Jenny has shared that my top 3 criteria for men are:

1. Intelligent conversation
2. Maturity
3. Gentlemanly behaviour

In so doing, she has generously painted me as a picture of profundity. Now you’re all thinking, Jenny is into CLOTHES and good looks, while Elaine makes her selections based on less tangible qualities, speaking measures of her ’deep’-ness, her esoterism, and her good old-fashioned pragmatism.

To which I have to say, ‘pah’.

Men are funny creatures, and I am no longer interested in explaining–to them at least–exactly what I’m looking for.

It is true that I like a man with brains. In response to this, men of varying intellect have approached me, each bragging about how they must be the man for me.

One’s example of his supposed wisdom was claiming to follow world news very closely. Acknowledging the sizeable mountain in my room, he claims to also follow Newsweek and TIME. However when I tried to discuss something I’d read, he would always shrug the advancement off with ‘it’s always like this one’ or ‘but I thought Obama won the election?’

Actually I'm not too sure about that one; I'm kinda still waiting for TIME and Newsweek to clue me in.

Another would insist that he was the top student in his engineering class, and that he could have become a successful contractor if he hadn’t had to help with his dad’s insurance consultancy. He couldn’t figure out how to set the speed dials on my phone, or why my mechanical pen wasn’t working (I’d slyly removed the spring). But oh, he ’taught’ me to remember where I’d parked my car at the mall by SMS-ing the bay number to myself (a tactic I already had, except that I merely save the number as a draft; no need to send it to anyone). He finished off that little nugget with ‘this is why it’s good to know an engineer.’

Other men have ‘proved’ their intelligence by professing their love for the Discovery Channel, reiterating at every opportunity that they’ve read ‘The Da Vince Code’ (’a lot of people find it difficult to understand, but I loved it’–good to know that at the very least, your friends are idiots), or by sharing boob jokes.

One day I found a guy who was the real deal. He was articulate, knowledgeable and sharp as a tack. Two minutes into our first conversation the sparks were clearly flying, and the phone calls eventually led to a full-fledged date. That’s when he was seized by a sudden case of ‘Alpha Male Syndrome’, and started nagging about ‘young girls being too headstrong’ whenever I corrected him or managed to raise a stronger point.

ME big boy, YOU puny little girl.

Which brings me to maturity. As a general rule of thumb, the less mature someone is, the more mature they think they are. So when I tell people I need someone mature, the ones who come knocking are invariably preschoolers. Just because you’d rather watch Angels & Demons than Transfomers 2 doesn’t mean you’re mature.

One man pushing 40 offered his ‘maturity’ as the balancing factor for his age. I was open minded enough for a first date, throughout which he nagged me about not sharing my chicken drumstick, not being able to remember whether he’d locked his car three hours ago, and for slinging a Guess bag, which he said was a dead giveaway that I couldn’t be older than 30 (as if you couldn’t tell by looking at… the rest of me).

Now finally, the gentlemanly behaviour. This one really is universal, but EVERY man thinks he’s a gentleman–at least by their own definition. Their benchmark for this quality ranges from buying a Coach bag by way of apologizing for being a bad date, to merely remembering her name (or at least, her initial? oh hey at least that name also had an ‘E’ in it right? see I’m suuuuch a gentleman).

Once on an actual Valentine’s date, my then-squeeze begged me to pick him up from his house, insisted on sitting in the smoking area (which I STRONGLY objected to, since second-hand smoke triggers my sinus attack, teary eyes, and a morning sore throat), proceeded to blow smoke in my face all night, and then flagged down some kid with a pathetic handful of wilted, cellophaned roses, bought one with RM8 and handed it to me with the words ‘because I’m a gentleman’.

It’s not really because men are so arrogant they all think they’re perfect (okay, sometimes that’s true). It’s just that they have bad judgement of which challenges are just beyond their reach, and hence would give anything a shot if they liked the sound of it. They win if they’re qualified, or lucky (which happens pretty often). But if they don’t have what they takes, they use war strategies, bad acting, and a smattering of lies. This is the game, and the fact of the matter is I may turn them away, but I acknowledge that they’re better off than the ones who don’t even try.

So now when people ask me what I want, I tell them I want someone RICH.

No need to ask for big penises or sexual prowess. Every thimble-dick says he’s ginormous, and three-minute heroes swear they’re tigers in the sack.

Are you detecting a pattern?

When Victoria was a Spice Girl, she said her ideal man would be wearing Gucci loafers on their first date. No prizes for guessing what shoes David wore. Three kids, a couple of affairs, and she's never looked back. I think it's safe to say, the loafers did it for her.

I like certain types of men…

1. Because they dress good
2. Because they look good
3. Because they have intelligent conversation about culture, food, wine and travels
4. Because they pay
5. Because they have wonderful stories and great jokes
6. Because they are clever about things like the stock market
7. Because they are mature
8. Because they take care of me
9. Because they are rich and have a nice car
10. Because he is my manservant and I am the Boss
11. Because they pretend to like my cat/fish/hamster/sister/best friend
12. And um…that’s it.

Which is close probably, to having no list! And I could try and kid you, but honestly, those are my reasons. And for the same reasons the Charming Asshole was not trying to lie to me (because I’m married and he had no chance with me), I am not trying to lie to you (because I’m married and I have no chance with you).

As I have just the criteria any parent fears, it’s a miracle I actually ended up with a good guy, who I never stop laughing with.

[Who faithfully went to pick me up yesterday even without the crucial tidbits of information (namely, what time I finished work, and what time I'd be waiting for him). My phone was broken, so we couldn't get through. Of course, I passed by his car, in a taxi on the way home, and waved madly. And he looked on, disbelieving, that I had not the same faith (or ESP) to stay waiting for him. Hahaha...]

Elaine doesn’t know this, so she’ll find out my secret, along with the rest of our dwindling readership…as a treat.

Since I was a teenager, the first thing I’d do when entrusted into the house of any guy I liked, was to wait till the coast was clear (e.g. when he has to hit the toilet…which never takes long), and nip away from the living room to:

Rifle through his closet.

This deception was necessary, because for some weird reason, men are oddly against you looking through their private stuff. I have only ever been caught once, and then, the guy was too blinded (by love, I like to imagine) to see the “Nutter” sign blinking on my forehead, as I quickly flipped through his t-shirts.

No, I do not smell the clothes. And I am NOT interested in the underwear drawer. Men hold a funny compulsion not to wash their jeans until they suspect the folds of their bum to be a breeding ground for a certain kind of stick insect…and I ain’t intending to be involved in pollination.

My feelings for a man could be cinched upon observing an exceptionally cool pair of pants. (I’d say ‘fashionable’, but honestly, not everything high-fashion is cool, or vice versa.) If my dates wore something cool, even if it was 7 years ago, I remember it to this day. A red and white zip-up jumper, collar up, with sunglasses. A long-sleeved black Guess? shirt, fluffy on the inside. A white Indian style top, no patterns, clean lines, from Top Man. A surprisingly feminine pink shirt with cargos.

Sometimes, my behaviour could be slightly embarrassing, because Elaine was the poster girl for Weeding Good Quality Men. Among the criteria were:

1. Intelligent conversation
2. Maturity
3. Gentlemanly behaviour

Which were very respectable, and no doubt, had the universal seal of Mother’s Approval. However, I was forced to admit they had never struck a chord in me. As much as I admired my friend’s Weeding qualities, as I hadn’t the resolve to see them through myself. But then, I’ll let you hear more of that from her (if she has the time to put a post together).

To all other Nutters out there, happy t-shirt flipping! Please declare yourself (comment), so I know the practice hasn’t died with me.

XOXO
Jenny

P.S. Guys, what would you think if you caught a girl you didn’t know very well flipping through your wardrobe?

1706 2009

Family is hard - pt. 2

Posted by: Elaine @ 11:06 am
Categories: Convos, Of House & Home

2 Comments

Me: Mom look mom look mom look! I got ‘The Essential Michael Jackson’!

Mom scrambles to her feet.

Mom: Yen, where are my glasses? Quick!
Yen: Here, on the dressing table.

Mom puts on her glasses, sets aside her newspaper, and turns to the TV, staring at the screen intently.

I pop the first CD into the DVD player, turn on the TV, and out blasts ‘I Want You Back’. I start bopping around the living room, but Mom is still staring at the TV screen. There is nothing but a tracklist.

Mom: Is there something wrong with the DVD player?
Me: No, of course not.
Mom: Then why is it showing the menu but playing the sound?
Me: It’s supposed to be like that. And that’s not a menu; it’s the tracklist.
Mom: Supposed to be like that? What kind of movie is this?
Me: OH. This isn’t a movie, Mom! It’s just a CD.
Mom: A CD?
Me: Yeah, you know… a music CD.
Mom: This CD doesn’t play movies?
Me: No.

Mom smirks and continues reading her magazine.

Mom: Then why did you want me to look at it?

(Half an hour later)

Mom hears an upbeat, jazzy opening and looks up.

Mom: Billie Jean!
Me: I think that’s ‘Beat It’.
Mom: Oh, you’re correct.

We listen for a while.

Me: It’s Billie Jean.
Mom: Yay! Now go and bring me some soup.