’t care.”
Buffala Salad: “I learned to appreciate the simplicity of a salad with really great olive oil while I was traveling for two months in Italy last summer. You’ll have to come with some time.”
Mahi Mahi with Garlic Mashed Potatoes: “I felt like such a drone on Wall Street. Capital investment is much less constrictive.”
Chocolate Pots de Crème: “I normally wouldn’t eat this. But I did run the Boston Marathon last weekend. Doesn’t hurt to treat oneself, now does it? Go ahead, have some. You’re a little on the too skinny side.”
Espresso: “I felt a little off balanced, you know? As though my entire life was consumed with the dire need to make lots of money. So I took in a stray beagle puppy and I bought season theatre tickets. I’ve found Saturdays are much more pleasant when they start on my boat and end in a standing ovation.”
Fair enough. You hear him, as any woman can expect a reasonably good effort if a man has several hours to impress her. However, the true MVPs of the pitch shine when time is short. And I am of the opinion that the slightly more mature man performs better in this sudden death* situation than a rookie.**
Let me illustrate. Say you are a woman who goes to the gym regularly. And say that one Tuesday evening you are doing your thing on the treadmill when one of the aforementioned more seasoned players hops on the treadmill next to you and says somewhat nonchalantly “So, beautiful, how much longer do you have to go? You’re going to make me look bad if I’m next to you."***
This is not small talk. The opportunist is determining the precise time frame in which he has to make an effective pitch. Now, of course you are annoyed because all of a sudden there you are—on a date! between mile six and seven in yoga pants and your hair in a bun. You are gasping for breath, your legs are not shaved, and despite the fact that this creep is creeping you out, you refuse to cut your workout short due to your recent spike in chocolate pots de crème consumption.
“Five minutes left,” you barely choke out. Your relative lack of adequate oxygen is an advantage for the visiting team. Reciprocity in conversation, after all, is such a time waster during the pitch.
As has been my observation, you astonishingly may learn the following in 5 minutes about a man who is truly genius—if, again, boring and somewhat slimy--when it comes to the time-restricted pitch:
1. He is a doctor. Either of the spine or of the hearts of infants.
2. If he is the first sort, you really should come in for some full-body alignment work soon. Pro bono, beautiful.
3. He is a third degree black belt.
4. When not aligning the spines of tragically disenfranchised youth or when not at the hospital performing emergency surgery on the tiny heart of co-joined newborns, he offers free martial arts lessons to inner city orphans. The Big Guy Upstairs, after all, will one day inquire what it is exactly he did with all of his disposal income and Wednesdays off.
5. He single-handedly tripled the number of some kind of nearly distinct exotic panther when he took in three or four cubs from either Mike Tyson or some other Hollywoodish friend whom he still meets occasionally for seared tuna. You’ll have to come with some time.
6. He has both an outdoor and indoor pool. The indoor pool is for when he can’t escape to Bali in February—and of course, you should come with sometime.
7. He loves to pamper women, beautiful.
8. What? No! His daughter and ex wife are perfectly accepting of any woman he is dating even when she is the same age as his daughter. Slumber parties with them catered by Wolfgang Puck have even been known to occur on occasion.
9. He’s really into Napa in the fall. And really—you should come with.
10. He can’t see even one ounce of body fat on you, beautiful. Which is why he would love to take you to dinner on Saturday. He knows the chef at this restaurant that serves the most extraordinary chocolate pots de crème you will ever have.
*to be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea if “sudden death” is the appropriate term here, but anyone who knows me and my fairly pathological aversion to sports spectatorship in general has to give me credit for even writing a post related to sports.
**rookie move of the year, boys: texting does not qualify as wining and dining. It does not make a woman swoon, nor does it mean when she responds that the two of you are dating.
***If this makes you want to gag just reading it, imagine the “conversation” at 9.0 mph on a respectable 5% incline.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
taking my talents to south beach
For the single woman attending a family reunion on one of the last weekends of the open mating season is absolutely the poorest use of time, as any good looking men are immediately ruled out as prospective husbands. On the other hand, attending one is priceless in the quest to understand where one's disproportionately long arms came from or where one's now svelte figure may be going if she doesn't IMMEDIATELY knock it off with the Oreo Balls.*
I spent a little bit of time going through the books of my family tree with its roots planted in Bohemia (as in Prague and its surrounding province in the Czech Republic--not flowy dresses and a guitar case). But mostly I misbehaved with my little brother who was in from Vegas for no better reason other than the fact that we are really good at it.
In addition to general mischief (No, dad, we did not see who poured a half of case of Pilsner Urquell in Great Great Aunt Katrine's fish pond**), we had some fun at Lebron's expense. During the volleying of insults, I discovered my brother's fervent (somewhat startlingly so) desire to somehow have the phrase "I'm taking my talents to South Beach" enter the English vernacular. After a few moments of consideration, I decided--as painful as it is to admit--that my little brother was on to something here.***
The phrase is at once concise, culturally relevant, and impressively agile.
For instance:
You've had a bad day. Lose your cool, grab a beer, slide down a plane's emergency chute and say "I'm taking my talents to South Beach."
Your ex calls you. Again. You say: "Um, didn't you get the text? I took my talents to South Beach."
I could go on, but the fun will be in your own personal application of the phrase.
*Oreo Balls!!?? Has anyone else ever eaten one of these things? I mean, I feel somewhat slighted that in all of my years on this planet nobody tsk tsk bothered to tell me about these little truffle cream cheese frosting cookie sugar bombs. I found them to be sublime despite the fact that I abhor Oreo cookies.
**Contrary to the culprits'(who shall remain nameless) hypothesis, fish cannot get drunk. Contrary to common sense, in the state of Ohio there is an actual law against attempting to get fish drunk. Contrary to Great Great Aunt Katrine's otherwise pleasant mood this day, alcohol kills fish.
***It has been my observation that one of two things happens when an East Coaster (or Midwesterner) moves out west.
1. He or she turns into a still recognizable but somewhat more obnoxious and tanner version of himself or herself who is overly concerned with juicing and/or Juicy Couture.
or
2. He or she turns into a slightly cooler, more relaxed version of himself or herself who is overly concerned with, well, not much.
I came back East before there was a chance for either, but my little brother five years in, seems to have gone the latter route. NO ONE BY THE WAY UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES IS TO DISCLOSE THIS INFORMATION TO HIM FOR REASONS THAT ARE SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OBVIOUS. Anyway, I thought my brother was on to something with this "taking my talents to South Beach" business, so I told him I would help him institute it. That he let me drive his black Mustang convertible around all weekend had absolutely I swear no bearing--none whatsoever--on this decision.
I spent a little bit of time going through the books of my family tree with its roots planted in Bohemia (as in Prague and its surrounding province in the Czech Republic--not flowy dresses and a guitar case). But mostly I misbehaved with my little brother who was in from Vegas for no better reason other than the fact that we are really good at it.
In addition to general mischief (No, dad, we did not see who poured a half of case of Pilsner Urquell in Great Great Aunt Katrine's fish pond**), we had some fun at Lebron's expense. During the volleying of insults, I discovered my brother's fervent (somewhat startlingly so) desire to somehow have the phrase "I'm taking my talents to South Beach" enter the English vernacular. After a few moments of consideration, I decided--as painful as it is to admit--that my little brother was on to something here.***
The phrase is at once concise, culturally relevant, and impressively agile.
For instance:
You've had a bad day. Lose your cool, grab a beer, slide down a plane's emergency chute and say "I'm taking my talents to South Beach."
Your ex calls you. Again. You say: "Um, didn't you get the text? I took my talents to South Beach."
I could go on, but the fun will be in your own personal application of the phrase.
*Oreo Balls!!?? Has anyone else ever eaten one of these things? I mean, I feel somewhat slighted that in all of my years on this planet nobody tsk tsk bothered to tell me about these little truffle cream cheese frosting cookie sugar bombs. I found them to be sublime despite the fact that I abhor Oreo cookies.
**Contrary to the culprits'(who shall remain nameless) hypothesis, fish cannot get drunk. Contrary to common sense, in the state of Ohio there is an actual law against attempting to get fish drunk. Contrary to Great Great Aunt Katrine's otherwise pleasant mood this day, alcohol kills fish.
***It has been my observation that one of two things happens when an East Coaster (or Midwesterner) moves out west.
1. He or she turns into a still recognizable but somewhat more obnoxious and tanner version of himself or herself who is overly concerned with juicing and/or Juicy Couture.
or
2. He or she turns into a slightly cooler, more relaxed version of himself or herself who is overly concerned with, well, not much.
I came back East before there was a chance for either, but my little brother five years in, seems to have gone the latter route. NO ONE BY THE WAY UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES IS TO DISCLOSE THIS INFORMATION TO HIM FOR REASONS THAT ARE SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OBVIOUS. Anyway, I thought my brother was on to something with this "taking my talents to South Beach" business, so I told him I would help him institute it. That he let me drive his black Mustang convertible around all weekend had absolutely I swear no bearing--none whatsoever--on this decision.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
