Siobhan calculated the odds, and they really were.

Siobhan: How did you meet?
Tata: He was my next door neighbor in your and my hideous hometown. I lived there thirteen years. He spent them under a car with a spanner. For years, I thought he only existed from the knees down.
Siobhan: And why are we talking about him?
Tata: Daria’s decided he’s my next ex-boyfriend, which implies a level of commitment I can live with. His house is three blocks from me now –
Siobhan: So you can throw him out at 3 a.m. without qualms, I get that. Still, he is a friend of the family.
Tata: Yeah, he and Daria are tight. If you can believe this, I’m just not sure.
Siobhan: Then leave it alone. You’ve never had second thoughts about sleeping around. Or first thoughts, for that matter.

Weeks passed. My sister applied gentle pressure.

Daria: Did you email him yet, damn it?
Tata: It’s bothering you that I’m single?
Daria: YES! It’s like Australian wine and hairless cats. You can’t be single!
Tata: Your brain is a scary, scary place. No, I haven’t emailed him. What would I say? “My place, 8:30, bring condoms and mango chutney.”
Daria: Please. You’ve probably got a form letter.
Tata: I do! “Dear [blank]…”
Daria: So…what? Email him!
Tata: I’ve got stuff to do. Maybe next week.

I don’t know what my problem is so it spills over the side.

Siobhan: Why are we still talking about this guy you’re not dating?
Tata: Every guy we talk about is a guy I’m not dating.
Siobhan: Do they know that?
Tata: Well, a few of them know now.

Thirty miles apart, we both look around for that fourth wall.

Tata: Anyway, this is one for the record books because I still haven’t decided, and a cabal of his and my sisters is making secret plans for us. Which I figured out because even between the two of them they can’t keep a secret.
Siobhan: Hmm. Well, if he comes to your place, there’s less chance he’ll put you through a wood chipper. Your family must take comfort in knowing you don’t own a chainsaw or have time to chop him up by hand.
Tata: Not a fine dice, no. And now I’ve pictured myself julienning him juicily with that Rachael Ray knife.
Siobhan: No, no, no! It says specifically: don’t use that on bone!
Tata: You’re correcting my knifing technique mid-hypothetical killing spree?
Siobhan: You might as well email him. He’s unlikely to murder you.
Tata: Is that why I’ve been reluctant all this time?
Siobhan: You haven’t emailed this guy because the last one was psychotic.
Tata: So you’re saying the scary-bad man frightened me into behaving lady-like?
Siobhan: Yup.
Tata: …where did I put that form letter…

We’re both smiling a little stupidly. He’s wearing a turnout coat and gear. He must be sweltering. I’m warm in a guinea t and boxer shorts, holding a bottle of bright red nail polish.

Fireman: Smoke detector ringing?
Tata: Nope. You can hear it in the distance but not here.
Fireman: It’s going off in units 8 and 10.

I stare at him. We’re not in those.

Fireman: Well, call us if yours goes off.
Tata: I’ve absolutely got your number.

This week, being female in the Blogosphere was hazardous to your sanity. That savage beating of dissenters at Pandagon over engagement rings spilled over the edge and dripped predictably onto I Blame the Patriarchy and – less predictably – Sadly, No! There were other residual brawls, all with the same problem: no one listened to anyone else. Nothing was learned. Not a single “Eureka!” in all that stinky mess.

Pity.

Just…listen, and let this settle in:

A thousand years ago, when I was a young woman getting engaged, I too had political problems with the engagement ring and “bride price” baggage. An older woman who came from an agricultural society told me in her culture, like it or not, the husband’s ability to save up for an engagement ring was linked to the future security of the family. The ring was the family’s emergency investment. A wife was the guardian of the family’s security and kept it where she could see it at all times. When something catastrophic happened, off came the ring, and the family would survive.

So you can see the practical partnership, if you wish, or you can see the corrupting materialism the Furs reviled – until they adopted it themselves.

Knowing as you do my naive charm and microscopic attention span, you’ll be shocked to learn that today I will attend a twenty-year service luncheon. Yes, I’ve worked for the unnamed university for almost twenty-one years now and no one tripped me as I strolled past the industrial lawn mowers. It’s kind of a miracle. Anyway, I’m not the luncheon type. What possessed me to RSVP in the affirmative? I don’t know but if I have to contain my exuberance and zip my lips through canned speeches someone had better serve beef. You know, for the symbolism.

Over the weekend, I was in the drugstore, staring at aisle after aisle of wine bottles because I wanted to make chicken livers and rapidly losing the will to live. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young man moving deliberately, and I sensed he was about to do something interesting. I watched him pick two items. I grabbed a bottle of red – forgivable mistake – and followed him to the checkout. As soon as he’d paid and the door swung shut behind him, I blurted to no one and everyone, “That guy bought a SuperSoaker and a bottle of wine. That’s a Saturday night, baby!”

For chicken livers, I’ll stick to a woodsy chardonnay next time.

As you may recall, about a year ago, I gave up home use of paper products with the exception of recycled toilet paper. This has been overall a good thing for me. I no longer have that distressing paper towel reflex reach. When I make a mess, I have to think about how I’m going to pick that up. Larry, the little black cat formerly bent on stealing your soul, seldom made messes until the last days of his life, so my house was clean and quiet. Thus, it went on until the arrival of Topaz and Drusy, my adorable, fur-covered mess-making machines.

Yes, I can clean almost as fast as they wreck my place. If I didn’t adore them, I might be resentful. Picture this: you and I, we’re talking, perhaps having a civilized glass of something fizzy. My apartment is tranquil, I look fairly well put together, all is right with the world and you blink. I’m still talking, but now the furniture’s upside down, something’s on fire, my hair stands on end and we’re both covered with soot. I have kittens. Twice recently, I wondered if I’d given up paper towels in haste. The first: Topaz, who has a very sore tummy sometimes, walked over to me and yakked at my feet on the living room rug. I…got a sponge. The second was a carefully planned campaign of kitty terror initiated the moment my wuzzah wuzzah wuzzah moo moo moo little darlings arrived and found I only offered one litterbox. Until I bought a second enclosed litterbox and placed it next to the first in the bathroom, I found a neat pile of kitten poop in the bathroom every day. As protests go, it was more sanitary than one march on Washington I attended in the eighties. Cleaning up those tidy piles of kitten poop, I wished for paper towels a few times. Yes, indeed. Thank Vishnu I finally wised up and gave the kittens anything they wanted.

Johnny and his Hot Veterinarian Wife are in town to visit the parents. This summer, it will be thirty years since I saw him painting something and fell madly in teenage love, though we became fast friends. His first wife hated me, which meant we couldn’t speak for a few painful years. I haven’t met this woman, but she has to like me. She just has to. It would be unbearable to lose him again. I’m thinking of bringing to his parents’ house a platter of ham, chicken, cheese and shrimp. You know, for the symbolism.

There is a certain species of man who approaches women he desires with what might at first be considered attentive criticism. Because I have been a performer and a public person, this man has approached me many times, in many forms. Once, the women’s clinic in defense of which I’d devoted two years and over 100 Saturdays was firebombed. I was asked to give a speech at a ceremony, and I did. A man sidled up to me and said, confidentially, “I saw your hands shake.” It was not lost on me that he chose a moment of incalculable loss and terror to mention my insecurity as if only he understood me, in a way that might make it worse. This man insults for attention. He will observe your accomplishment and curl his lip. Most recently, a man interested in dating asked about PIC’s stats, and when I told him between 450-750 unique visitors drop in daily, he said, “I don’t read personal blogs. How many people did you have to blow for that?”

Hilarious. Women can only get ahead on their knees. I’ve never heard that one before. This man will be the first to cry foul if you suggest he’s a misogynist. His manner is mild, his eyes are bright and they follow but make no mistake. There is a certain man who thinks women should be quiet, and if he has anything to say about it, no one will hear a word you say – especially not him.

There is a certain man who thinks women do not rock. On Friday night, I went to a basement show at the bar in which I spent a good chunk of the last twenty years. Some nights, I was the only woman in the joint. On Friday, I arrived to find a Jimi Hendrix cover band on stage and cranking. There is a certain man who wants to see a faithful recreation of something long past. Usually, he is in his mid-forties to mid-fifties, hasn’t cut his hair in three years and believes women should never touch guitars. Few of this species of man were in the basement Friday night, but musicians in the audience burst into applause after every blistering solo. The band was tight and deadly serious, though I laughed behind my hand at the oddness of the singer’s Castillian accent – not that he wasn’t good. His tone and inflection were perfect. But so?

The third band was RayC/DC, which was composed of bored members of True Love and the Groucho Marxists playing out just for fun. Their covers were perfect and when Chris threw his guitar on the ground and sprinted for the men’s room I almost fell off my barstool. It was a riot and I do not regret losing beauty sleep.

In between, a Runaways cover band called The Stay-At-Homes tore up the stage. It was an excellent spoof, complete with in-character bitchy bickering and upstaging, of a – pardon me – seminal corporate girl band by skilled actors and musicians, and I laughed from the moment they tuned up until they said goodnight. You should see this band because these women can really play and everyone loves a too-short Catholic school girl skirt. For about half their set, the intense guitarist with the Castillian accent stood next to me, facing away. Every few minutes, he muttered, “Tsk!” because these girls should leave playing out to the Real Men. I’ve seen the hostility so many times I laughed at him, which of course he didn’t hear. I’m a woman, after all, and I should be at home, waiting for someone.

There is a certain man who does not love women. I get frustrated with the demand for credentials from younger femininsts who seem to think I should fight every fight. I get confused when presented with a new front to fight on twice a week – or worse, a new assault on the same old affronts. If you think you can bargain with the anti-choice movement you haven’t paid attention for the last thirty years; equivocation has always failed. Stop it. Without ifs or maybes, your medical procedures are between you and your doctor – forgive me – period, without intervention from anyone else. (And it has not escaped my notice that every time I hear Concerned Women For America speak, the representative is a man.) My feminism will not be yours because my life experience has been different from yours. The compromises I’ve made to survive have been my own. I’m not going to apologize nor will I engage a young woman in conversation about the purity of my politics or hers. We make mistakes. At some point, we come up against a situation where we have to do something we don’t like to pay the rent. We all do. A certain man is waiting for us.

I am not the enemy. We do have one.

*********************
Thanks to Mr. DBK for help lining up those pronouns.

Update: See comments here for the circular firing squad shit that simply must stop but won’t.