Into the Awkward

The End

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 18:47:00 +0000

I don't feel awkward anymore.

Thanks for reading.

-Jane

Bacon is a gateway meat

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 18:37:00 +0000

Before this blog dies of neglect, and because I started it in the midst of a food elimination diet, I figured I would document the reasons why, after 20 years as a vegetarian, I became an omnivore.

Reason #1: To keep evolving

My glib response to people when they ask why I started eating meat is, "because 20 years is long enough to do anything." What I mean is that I want a life where I continue to challenge myself, my beliefs, and my habits. I'm not going to live in the same place, have the same career, wear the same clothes or have the same haircut for more than 10 years at a time (probably), so why would I hold on to the same diet? My vegetarianism became habit without conviction. I no longer knew why I was doing it. And that meant it was time for a change.

Reason #2: To live by fewer arbitrary rules

For a number of years (some documented in this blog), I would create rules for myself to live by. Some of those rules have benefited me in a huge way (like "don't buy cheap shoes"), but others started limiting my movement. I became way too self-analytical, to the extent that my friends would notice and comment. Being a vegetarian started feeling like another rule that I applied to myself. I want to experience this life, and that extends to food as well. It's funny - now I feel like I have to go back to all the countries I've visited so that I can try their food since I missed it the first time.

Reason #3: To ease social interaction

If you are a vegetarian, then you've probably been in a restaurant with a group of friends who all look at the menu to find things that you can eat before they find something that they want to eat. I grew weary of having special accommodations made for me in social situations, of watching people rave about food that I could not eat, and of having people prepare food for me that they would not normally have prepared. My friends would probably argue this point, telling me it was no big deal, but I feel palpable relief now in those group settings, knowing that everyone can just get busy choosing their own food.

Reason #4: Because it's easier now to do it right

Unless you lived with hippies, it was tough to eat consciously and humanely in suburban Toronto in the late 80s. Even vegetarianism was a challenge for the first few years, as words like "tofu" and "plant-based proteins" were not a common part of our vernacular. It got easier as the years went by and I learned how to stave off anemia and eat a more balanced diet.

While I learned about a good vegetarian diet, I also learned about how animals were treated in the production of meat. It was too much to handle, and everything I read solidified my stance about not eating animals. Organic, free-range meat was barely available, and I felt like eating anything else would make me an accomplice to murder.

But now I live in a place where even the most ghetto grocery store carries organic, free-range chicken and beef. It doesn't take much effort to be conscious and deliberate about what I consume. I'm still very aware that I'm consuming an animal, but I no longer feel like I should go to jail for it.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: What was the first meat you tried?
A: Bacon.

Q: Do you feel better? (Usually asked by meat-eaters who assume that all vegetarians feel weak.)
A: No, I feel the same.

Q: Did you get sick when you started eating meat? (Usually asked by vegetarians.)
A: No.

Q: But your blood type is A+, so doesn't that mean you *should* be a vegetarian?
A: It's a theory, and I still eat more veggie meals than meat meals, but it sounds to me like another rule and I don't want more rules.

Q: Are there meats you still won't eat?
A: Yes. Pretty much any animal featured on Cute Overload. I can't go there yet, but I'm not ruling it out. This includes rabbit and baby anything. Also, I don't like the texture of hamburger.

Q: Bacon is awesome, isn't it?
A: Yes, bacon is awesome.

Class Is Cancelled

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Tue, 05 May 2009 03:31:00 +0000

My high school was brand new. I was in the first batch of students to attend, and in the first batch of students to graduate. My time there was a blast, I made great friends, and I was heavily involved with the music and theater programs. We were giddy to attend that school, believing we were creating something new and big, setting traditions that would be followed by many students after us.

But if there are no traditions before you and you're only 16, how can you possibly know what will be important down the road? Ten years after graduation, a few of us called each other. "Shouldn't we be having some kind of reunion? Isn't that what people do?" But it didn't happen. There was no reunion tradition at the school, no support in place to make it work, and no suggestion that members of the student council even keep in touch with each other after graduation.

A couple of years later, in frustration, I attempted to organize a class reunion myself. This was still before social networking really took off, so it was a bitch to find people. The school was absolutely no help, refusing to assist with locating former students. I think 15 people showed up to the event. Seven years after that our 20 year anniversary came along. Someone tried to plan an event, and it fizzled out. The day came and went. I washed my hands of the place.

Meanwhile, college. I attended a small but unique school in Santa Fe, NM. In addition to a vibrant theater program, we had a working sound stage. Blockbuster movies, music videos, and commercials were filmed there, and students were hired to work on the productions. While my degree was in business, I worked for the film school for years, and those students became my peers. There were no formal sports programs, no homecoming events, no frats or sororities. But that isn't why any of us attended that school--we knew we would have a strange and good experience there. The community was tight. We even managed a couple of reunions (in Los Angeles, naturally).

In two weeks, my college will close down. In two weeks, the institution that granted me my degree will no longer exist. It's a long and sad story of massive debt and inept leadership, resulting in immense frustration by excellent and beleaguered faculty members. The students have to go somewhere else to finish their degrees. The staff is already gone. The faculty is working for pennies.

I've written a lot about how we define ourselves and where we find community. School is a huge one, though its importance varies widely by person. I'm still in touch with the handful of high school classmates that I care to be in touch with, but the rest, meh. However, I do like knowing that the school is still *there,* that when I go back home to visit I can drive by, point, and remember. Some of my old classmates are now teachers at that school, and that gives me strange comfort. The cycle continues. It frustrated me for a long time that we didn't have a formalized way to remember each other, but Facebook has pretty much replaced that.

It isn't the case for the college. To watch your school implode, especially if you still have connections there (a good friend is a faculty member), is disheartening on many levels. My degree is still valid, but the persona of the degree (the persona - does that make sense?) is tainted. Now when my friend and I talk about college, we use the same language as we do for someone who has died.

I used to regret not attending a huge school with its football games and sweatshirts. For years I retroactively longed for the traditional college experience, which I knew I would never have. I got as comfortable as I could be with the experience that I did have, but in a flash that school won't even exist anymore. First high school, then college. It's like the universe is canceling nostalgia, propelling me into the future whether I like it or not. It feels like my pre-40 theme. The past is gone. Thou shalt move forward.

Open Here I Flung the Shutter

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 03:43:00 +0000

So apparently I go through phases, and I've been going through these phases since I was a teenager. I'll be rolling along with everything going just dandy, then some uncomfortable feeling will make its presence known at the back of my head. I'll try to ignore it or pour wine on it or show it a movie, but it will grow nonetheless. Eventually I'll have to spin around and look at it, facing its demands. It demands a change of pace.

When I was 17 I called this an "existential crisis." I have clear high school memories of barricading myself in music practice rooms explaining to my friends and teachers that my brain was exploding. Well, no. It was never exploding. I just needed to tweak a few things in my life, and I wasn't quite sure what those things were yet.

This decade's version of the existential crisis is called "media overload," so with some regularity I wipe the slate clean, or at least significantly curb my exposure to and consumption of media. It starts with feeling overexposed on the Internet and ends in a Pop Culture Cycle of Shame.

Whenever I feel regret for not accomplishing something I believed I should have accomplished, I remind myself that it must not have been important enough to me at the time to pursue. For the past few weeks I've been going to work feeling like I *could* do a lot more, but that I just don't want to. I'm feeling less connected to my professional community; I don't have the motivation to network, to trade ideas, to create with them. Instead, I feel like distancing myself, and THAT makes me feel like a boring old lady.

While I did go through my usual routine of unsubscribing from a zillion email newsletters and further restricting my social networking accessibility, this round feels different.

This time I feel like something is waiting for me. A decision. A new course. A new professional community. Hunting for it feels weird and wrong, so I'm going to stay open and quiet and wait for it to flag me down. I expect it will take the better part of a year, at which time, not coincidentally at all, I will turn 40. Something is out there, but this time it isn't coming from inside the house. It's still far away, like a slowly approaching storm.

It's the Little Things

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 15:26:00 +0000

I've now spent enough time being either mildly irritated or massively inconvenienced by my own lifestyle that I'm paying more attention to little things that can make it better. You know when you make a small improvement in your life that makes a huge difference? And the improvement took less than two minutes or not very much money? You always wonder why it took you so long to get around to doing it. I'd like to get around to those things more quickly.

Some free and fast examples:

- The fluorescent light in my bathroom bothered me for TWO YEARS until one day I took exactly 60 SECONDS to grab a stepladder and remove them from the fixture.

- Working on my laptop at my kitchen counter I experienced odd neck issues until I walked three feet away, picked up two about-to-be-discarded phone books, and elevated the laptop.

- The small snack packs that I buy were scattered all over my kitchen or bursting out of the cupboard. I took an empty flower pot, placed it on the kitchen counter, and gathered all the snacks there.

Seriously, these solutions seem brain-dead easy, but for some reason they took forever for me to implement. And every single one was free and took less than two minutes. The ones that cost a bit of money made an even larger impact on the quality of my life:

- After leaving my laptop power cord at home a handful of times, which made me completely change my day around, I finally bought a second power charger and mouse that never leave my bag.

- My toaster oven was taking its own sweet time actually toasting anything, and I let myself be annoyed for a good six months. I finally replaced it with something that works.

- I dislike grocery shopping, so I rarely did it, which actually put me at the store MORE frequently. I started using one of the online grocery shopping websites, and now I finish shopping in ten minutes and the order is delivered to my door.

This is the whole "right tool, right time" concept that I'm slowly getting the hang of. I can only conclude that I allowed myself to be inconvenienced like this because at some level I thought I didn't deserve better. But the pleasure I get from these improvements is so great that now I'm searching for more. More! Especially if they are free!

I know there are sites out there like lifehacker.com for these types of fixes, but I'm just not going to spend a weekend making a supercable or a DIY bike rack. I like the easy ones. If you've made some of these improvements in your own life, I'd love to hear them.

Farewell, Negative Nelly

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 18:47:00 +0000

Once upon a time I worked as the house manager of a small theater. Every night I ran around calling times, getting the cast ready, and prepping the lobby for the audience to enter. Tim, the box office guy, sold tickets at the window that faced the street.

Our show had a hard start time, and 95% of the audience arrived with plenty of time to spare. But every night there was invariably a group of people that would arrive either at or as many as 15 minutes after the start of the show. This bothered me. "Can we still buy tickets?" they would gasp as they ran up to the window or pounded on the door. My instinct, every single time, was to say, "No - you've already missed the start of the show and you'll distract everyone by entering the theater late. Try again tomorrow."

Tim, however, was totally gracious. "You're right on time," he would say, "they're just getting started." At first it drove me bonkers, but eventually I understood all of the things that Tim accomplished in that moment:

- He put the anxious audience members at ease
- He let them feel good about their choice to come to the show
- He allowed them to have the experience they intended to have
- He got money for the theater

That story has become a personal benchmark for my Negative Nelly tendencies. I notice that in many situations, my first response is NO. This attitude can permeate everything, veiling my world in a dull, patchy cloak. I meet someone new, and the first thing I report about them is that they mumble. I read an article online, and I pick out each typo.

Lately I've been experimenting with ways to retire Negative Nelly, and I think it's having an effect. A few weeks ago I prepared for a meeting that I expected to be antagonistic. Some colleagues wanted me to take on a massive project that I felt was their responsibility, and I was not looking forward to the fight. But instead of putting on my scowly face, I imagined that the word YES was imprinted across my heart. Abstract, yes, but you know what? It worked. Even though I still argued my point, I came at it with the intent to collaborate, not block. It was a great meeting.

I feel that as I get older, it's my responsibility to be more gracious to other people. I'm not sure why I feel this. Maybe it's a sign of a stabilizing ego, more confidence, or simply a desire to grow into the person I'd like to be. It's as if Nelly represents the insecure control freak in me, and I don't feel so much allegiance to that persona anymore.

There is more work to be done in this department, especially when I spend a lot of time in the snarky world of Internet media. But this effort is worth it. I know that my positive energy can affect other people, and it feels good to get that positive energy back. I'll leave Nelly to the pissed off teenagers who need her.

Are You Still the Same Person?

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 06:04:00 +0000

Last night at a show I ran into a gal I hadn't seen in close to six years. I don't even remember how she and I first met, but I recall that our attempt at friendship was a bit uneasy. We fell out of touch gradually, and neither of us made an effort to continue knowing each other. These things happen--people float in and out of our lives.

When she recognized me and said hello, standing in a busy part of the club where people jostled me as they squeezed by, it took me a second to recognize her. Then I got it. "Tracy! Wow! How are you?" She said she was doing great and gave me a quick update. Her turn: "So Jane - are you still living near the park? Are you still cycling? Are you still friends with Lisa and Ann? Are you playing any sports? Are you still involved with the film festival?" Me: "No, No, No, No, No."

I told her that my life was different now. Really different. Tracy had this weird look on her face--a combination of disappointment and shock. She kept turning to her friend and saying stuff like, "Jane was really hardcore - she would cycle from downtown all the way up to her house every day." I probably did that four times, total. I was involved with the film festival exactly once, and I never played sports. Tracy had formed an inaccurate image of me in her mind and had held on to it for years.

This in itself isn't such a huge deal. We all form ideas of who other people are, and those ideas become part of our reality. Tracy was comforted in some way by believing that I was a suburban-dwelling, film-festival-going cyclist, and when I told her that none of it was true anymore, her reality suffered a tiny rip. It will stay ripped until she decides to accept the present.

I think that those of us who have been through significant life changes, especially if they are changes of our own creation, are more likely to over-accept sudden new states of being in people we know. Oh, you quit your job and went back to school? Great! You sit at home and play Xbox all day? Fine! You're a girl now? Okeydokey! While there are pitfalls to that approach (we don't ask WHY it's ok to sit on your ass all day with the Xbox), I prefer it to Tracy's shrine of the past.

Tracy reminded me of a bunch of old stuff I didn't want to be reminded of. Even though her memory of details from my previous life was impressive, I didn't want to talk about them. In fact, I couldn't get away from her fast enough. Sometimes, dredging up the past with another person causes more pain than nostalgia.

I'm handling these types of situations a little better these days, but I still find it hard to remember to give myself good PR. Did I have to tell Tracy that Lisa and Ann dumped me as a friend? No, I could have just said that we haven't talked in a long time. Instead of being on the defensive with her, explaining the loss of each aspect of my life, I could have simply told her that I made some big and positive changes. Because that's the best trump card there is: "My life is different now, and I'm happy."

Can Rich Girls Sing the Blues?

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 18:33:00 +0000

So there we were watching Etta James belt out "At Last" on stage a couple of weeks ago. After the show, my friend and I discussed Beyonce's rendition of the same song at the inaugural ball. My friend floated the theory that Beyonce had no business singing the blues because she grew up privileged and never had to suffer.

I believe that line of reasoning is elitist and wrong. Here's why.

An artist is an emotionally expressive person with a proclivity for a creative endeavor which they use as an outlet for those emotions. Most artists I know are compelled to create, and if one medium stops working for them (like acting), they switch to another one (like painting). They are still working out the same feelings, but what's visible to the public may shift.

If an artist sings, paints, acts, or sculpts joy, where does that joy come from? From wherever. From their past, from the trees outside, from the sound of laughter in the apartment next door. The artist channels what is within and without into their work. Same for pain.

Remember Monster's Ball? Halle Berry played the role of a broke and desperate woman whose child is killed. Then she takes up a guy who, it turns out, assisted in her late husband's prison execution. At the time, Halle Berry was not a mom and didn't know anyone on death row. If we apply my friend's Blues theory, Berry was not qualified to play that character because she had no personal experience with the subject matter. Berry won an Oscar.

Joss Stone's first album came out in 2003. She sang covers of soul, R&B, and blues songs, and the thing went multi-platinum. She was 16, middle class, and British.

When we are unconvinced by a performance or a piece of art, it's easy to point to that artist's lack of experience with the subject matter as explanation. But that isn't really the cause--it's whether or not the artist is any good. The good ones make up for their lack of experience with research and the ability to imagine themselves in a similar situation. Secondary, or empathetic emotions, are still real emotions. Maybe my friend is put off by Beyonce because she uses the same depth of feeling for "At Last" as she does for "All the Single Ladies."

I don't think it matters what feelings or experiences artists draw from. It's none of our business. Our job as consumers of art is to fine our own personal connection with that art. It's ridiculous to tell someone that they must live a long life of suffering in order to convincingly sing a three minute song.

We expect a lot from artists. We want them to express the feelings that we can't. We want them to suffer so we don't have to. We want them to transport us to another place. But above all that, we really just want them to be good.

DIFLAG?

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 18:28:00 +0000

I took a trip. And just like when I take any long trip, I saw some amazing sights, felt like a boundless idiot on a regular basis, learned some things about myself, and made some decisions about what I should do differently next time.

Even though I've traveled a fair amount, I'm still working on traveling in a way that lets me feel like myself. Do you know what I mean? Let's say that at home you live in a nicely furnished apartment and spend very little on food. But if you go on a trip and flip it around, staying at crap places and spending a zillion bucks on food, something wouldn't feel right. You wouldn't be honoring what you value at home.

I decided to be footloose and fancy-free on this trip, so I arrived with no plan, no real knowledge of the place, no idea how I would get around. "I'll be organic!" I thought, "I'll go where the wind takes me!" Turns out that was a very bad idea. I am a planner. Not having even a rough idea of what I was going to do next made me despondent--not just because of the uncertainty, but because I was beating myself up for not having the capacity for this organic freedom I'd envisioned.

So one night I stayed up late and mapped out a rough plan for the rest of the trip. A weight lifted off my shoulders, and I finally started enjoying myself. That was Lesson #1: Be who you are.

On to the boundless idiot challenge. I kept having these moments where I felt like something other than a grown-up. I even wrote pages in my notebook titled "Do I Feel Like A Grownup?" which later I abbreviated as "DIFLAG?" I divided the page into YES and NO columns. Here's a sample page:

DIFLAG?

YES: Drank good microbrew in hotel bar. Looked decent today. Nice conversation with hotel proprietor.

NO: Lost sunglasses. Left passport & boarding pass in airport bathroom (though found). Didn't print any airline itineraries, causing havoc.

The benefit of writing these down was that I could go back to them later and figure out what I needed to change so that I wouldn't feel like that anymore. Common themes that emerged from the NO column were: (1) being disorganized, (2) sharing an environment with messy 21-year-olds, and (3) being heavily inconvenienced just to save a few bucks.

It was fairly easy to get myself more organized (the old Anti-Dishevelment Program, which is 1. Stop. 2. Get your shit together. 3. Proceed), and when I finally stopped staying at youth hostels I no longer felt like the weird older lady. But the switch I never quite accomplished was to spend the extra money to make my own life easier. I strongly resisted shelling out ten dollars on a cab when I knew that I could take the bus for $1.50. So I'd lug my bags up giant hills, wait for a half hour, bruise my shins getting my luggage on board, then sit there for 40 minutes while the perceived value of what I'd just done declined rapidly.

Lesson #2: If you do something that makes you feel bad or undervalued, don't do it again.

One of the challenges of traveling alone is that there is no one nearby who can offer an alternative to dumb things you decide to do. Negotiating this things aloud with myself just made me look like a crazy person. My notebook played the friend role, reminding me of what happened last time I decided that the cockroach in the room wasn't such a big deal. Now that I'm home I'm not keeping a running DIFLAG notebook, but once in a while I'll do a mental check to make sure there are more things in the YES column.

Isle of Man: Courtship

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 00:53:00 +0000

Evolutionary psychology tells us that men are programmed to have a lot of sex and women are programmed to find a long-term provider for her kids (even if kids will never be part of the equation). This is not to say that women don’t also want sex and that men don’t also want a long term relationship, but the approaches are different.

Women know how to make a man want to have sex with them, and men know how to make women to want to be in a relationship with them; those are easy. But flip it around and you get a wealth of assistance: books, seminars, and DVDs that advise women on how to get a man into a relationship, and tell men how to get into a woman’s pants. We need help, once again, to crack the code.

Lately I've been geeking out on the seduction community – the society of men who attempt to go from AFC (average frustrated chump) to PUA (pick-up artist) by improving their self-confidence and employing psychological and emotional tricks on their female subjects so they can get laid a lot. While creepy, I don’t really have a problem with what these guys are learning. Working on their “outer game” may turn them into cheeseballs who prey on drunk girls, but developing their “inner game” gives them the confidence they’ll need once they get bored with the drunk girls and decide to focus on their jobs again.

The reason these guys get into the seduction community in the first place is the same as the one echoed by many of my male friends: trying to pick up women is intimidating. And when they say intimidating, they mean they are terrified of rejection. The one and only time my friend approached a woman in a bar, this is what happened:

Him: “Can I give you my number?”
Her: “Do I have to call it?”

I’m not trying to portray every man as a twitchy pre-adolescent, but I think that in general, their hearts are more fragile than women’s when it comes to courtship. The balance of power lies with the woman until she accepts his advance, then it tends to equalize. Keep in mind that fundamentally, “getting the girl” is not sport: it’s a biological and psychological imperative. There is a lot at stake for men.

So what should we gals do? Make it easy for the guys and ask them out? Nooooo. This violates the covenant of hunter-hunted, and is no fun for the guys. Of course, some men will tell you that it’s thrilling to be asked out by a woman, but they get the most pleasure out of the pursuit. To that end, they would sure appreciate some signal that lets them know we are not going to crush their souls when they finally walk up to us and say whatever line they've been rehearsing for the last hour. The PUAs call this an IOI, or Indicator of Approach. It’s a silent promise not to laugh in his face.

For the most part, I think that straight men have the toughest role to play in this drama. Their manhood is on the line, they have no idea how women operate, and they hate being rejected. They want very much to become the providers and caretakers we gals want them to be, but getting past our withering stares takes incredible courage. It doesn't end once we’re in relationships with them, either. They continue to be sensitive to our approvals or refusals. So gals, join me in these aspirations for the benefit of men everywhere: encourage their masculinity, keep your disappointment to yourself, and understand your power to harm the twitchy pre-adolescent inside each and every one of them.

Isle of Man: Nurturing

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 16:40:00 +0000

Remember when you were really small and you would get sick? Likely your mom or other female relative cared for you in those times, bringing you soup and creating a cocoon of safety and healing. Then you became a teenager, flexing your independence and coming into your own as a young man or woman. It’s at this point that I believe the split occurs between girls and boys: girls learn to care for their friends or younger siblings, and boys learn about honor, independence, and duty. Boys figure out that they should take care of themselves, and not let mommy do it anymore.

Women are nurturers (no matter what my dying plants indicate), and many of us are in our element when someone else needs help. My question is how women can nurture men without infantalizing them. A man may want or expect his female partner to care for him in the same way his mother did, without actually communicating to his partner what that looked like. And if a woman nurtures too much, she can threaten his basic motivations, turning him into a growly hibernating bear.

I asked a few male friends about this one, and the responses were pretty unanimous. Above all else, men want to feel self-sufficient. They will walk miles after surgery, suffer quietly alone, and deny treatment even if (sometimes *especially if*) a woman is standing by to happily offer help. If things get bad, men do want to be nurtured, but they don’t want to be reminded that it’s happening. More than one male friend offered this advice: “bring me food, scratch my back, then leave me alone.”

Ooooh this is hard for women. We want to care for our men in the same way we’d want them to care for us; in the same way our mothers cared for us. We would be delighted to stroke their hair and coo and make soup (or in my case, buy soup), but we are frequently met with resistance and crankiness. Why? Because we are poking at their masculinity and making them feel five years old. Remember, they learned through a series of playground scraps that only sissies let their mommies take care of them.

Some men I talked to said they are comfortable with receiving help, or that they're trying to be. I suspect the guys want to do this not because they realize that they could make their own lives easier and possibly recover faster, but because they know it makes their female partners happy to offer that care to them.

When women get sick, most men rise to the occasion, as they are providers at heart. Orange juice? Check. The tissue with the goop built in? Check. Rental movies? Double check. They are delighted to run around and do things for the women they love, as it helps them feel like manly protectors (plus, they get a break from us bossing them around). And in case you men out there doubt the importance of your caretaking role, I’ll let you in on a secret. After we recover from our illness or messy drunkenness, one of the first things women report to our friends is the quality of care you provided for us. This is one way we give you social status and communicate your suitability to the task of being our boyfriends.

Some men will always resist receiving care from women, but an equal number of women are wise to their ways. One of my friends has learned to trick her partner into accepting her help, and it’s working out great for both of them. As she hilariously put it, “For example, I'll give him a full body massage claiming it's foreplay and then he'll fall asleep. Any time you claim it's foreplay, he's more apt to accept assistance.” Whatever it takes, guys.

Isle of Man: Communication

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 23:54:00 +0000

I've been doing some reading. In the past month, I've pored through manuals for and exposes about pick-up artists, books about how women should act around men, “manglish” to English translation guides, and I've grilled friends incessantly about their opinions on the topic. My conclusions so far? Women talk to men as if they are women, and men talk to women as if they are men. We have a long way to go before men and women understand each other, and we’re only half-interested in getting there.

The more I learn about what men and women actually mean when they talk to each other, the more I wish we had different dialects. We get suckered into thinking we’re talking about the same thing because we’re all using the same language. While it isn't practical for women to speak to men in Esperanto and to other women in English, it would be great if we could use special words or a different accent. This way we would know that when a man says, “I care about you,” it means something totally different than it would if it came from the mouth of a woman.

So how do we learn about each other? Well, we tend not to ask each other, because we may not be the most qualified people to answer the question. Men commiserate with, but seldom ask the advice of other men, since they understand that their guy friends are equally clueless. They may ask female friends, but it’s mainly for community and support – they don’t want to get beaten up further. Mostly, they wait patiently for whatever the issue is to blow over.

Women are researchers. We read books, we go online, and we talk to our friends, but much of the advice we get is from other women. More than wanting to know how to proceed, we want other people to tell us we’re right and that he’s a big oaf. We are so devoted to the idea that men can change with the proper training that we resist altering the way we speak to them so that they can understand us better. It’s like speaking to someone only in Greek in hopes that they’ll eventually become fluent.

Cracking the code of communication between men and women is not all that hard, but it takes practice. The first step is to understand our basic motivations and avoid mucking with them. If men want to feel like attractive masculine providers, let them. If women want to feel like attractive nurturing producers, let us. If we say something that casts doubts on those values in the other person, it will cut way deeper than we may expect.

“Please tell me you’re not wearing those sandals” messes with his attractiveness
“Pick up your socks” messes with his masculinity
“Why don’t you send me flowers anymore?” messes with his provider instinct

“That dress is fine” messes with her attractiveness
“I’m not sick – leave me alone” messes with her nurturing instinct
“Stop freaking out and do one thing at a time” messes with her productiveness

Communication between men and women is a continual process of trial and error, but there’s something about its failure that keeps us from wanting it gone completely. If we don’t understand each other fully, it means that we’re different, and we want to be different—that difference infuses our romantic and platonic relationships with electricity and mystery. Even if we learn to effectively crack the code of communication, even if it makes for happier relationships and generates positive outcomes, it can make us feel manipulative. We want to understand each other, but we also want to be awed, intrigued, frustrated, and separate from our opposing gender.

What happens when our basic motivations collide? A few examples are coming up next in this new series.

AI 13: Free Will

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 16:14:00 +0000

"There is no place for free will in our understanding of the laws of physics. However diminishing that may make some people feel, I think we need to perhaps face up to the real possibility that the notion of having free will is an illusion. It's a useful illusion, it makes life interesting, and it's one that you need to put to the side because you need to live as though you do have free will, but all there is, is physics."

- Brian Greene in a conversation with Robert Krulwich at the 92nd Street Y. [via]

Thoughts?

AI 12: Exhibitionists

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 17:43:00 +0000

"Ninety-five percent of the world are voyeurs, and 5 percent of the world are exhibitionists. Thank God for the 5 percent."

-Stuart Krasnow, executive producer of "Hole in the Wall," a Japanese-style TV game show that is coming to the U.S. [via]

What's Wrong? Nothing.

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 16:40:00 +0000

A few weeks ago I surveyed a group of friends about communication and relationships--you'll see their responses come up over the next few posts. First up is the "what's wrong?" / "nothing" dynamic. As Edie Brickell told us lo those years ago, "there's nothing I hate more than nothing." But what's really going on? Are we gals waiting for our partners to pry? Are we silent until we're ready to talk? What?

This is what I asked the guys:

Let's say you're with a female partner/romantic interest/friend, and there is CLEARLY something going on that is upsetting her, yet she says nothing. What do you do? Do you drag it out of her? How does it make you feel? Do you ever do the same thing?

Oh, men. You want so much to fix things and to help us feel better, but the more you cajole us into telling you what's wrong, the more we punish you for it. And then if you don't ask us, we punish you for that too. My male friends have a few different strategies here, ranging from dragging it out even if it creates a conflict, to sitting quietly nearby until the lady cares to speak.

A lot of men feel horrible when their partners do, and they want to make us feel better so that they can go back to feeling ok too. So they call us out on our moodiness, toolbox in hand. Other guys (who, I note, have been or are in long term relationships) say something like, "I can see that something's going on, and if you want to talk about it, I'm here." They know that needling the girl will make the girl angry, so they wait patiently. And sometimes, the problem will melt away by itself.

What about the times when something is bothering a guy and *he* doesn't want to talk about it? It means he doesn't want to talk about it. He wants us to notice, but not pry like we're his mother. I think we gals often project what we think is best for us onto the people around us; it doesn't always work.

Even though its directness cannot be disputed, I wouldn't recommend that the straight boys adopt the approach my good friend uses with his male partner, which is to walk up and say, "what the fuck is your problem?"

Here's what I asked the girls:

Let's say you're with a male partner/romantic interest/friend, and there is something going on that is upsetting you, yet you say nothing. What do you want him to do? Drag it out of you? Let it slide? Gently pry? If you actually do keep quiet in these times, why?

Despite what the guys fear, several gals told me that a man noticing, and more importantly, asking about what is bothering them equals love. We want to be seen and understood, and while we claim that we want to be asked about everything, there is one important caveat: let us stop being mad first. We know ourselves well enough that having a discussion while we're all pissy is a recipe for disaster. And if the men are too blunt in their inquiries, we will react to the bluntness rather than answer the question. We may need a little time to sort out our feelings.

If you'll allow (another) generalization, men don't get hints. Trying to subtly let him know that something is bugging us by making the bed really quickly or being quiet at dinner is not gonna work. Other women will pick up on it in a nanosecond, but a guy appreciates hearing "something is bothering me and I do / do not want to talk about it now." If we give him a cue, he can take it from there.

Women are talkers--this is how we figure out the world and each other. In general, we feel better after we talk about things, but we can get stressed out during moments of silence (which we sometimes create). Then we experience what I like to call "silent escalation." In the man's mind, it's a non-issue. In the woman's mind, it's something terribly wrong that is now blowing out of proportion. I am totally guilty of creating these situations for a variety of dumb reasons: conflict avoidance, uncertainty about whether the topic is worth discussing, incredulity that it isn't bothering the guy as well. Most of the time, it's all in my mind.

The moral of the story? Girls, USE YOUR WORDS. Guys, inquire gently, but put the hammer away.

Discrediting the Witness

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 22:10:00 +0000

Lately I've been noticing techniques that some people use to make other people sound ape-shit crazy. This concept of "discrediting the witness" can take place in manipulative and infuriating ways, and a lot of the time, it works. One notable example is from a recent episode of This American Life where a guy tried to discredit a completely sane woman who was really mad at him by saying, "her behavior at that meeting actually showed signs of mental illness."

In court, trial attorneys try to paint the other team's witness as confused, biased, and inconsistent in order to further the case of their own client and tell a positive (or at least a not-as-damaging) story to the jury. Moderators of political talk shows use tactics so that the audience will believe that the guests are muddled and sputtering. Some of these techniques, especially the ones where the interviewer chortles smugly or shakes his head sadly, make my blood boil.

For the most part, people want to feel like they are aligned with the right side. Having a spokesperson who is confident in his or her belief system helps people feel safe and secure. We all want to be part of a community of like-minded people, and despite our ability to judge for ourselves, we can be swayed by whomever presents his case the best. It doesn't matter that we have no opinions of our own on certain topics--if the radio gal comes across as logical and the other person comes across as an idiot, we'll parrot what the radio gal says. At least, until someone makes the radio gal look dumb.

When the same exchanges take place in the world beyond the court and the media, it gets personal. The guy or gal doing the discrediting often argues from a place of defensiveness and fear, as it isn't a political party or economic policy he's defending, but his own moral foundation; his understanding of the way the world works. He may also feel hurt or threatened, so he lashes out. Let's look back at the guy from This American Life, who, incidentally, sounds exactly someone from my own life who once said the same thing about me.

Consider the stakes for him: if he's right and the woman *is* mentally ill, then he no longer has to justify his position, he doesn't have to consider her point of view, and he can stay accepted by his community. He also benefits from looking like he is blaming something external to the woman--her illness--rather than targeting her character. He gets away with not addressing her concerns at all, as the mental illness diagnosis is a distraction tactic. "Don't listen to her! She's sick!" If he's wrong, he'll be discredited himself.

The woman, meanwhile, is stonewalled. It no longer matters that her position is credible, because she is not granted a venue. She hears, "if you would only let me explain to you why you are crazy, and why I am right, then you'll eventually agree with me." She walks out, which the guy takes as an admission of guilt. There can be no dialogue, only disengagement.

I'd like to believe that only people who hold ridiculous and untenable beliefs employ these manipulative maneuvers, but it isn't true. If I'm talking to someone who claims that the Holocaust was a hoax, you'd better believe that I'm going to discredit him as strongly as I can. But as my friend Mick reminds me, I do not have the ability to irrefutably prove a truth to another person who is hell-bent on believing something different.

Conspiracy theorists love their conspiracies, as they offer not only a belief system but a social community. And at a deeper level, arguing about their beliefs is tantamount to killing their friends. So while I'd very much like to poke these chortlers and head-shakers right in the eyeballs, I'm starting to understand what is at stake for them. It can be profoundly scary to embrace the unknown, allow for our minds to be changed, and find a new community.

Right/Wrong Place, Wrong/Right Time

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 16:27:00 +0000

I read my first Charles Bukowski book when I was 34. I didn't get it, and I called my brother to complain. He said, "no no no - it's too late for you to read Bukowski. You needed to do that when you were 19 and pissed off." In that spirit, I'd like to explore the concept of "right place, wrong time" and all of its variants. I can think of a million examples like this one where personal growth and timing just don't sync up.

In the past I would beat myself up for missing out on a band, a relationship, a city, or a friendship that in hindsight looked wonderful. I now understand that there was some reason I didn't pursue the opportunity at the time--something wasn't right for me or I wasn't ready for it. Why didn't I become a foley artist when I had the chance? Why didn't I backpack across Europe with my friends when I was 18? Because at the time, I didn't want to or I didn't have the resources (emotional or financial) to make it happen.

It's nice that I'm more accepting of this today, but I still have Ever So Slight control issues that make this understanding a continual effort. And there's a flip side: if we embrace a "this too shall pass" philosophy and believe that the passage of time could make us more suited to a situation, do we wait for that moment to come along? How long do you stay with a job/marriage/friend in hopes that it will get better? Do you work really hard at making it better? Do you wait passively while your brain screams, "WHEN shall it pass?"

And of course there are other people in the equation. I've started relationships with people who, by all accounts, looked perfect for me. Then either I realized or they realized that the timing was not right and it had to end. Acknowledging cruddy timing can be devastating since it seems like such a vague reason for two people not to be together. So we move on with our lives and one day decide that it's the right time for the relationship that didn't work out years before. The right person is gone, but the right time outweighs our loneliness and we choose a great person who is nearby and available.

I tend to keep moving forward rather than dwell on the past. However, I think it's worth occasionally revisiting people, media, and places that I dismissed in the past to see if I've grown enough to accept them in the present. I remember reading "Under the Tuscan Sun" when it came out and despising it, finding the book precious and grating. Well, of course I did. Ten years ago I couldn't relate to any character in the book, I wasn't interested in cooking, and I didn't care about Italy. Reading it today could be a very different experience.

In the late 90s I worked with a woman I liked a lot, but with whom I had some mild competitive friction as our jobs were fairly similar. We eventually established a polite friendship, and then she moved away. Over the next several years we spoke on the phone and emailed, but our friendship never found its footing. It took her moving back to town, both of us shedding our respective partners, and growing up a little to finally create the close friendship that both of us confessed to wanting from day one. The right time was worth wating for.

AI 11: Glass Houses

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 03:15:00 +0000

A friend:

"I wrecked my glass house years ago. Now I'm just playing in the shards."

Dissociation and Displacement

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 02:15:00 +0000

Your cel phone makes a particular sound when you get a text message or a call. Let's say you are in the midst of a break-up or a strained time with a friend or family member, and every time your phone chimes, you tense up. It might not actually be that person contacting you, but you have a Pavlovian reaction to the sound. Once the stressful time passes, do you change the ring on your phone?

Some of us create associations between stressful memories and objects, smells, foods, neighborhoods, and even entire cities. And when we encounter them, we punish those poor innocent things and places over and over again for the negative association that we created with them in the first place. Dr. Pepper never harmed me personally, but it reminds me so strongly of an ex-boyfriend that I vowed years ago never to drink the stuff again. What the hell? Couldn't I just be mad at him and not take it out on a soda?

When I asked a few friends about this, the girls could come up with examples, and the boys could not. San Francisco reminded one woman of a terrible trip she was on with an ex-boyfriend, and she's never been back. A festival here in Seattle reminds another of the death of her father, so she has spent a decade hating the event and everything attached to it.

What we gals are doing here is called displacement. For whatever reason, we don't feel like we can express our anger or regret at the person who caused our pain, so we blame something safer. It's no longer acceptable for me to freak out on a person who traumatized me in the past, but I can definitely avoid the neighborhood where it happened. As if the neighborhood had anything to do with it.

Of course men employ this defense mechanism too, but I think that more often it's triggered by anger or sexual frustration than nostalgia. Something bad happens at work, and he comes home and yells at his kid. His partner withholds sex, so he plays a little too roughly on the basketball court the next day. For the most part, the guys don't freak out when presented with a plate of mashed potatoes because it reminds them of an evil babysitter.

I'm starting to catalog the emotional associations I have with particular items to see if I can put them all through a dissociation machine. This is where the guys are giving me some good advice. One friend told me that he reclaimed all of those locations and smells and tastes so that he wouldn't be controlled by them anymore. He said that it is empowering to encounter a trigger from his past and know that he's moved beyond it. Dissociating also helps us stop displacing, directing the emotions where they belong: at the person or situation from the past.

My friend who avoided the festival accomplished an amazing feat of dissociation this year: instead of merely staying in town during the event, she volunteered to get right in the middle of everything as a photographer's assistant. In one fell swoop she reconfigured the tie she had made between the festival and her father. Her participation in the event would not undermine his memory or drown her in pain; instead, she decided, it would become the perfect way to honor her dad and reclaim her life.

AI 10: Artless

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 21:38:00 +0000

There are a couple of people in my outer circle whom I admire greatly for their creativity and talent. Whenever we get together, which isn't that often, we have wonderful conversations and I walk away energized and happy. But after a couple of months with no contact, I find myself in a crisis of confidence about reaching out to them. What could I possibly offer to to these artistic geniuses? I am not creative in the same way, so does that mean I am uninteresting? Suddenly I feel that I need to have some inventive project in the hopper to qualify to contact them at all. So I don't.

Does this ever happen to you? If so, what do you do about it?

AI 9: Not All That

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 23:40:00 +0000

How the universe regularly reminds me that I'm Not All That:

I'm feeling cosmopolitan and lovely and am aware that a few people in the coffee shop are checking me out. I bend down to plug in my laptop and clonk myself on the forehead, which immediately turns into a bright red welt. The people look away.

Kids

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 07:09:00 +0000

It's breeding season. Or rather, it's the 2nd trimester after breeding season when future parents start telling their friends The News. Of the four couples I know who are due in December, two are overjoyed and two are working to make the best of the situation. All of these upcoming babies are making me think about my choices, which I like to re-examine once in a while.

Even though women are waiting longer these days to start having kids, they've probably been thinking about it forever, waiting for the time, the person, and the finances to be right. And then what happens when they're ready and no one is by their side? Several of my friends are disappointed that they don't already have families, and they are trying their damnedest to invite the circumstances that will let it happen. It must be a huge emotional challenge to focus on finding the right partner first and worry about kids second. How do you ignore the ticking clock and focus on a relationship?

If we happen to be single and pushing 40, the kid question often comes up before the first date. This new concept of "wasting time" is upon us; do I bother going out even one time with someone who wants kids when I don't? What if I'm totally compatible with someone who has been aching for kids forever? Honestly, I'd probably try to quash that compatibility up front to avoid the pain of breaking up later. While I have no plans to be single in my 40s, at least by then the baby topic will be off the table (and replaced by conflict with the boyfriend's teenage daughter).

One friend, after spending the last ten years certain that kids were not in her future, is now hypothetically entertaining the idea. I went through this myself, and I think it's an important exercise. We need to know that we are free to choose whatever course we want; even if we're 90% certain, that other 10% needs its day in the sun. And who knows? Maybe finally having the freedom to make the choice can change our opinions.

Most parents I know are overjoyed with their roles, but a few muse about what their lives could have been like without the kids. They do not say these words aloud very often. While it's a routine assumption that kids will visit you when you are old, they are not insurance policies against loneliness. I'm pretty sure that when I'm 60, 70, and 80, I'll be spending my time in the same way I would if I had kids: hanging out with my friends, traveling, and working. There are always ways to get young people into my life, and one day some of those young people could be my new family unit.

Gay couples in search of kids have it harder than the straight ones no matter how you slice it, though I'll tell you that an overwhelming majority of those babies are planned for and wanted, as opposed to the number of surprise babies that emerge from the straight community. Either way, it seems like a better strategy to find the right relationship first so you have a good foundation for the emotional roller coaster of failed and successful pregnancies and the raising of a child. That journey is not for sissies.

Regret for doing or not doing something is difficult to predict. I allow for the prospect of waking up one day when I'm 50 and feeling that I'd made a terrible mistake in not having kids. But on the other hand, I love my life, my friends, and my freedom, and I plan for it to continue this way for as long as possible. Choosing a path means not going down a myriad of other paths--we can either keep switching, or accept it and move forward. Me? I'm going to be a fantastic auntie and doting friend, and I will make this path sparkle.

Dumb Behavior Insurance

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 04:43:00 +0000

The other day my friend illuminated me to the fact that professional athletes often take out reproductive insurance. This is a rider policy (as it were) that limits paternity payouts to their probably-not-girlfriends. Apparently it's a badge of honor to spread athletic seed, and not uncommon for women to seek robust DNA for their progeny. So I gather that after a claim, an insurance agent calls the baby mama's lawyer and says, "We have reproductive insurance. You get a flat $150K and you can never call him again."

It's interesting to me is that there is an insurance policy specifically tailored for irresponsible behavior. While my medical insurance exists to cover me for strange ailments and accidents, this one protects someone from the consequences of idiotic actions that are entirely preventable. This is getting me thinking about what types of insurance policies I would invent if I could.

The first one would be insurance against a prolonged break-up. So like two weeks after the breakup, the insurance agent would call my ex-boyfriend and say, "sir, we've noticed that the date of your breakup was 14 days ago, and yet you and Jane continue to spend a large amount of time together. Jane has a policy taken out for this, so from now on you can only see her at parties. She has no hard feelings and thinks you're great."

Another insurance policy would be to save me from mixing alcohol in short periods of time. Let's say I'm in a bar and I think it's a good idea to follow up my vodka drink with some tequila. Bing! My friendly insurance agent would appear from nowhere and tell the bartender, "I'm sorry, but Jane has a specific restriction against mixing alcohol. You may only serve her vodka or water until she leaves the bar. Her policy will pay for both rejected and future drinks."

I would also take out coverage for prolonged silences caused by miscommunication. An alarm in my insurance agent's office would sound when my anxiety level reaches a certain state, and he or she would arrange a conference call with me and the other person. "As you know, Jane has a policy out against prolonged, awkward silences. Let's clear this up right now."

Some people could benefit from insurance for the impulsive purchase of handbags. For example, you find a $250 purse that you must have right now because you are lonely or pissed off. You hand over your credit card, and an alert pops up. Cashier: "Oh it looks like your insurance policy says you have a mandatory seven day waiting period on any bag over $100. Should I put this on hold for you?"

There are a few things that I keep doing, regretting, learning, unlearning, then doing again. Buying coverage for them would be great. What insurance policies would you invent?

It's All Been Done

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 19:11:00 +0000

Picture this: you're at a party at the invitation of a friend of a friend. You do not know the hostess. The party is jammed, you're feeling a little awkward, but you mingle and drink and try to engage with people you don't know. It's time for a bathroom break. There is a line. You make it in there, and end up going #2. You flush. It does not flush. Oh my god it is not flushing. You figure the chain snapped so you just need to lift off the lid on the back of the toilet...dear god what are all these goddamn statuettes and crap doing on top of the toilet? You quickly take all the stuff off the lid and scatter them on the counter, on the floor, on the shelf so that you can take the lid off. You get the lid off and stick your hand in the water to feel the chain. The chain is intact. It isn't the chain. DEAR GOD IT ISN'T THE CHAIN. WHERE IS THE PLUNGER? The plunger is not in the cupboard or behind the toilet and you realize it must be in another bathroom or outside in a linen closet. If you open the door the line of people will see the disaster zone you have created in this stranger's bathroom, your deposit still floating in the toilet. You are so frustrated you could cry. You call your friend who is in the living room but she doesn't hear her phone. Mortified, you finally realize you have to leave the bathroom and go talk to the hostess and ask her what to do. You open the bathroom door exactly as wide as your body, close it behind you, and say to the next girl in line, "there is a problem with the toilet and I wouldn't go in there." The girl looks at you in horror and disgust. You find the hostess and explain the situation. Your cheeks are as red as beets and you are vibrating with anxiety. The hostess says, "oh god, that happens all the time. Just jiggle the handle and flush it again."

These types of situations used to stress me out to the point of tears. Knocking things over, breaking handles from items, taking 4 tries to parallel park, snagging a ring on someone else's sweater; it all devastated me. But then a couple of years ago I had a mild epiphany: every single incident, breakage, and moment of embarrassment has happened a zillion times before, and everyone survived. We think our disasters are original, but they are not. And this gives me peace.

A lot of times it isn't our clumsiness or stupidity that causes these situations, but poor design, limited visibility, a non-functioning machine, a bad angle, or the wrong combination of garments. We tend to accept the blame for interactions that were doomed for failure long before we arrived. Once I realized this, it not only allowed me to let go of stress, but it let me feel more connected to the zillions of people who had probably done the same thing I just did. Knowing that it's all been done before also removed the emotion from the situation and helped me focus on figuring out what may have caused the problem in the first place.

This is not to say that I don't have my bull-in-china-shop moments, but now rather than feeling all freaked out about knocking over the tiny table in the middle of the room, I move the damned table.

AI 8: Mythological Templates

intotheawkward@gmail.com (Jane Somebody) — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 14:05:00 +0000

You know those dreams where you show up to high school naked, or you find out at the last minute that you aren't going to graduate, or are unprepared for an exam? Some say that those are mythological templates for the anxiety we feel in our waking lives. So if we have templates for anxiety in our dreams, we must have them for other emotions too.

Do you have recurring or thematic dreams that represent love or fear? Do beautiful people or tigers chase you while you sleep?