Date a geek today

Can I say it? I feel really sorry for people who are dating now.

A whole generation has gone by since I last shopped for males. (In November, we will celebrate our 24th anniversary.) And from the looks of things, it's gotten kinda ugly out there.

I think it must be terrible for people to look you up and down, talk to you for five minutes, then press the buzzer: NEXT. Back in the day, before the internet, things were slower. You usually didn't press the NEXT buzzer until you knew the person fairly well and were CERTAIN it was time to press the NEXT buzzer. And even then, you might keep that person around as a good friend, the way Chris Rock says women keep a man in the wings: "In Case of Emergency, Break Glass." (Yes, she admitted, head hung low, I did that for years. Because as Chris Rock says, you never know.)

This post was inspired by a geek-hating tirade, and I just had to say something.

As an old lady married to a geek, let me say, geeks are the greatest. AND the smartest. (I admit, being married to a genius is important to my self-image.) But I understand that not everyone feels that way. Big Blogdonia hoopla over this intended-humorous post over at Gizmodo. (I thought Gizmodo was a geeky-site, so I was surprised that they would run an anti-geek piece.) Trendy young woman dates a geek, and suffers extended apoplexy:

The next day I Googled my date and a wealth of information flowed into my browser. A Wikipedia page! Competition videos! Fanboy forums! This guy isn’t just some professional who dabbled in card games at a tender age. He’s widely revered in the game of Magic that he’s been immortalised in his own playing card.

Just like you’re obligated to mention you’re divorced or have a kid in your online profile, shouldn’t someone also be required to disclose any indisputably geeky world championship titles? But maybe it was a long time ago? We met for round two later that week.

At dinner I got straight down to it. Did he still play? “Yes.” Strike one. How often? “I’m preparing for a tournament this weekend.” Strike two. Who did he hang out with? “I’ve met all my best friends through Magic.” Strike three. I smiled and nodded and listened. Eventually I even felt a little bit bad that I didn’t know shit about the game. Here was a guy who had dedicated a good chunk of his life to mastering Magic, on a date with a girl who can barely play Solitaire. This is what happens, I thought, when you lie in your online profile. I was lured on a date thinking I’d met a normal finance guy, only to realise he was a champion dweeb in hedge funder’s clothing.

I later found out that he infiltrated his way into OKCupid dates with at least two other people I sort of know, including one of my co-workers. Mothers, warn your daughters! This could happen to you. You’ll think you’ve found a normal bearded guy with a job, only to end up sharing goat cheese with a world champion of nerds. Maybe I’m an OKCupid arsehole for calling it that way. Maybe I’m shallow for not being able to see past his world title. But if everyone stopped lying in their profiles, maybe there also wouldn’t be quite as many OKCupid horror stories to tell.

This post exploded onto several blogs, as the geeks and geek-defenders came out in force. Gizmodo even replied semi-officially and took the guy's name out of the piece. (But with the multitude of information the author has provided, it would be really easy to locate him and his name.) Sady Doyle takes up the charge and defends the initial poster and her account of the shitty date. (NOTE: Sady is far funnier.) Eventually THAT thread has to be closed down too. The whole thing has caused a near-riot in Blogdonia.

Meanwhile, I am rendered mute and remain utterly clueless about the whole thing. Really? A game? Really?

And what's wrong with goat cheese?

See there, I am already hopelessly uncool. I don't even understand the underlying premises of why this man is bad. As far as I can see, he didn't insult her or women in general, did not grab her tit or pinch her ass, was reasonably literate and dressed inoffensively. (She offhandedly says they discussed "normal stuff" and includes "college" as one of those "normal" things... obviously, a man who had not been to college at all would not have been regarded as "normal" or good enough, regardless of his interests or intelligence. In virtually all angry replies to the post, this casual elitism was unremarked upon.) Is it supposed to be bad or good to dress like a hedge fund guy? And why? Is capitalism considered an unbridled good by this person? If the guy had oodles of money (if his card-game-of-choice was the World Series of Poker rather than Magic: The Gathering), would she have been impressed?

Feminism is not just about women. Feminism is also about men. We cannot expect men to transcend their base desires and like us as people, if we are not willing to do the same to them. If we judge men solely by their wallets or their hobbies, we can hardly be angry when they judge us by our boobs or our weight.

Does it shock you when I tell you I married AN UNEMPLOYED PERSON? Of course, now, he has had his job longer than everybody, but when I met him, this was certainly not the case. Sady says there is no such thing as the Frog turning into the Prince and sees this as propaganda for girls to accept Frogs and to be happy with them:

We get a lot of sexist narratives about love, but none of them are more pernicious and subtle than this: The Frog Prince story. You could call it “Beauty and the Beast,” too. Or you could call it “Twilight,” or “Knocked Up,” or “Rory Williams Won’t Stop Whining;” it’s always the same story, anyway. Girl meets guy. On the surface, this guy is unappealing! Because he’s a frog! Or he’s not sexually attractive to her, or he treats her badly, or he’s immature, or he’s Rory Williams and he won’t stop whining; all of these are frog-like states, generally considered unkissable. But only a bitch would think that frogs don’t deserve our sweet, sweet kisses, so the woman doesn’t leave. Instead, she looks for the guy’s good qualities. She lowers her standards; she changes her expectations. She gives up on her silly little “ideas” about “attractiveness” or “compatible lifestyles” or “having fun with her partner.” Finally, she loses touch with her own desires to the point that she winds up making out with a fucking frog. At which point he becomes a prince. Or a loving husband, or a responsible person, or a whiny little Roman Centurion; the point is, in these stories, once you give up on wanting things from men, men magically become what you want.

Here’s the secret, though, if you are the girl in this particular story: That guy never became a prince. At all. He’s still the same guy; he still possesses all those qualities you initially found unappealing, for all sorts of valid reasons. People don’t go from frog to mammal overnight, and they particularly don’t do so because you ask less of them; you are still making out with a frog, in the long run. The only reason he looks like a prince nowadays is that you lowered your standards to the point that you literally could not tell the difference between frog and mammal.

First of all, I was an alcoholic very active in AA when he met me, a single welfare mother with a three-year-old child, so I was not free of my own amphibian tendencies. And maybe those flaws are pretty glaring, but you know, everyone has them. Everyone. But because mine WERE so glaring, I could not lie about them or hide them, and had to face them up front. I was not a terrific bargain, and I did not present myself that way. Perhaps everyone should consider that? (Aside: Working-class and poor kids are frequently asked by their peers, Who do you think you are?, and I often wonder if the middle-and-upper-class kids are ever asked that question, because they sure don't act like it. But I digress.)

And second, I find it interesting Sady thinks the Frog tale is a propaganda story for women... when I think women wrote the story, out of personal experience.

In short, we SAW the prince emerge, so we know. For sure.

As one who has been married three times, let me share something crucial: you do not know who men are until the shit hits the fan. (Yes, I'm afraid the military is right about that one.) Our characters are forged in crisis. Will this man stand by you when you go to court with the ex? When you are sick? Been fired? Lost your mother? How will he respond? What kind of father will he be? You don't know any of this ahead of time, even if you think you do. One of the worst things that can ever happen, is finding out that you married someone who can't deal with emotions or reality, who subsumes himself in work or TV or porn. When you are young and carefree and everything is fun, you can easily handle things. But the first time something HAPPENS (i.e. somebody becomes an alcoholic, okay: ME) and this person can't deal? They will cut you loose and move on. It turns out they are not someone cut out for the long haul, and you had no clue. (How could you have had a clue? Nothing BAD had ever happened before.) You could go years and never know this about a man. And it happened to me.

What you want is a man who understands what true partnership means. These men are rare, so rare in fact, that you shouldn't turn them away just because they play the wrong game. Really, that is the least of it. (Some hints I can offer in retrospect: during the dating period, does he keep his distance when you are upset or yowling? Does he say, "call back when you have calmed down"? Move on. When you have children together, he will treat them like shit and refuse to deal. Because as you probably know, kids yowl all the time.)

The secret to being married a long time is: Your souls merge. Your MINDS merge. You may not like his games, but you will learn about them nonetheless. Even more than that: you will learn what traits he displays while playing said game, and why it makes him so happy. Similarly, he may not like your stuff either, but he will learn the lyrics of Who songs anyway. Eventually, you hear him tell someone else that the Who was great, and you privately preen. Just to yourself.

At this point, we finish each other sentences, or don't even bother with whole sentences.

Example: TV commercial comes on.

Him: "That reminds me of..."

Me: "Yeah, but that was a different actor."

Him: "No, same guy."

Me: "You sure?"

Friends: stare at us dumbfounded, and we don't even know why, until they tell us.

And I like it that way. :)

So here I am, defending the geeks. Because I am happily married to one, and have been for a long time. And girls, if you overlook them as a category, you are cheating yourselves. You really are.

But then, I occasionally eat goat cheese too. You might want to disregard my opinion.

Fun with anti-feminists

At left: Falls Park hydrangeas! Purty!



Big news today: In case you didn't know, the skinnier a woman is, the more money she makes. By contrast, overweight men have higher salaries than thinner men. Go on, you say, they actually required some sociological study to prove that?

Apparently so:

A new study reveals that thinner women -- and larger men -- tend to make the most money.

"Early Show" Contributing Correspondent Taryn Winter Brill reported new research from the University of Florida (pdf) finds that, for women, corporate America is just like a catwalk -- the smaller your waist -- the bigger your paycheck. But if you're a man looking to snag that corner office, don't worry about skipping dessert. Thinner men actually make less money.

According to the study, women who weighed 25 pounds less than the group norm earned about $16,000 more per year. A woman 25 pounds above the group norm earned about $14,000 less. Thinner men, on the other hand, made almost $9,000 less than their average male co-worker.

One of those things I didn't need a study to tell me. But the right-wingers and anti-feminists demand copious data for every single political assertion, therefore DEAD AIR will carefully tuck this one away for the next unpleasant occasion one of them attempts to argue that women have it made in the shade, sitting at home and madly munching on bon-bons.

Speaking of which...

Ballgame, annoying moderator at the contentious anti-feminist blog FEMINIST CRITICS, self-righteously howls in indignation when he believes he is banned by a pro-feminist men's blog. Positively bug-eyed over his ill treatment, he writes:

Still reluctant to believe that a critical-but-respectful comment had been purged, or that I had been banned on the basis of that comment, I scoured the site’s comment policy and discovered two things. One, TGMP [The Good Men Project] bars “comparisons to genocidal dictators and their brutal regimes.” Two, the site apparently has a ‘one strike and you’re out’ policy.

That's pretty funny, since Ballgame banned me for "critical-but-respectful comments"--but I guess that's somehow different.

The difference is: one standard for men, another for women.

Ballgame banned me simply for disagreeing (loudly) with him and refusing to pinky-swear that I was arguing in "good faith"--when no such promise is extracted from the dozens of offensive Men's Rights Androids that frequent his blog. In fact, these reactionaries can attack feminists with gusto and it's all regarded as hunky-dory by Ballgame. Feminists, however, can not attack back in the same disrepectful tone.

So now Ballgame's karma catches up with him. (giggle)

Oh wait... not to worry, after howling and (most especially) reminding the guys at TGMP that he is an important blogger, they have unbanned him. But of course! Boys will be boys, bros before hos. Etc.

And BTW, exactly WHAT is Ballgame disagreeing with at TGMP? His blog post title says it all: Questioning Sexual slavery. He demands DATA, because simply passing all those female junkies in the red light district and watching Frontline isn't enough for him. (Amnesty International, Shamnesty International!) He is skeptical. Skeptical of what? Women's words, of course.

Might this be an example of "bad faith"? Running a blog called "Feminist Critics" that you pointedly ban feminists from and then writing posts demanding readable DATA before you concede that sexual slavery exists? Uh-huh.

Bad faith = anti-feminism, in its entirety.

Random complaining

I don't like:

...people who live in apartments and insist upon owning gigantic dogs that can't be exercised on a damn patio, so they bark all day long from boredom.

...southerners who claim various pot-luck offerings are vegetarian, but when pressed, admit said vegetable was fried in bacon grease.

...people who say the radiation in Japan is waaaay over there, so don't you worry yourself over it. The earth doesn't turn and the air never blows and water all stays in one place, so there's no way radiation can spread... oh, wait.

...de-clawing kitties. DON'T DO THAT. And I have the torn-up couches to prove that I don't believe in it. But I can also attest that torn-up couches are a small price to pay for well-mannered, happy felines.

...the way Farmville is always trying to separate you from your credit card, to purchase much-ballyhooed "Farm Cash"--with which you can buy cartoon lakes and donkeys and other dopey shit you don't need... hey, it's just like REAL LIFE!

...And finally...(((drum roll))

Male "enhancement" ads, like the endless infomercial I am listening to right now, wherein a dynamite sex-supplement promises to make you BIGGER and BETTER. It's probably just L-Arginine, an amino acid that can be taken by itself in large doses; up to 3 grams safely. (Works on women too! :D ) And it's lots cheaper than these TV-boosted supplements, which likely include Yohimbe, something that can adversely affect men with hypertension. (The difference between simple L-Arginine and these hotshot supplements can be as much as 100 bucks, so buyer beware.) I also hate the Viagra commercials for using the legendary and fabulous song "Spoonful" in the ads. The not-so-subtle racism of using a well-known black blues song directed at suburban white men with nice cars (not to mention the comprehensive medical insurance that covers these pricey Rx drugs; some insurers don't) seems a little obvious: If you take Viagra/Cialis/etc, you will be as sexy as black men, seems to be the significance of the blues-man message. And then there is the additional subtlety of the title and concept: you only need a spoonful of Viagra.

But even without music, all the winky-winky stuff in the ads (any moment can turn into a Cialis moment!) is offensive and junior high school. Yes, we all know how we get horny just by hammering nails (think about the Freudian implications of that for a second) and hanging out with the mister, as he does his manly household tasks. And then, a knowing look is exchanged, pecks on the mouth, and they leave the room together, arm in arm. We all know that our sexual experiences are EXACTLY like that, now don't we? (((rolls eyes)))

I do appreciate that the women in the ads are the same age as the men. In fact, these ads might be the only place on TV that this is true! Mostly, hot new actresses are paired with older, non-hotties. (Think about LAW AND ORDER and the age disparities.. gray hair and such are standard, but the women are all young.) This is true in movies as well. What can we surmise from this?: That BigPharma is aware they should try to be realistic in these ads--no Lolitas anywhere. And besides, maybe that is intimidating to older men? Or do they (as I suspect) just find the idea silly? (All they want is some familiar intimacy with the wife, not the babysitter.)

The CARS in the ads, and the fact that Viagra now sponsors NASCAR, well, that shouldn't be surprising. PERFORMANCE is a big word in all advertising related to men: Stereos, cell phones, cars, musical instruments, razor blades, athletic shoes, all promise various wonderful levels of PERFORMANCE, a word you rarely hear in commercials for women's products.

Now, I wonder why that is.

Of dogs and men

:: Someone helpfully sent me this link, regarding my last post. The link proclaims that Uncle Cecil was dead wrong: hounds are uniformly regarded as dumb, listed among the dumbest breeds.

My first thought: there is even classism among ranking dogs! Breeds intended for low-class work like hunting are ranked lowest in intelligence. Guarding people, now that's important! Here we see a unique mix of both classism and speciesism at work.

Give me a good basset hound, bulldog (go black and red!), beagle or bloodhound any day of the week! Workers of the world unite! (Not into Afghan hounds, because the shedding is incredible. No offense to them, though, all the Afghan hounds I've met are very friendly and pleasant.)


:: Recommending Ethecofem, a feminist blog which is very fair to the guys. Probably too fair for my liking, but I enjoy the writers there, especially April.

I've been thinking lately, of how men are treated in sexist ways, and I came up with one: men are expected to be Mr Fixit. Whenever something goes wrong in a house or car (which is, sooner or later, bound to happen), men are expected to know how to Fix It, while us girls stand around with our thumbs up our asses, as we say here in the south. In fact, I think this phenomenon may be way WORSE in the south.

In the north, the question was, "Can your husband fix it?" while here in the south, it's more of a declaration: "Get your husband to fix it!"

He is no more of a Mr Fixit than I am a Ms Fixit, which is to say, not at all. He is considered more of a failure for this than I am, though, which goes without saying. Men are supposed to know how to fix cars, light fixtures, stuck windows and the like. They just learn by osmosis!

This is also deeply ableist, which also goes without saying. Whichever man doesn't learn to Fix Things, at least here among the working classes, is regarded as somewhat suspect.

A man who was close to me long ago, once told me he was embarrassed that he didn't particularly like sports, didn't keep up with the teams and scores and bowl games and World Serieses and such. He told me he thought this was a form of language among men that he never learned, that seems to transcend race, class, age and other differences.

Mr Daisy is very much into that language, so I have listened over the years, as he talks to strange men in strange places, How bout them dawgs? (see above reference to black and red) I've listened to delivery guys talk to white-collar supervisors, How bout them dawgs? I've heard doctors and patients, men of radically different classes, How bout them dawgs? Etc. It really is a language that men are expected to participate in, and a man is somewhat suspect (or regarded as standoffish, unfriendly and/or aloof) if he doesn't join in.

I am also reminded of that wonderful movie The Birdcage, wherein Robin Williams (Armand) tries to tutor Nathan Lane (Albert) in how to sound like a proper heterosexual man:

Armand: Al, you old son of a bitch! How ya doin? How do you feel about that call today? I mean the Dolphins! Fourth-and-three play on their 30 yard line with only 34 seconds to go!

Albert: How do you think I feel? Betrayed, bewildered...

Wrong response?