Men and Women?

I happened upon this quote from Katharine Hepburn: "Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then." I feel like that sometimes. I understand women better than I do men, although a male friend of mine claims that understanding men is easy: they always and only say what they mean, and there are no secret agendas or hidden meanings. (Up for debate in my humble opinion, especially since said friend admitted that he often "tricks" women into "stealth dating" him by proclaiming interest in a professional collaboration, and then transitioning that into a romantic relationship.) But as much as I enjoy the company of women, I also enjoy being a woman in the company of men. There's something energizing about being surrounded by men, especially those who are just drunk enough to be uncensored but not dangerous--it's like an all-access pass into an entirely new way of thinking and speaking, like a vacation from the mundane. Of course, always being in the company of men and being able to hold one's own--whether the discussion is politics, philosophy, dating or pop culture--can sometimes transform a woman into just one of the guys, privy to locker room talk and lowering blinds that prevent her from being seen as a woman. She becomes an audience, or a brain, or a sharp wit--good because she ceases to be the enemy and may even achieve the status of a conversational equal. But maybe there are things that men say to men that they shouldn't say to women. What do you think? (More substantive posts to come next week, hopefully...)

"Free to Be" -- First Person Singular (JW)

This time I'm reprinting the whole column here, for your convenience...and I have to say that given the tax I had to pay on this year's purported income, the column turned out to be remarkably prescient. May your days be filled with the sweetness of freedom.--EDK Free to Be... by Esther D. Kustanowitz Growing up, I often listened to a work of feminism undercover as children’s album and book — “Free to Be You and Me.” From “Free to Be,” I learned that I could be anything, that parents were people and that “every boy in this land learns to be his own man, and in this land every girl grows to be her own woman.” I learned that partners should not be your superiors, but equals, running neck-and-neck with you until you both cross the finish line together. I learned that those who expect to be treated like royalty because of their looks and who demand “ladies first” will probably be eaten by a pack of hungry tigers. (Metaphorical tigers, I’m sure.) Today, with the girl in me having grown to be her own woman, living single and independent, even my profession has liberation in its name: I am a freelance writer. Friends are envious. I am my own boss, I choose my projects and my hours, and I’m flexible — able to work at a coffee shop or a library. When summer arrives early, I can take an hour to enjoy the sunshine or sit in the park, while my peers are chained to their desks. But with no central employer, I’m also free to worry, buy my own health insurance, and to wonder if my doctors will suddenly decide — as they recently did —that they’re no longer accepting my coverage. I wonder if I can stretch this month’s earnings to cover next month’s expenses. I’ve got to stay on top of my invoices, or my clients will feel free to not pay me. And if I can’t make freelancing work, I’m free to either get a full-time job or, although I haven’t asked them, to move back in with my parents. So freelancing isn’t really free. With no such thing as a free lunch, there are always obligations, strings attached, although they might not be visible at the time. Pessimists say that’s what dating’s all about — determining if the inevitable strings attached to supposedly free meals are strings you can live with. I don’t love that definition, but it makes me realize that for all of my professional independence, financially, I’m not all that free. I have often wished that I were part of a creative commune, where we would all work to provide each other with sustenance and shelter, with enough to enable us to focus on our creative work without worrying about financial security. We could judge each other by the content of our characters rather than have our perceptions tinted through money-colored glasses. On this creative kibbutz, a basic stability would free our minds. We wouldn’t need excess, only comfort, to create. And by being more in touch with our inner muses, we’d be truer versions of ourselves, more open to relationships, and, to paraphrase the Bard, we would not admit impediments to the marriage of true minds. For artists and other miscellaneous creatives, the search for comfort is constant. They hope that a deep enough excavation will uncover love, happiness or some other great truth. But once a dream is achieved or a truth is attained, everything shifts, compelling the creation of a new dream, a higher goal, a deeper truth. Writing itself — as profession, leisure activity, spiritual exercise, intellectual inquiry or demonic exorcism — is not a right; it’s a luxury, living in the domain of the independent and the land of the free. Every spring, Jews revisit freedom as a concept. And we don’t think solely of our literally enslaved ancestors: we think of the restrictions that we have placed on ourselves, metaphorical enslavements of the heart, will and mind. We understand that our inability to move forward in relationships or our fear of change isn’t slavery of the make-bricks-from-mud-and-straw variety. Actual slavery still exists throughout the world — from poverty in New York to Indian children born into brothels, from Russian prostitutes in Israel to poverty, violence and atrocities in Darfur. And here I am, pondering my metaphorical freedom and my own professional “enslavement” to Manhattan rents and sub-par insurance plans and complaining that a month of JDate is too expensive. My freedoms aren’t rights. They’re luxuries. And all of the smaller enslavements of daily existence for a single youngish American Jewish freelancer — even JDate — are insignificant when you consider the major benefit to living in a free society: I have the luxury to keep on dreaming.

Best Way to Advertise Your Upcoming Record Release? JDate

I just got a press release about Chad Love (not Chad Lowe), a hip-hop artist who is taking advantage of the "enormous web portal" at JDate to promote his upcoming album. (Visit his site for samples, a theme that borrows heavily from the Six Million Dollar Man and the Terminator--and a bit from The Lion King--and a creepy graphic of the artist as his sunglasses seem to blink at you in an indication that he may be becoming Jeff Goldblum in The Fly.) His PR people are calling him a "Crossover where all ethic [sic] backgrounds can take center stage in creating new visions using past inspiration in the hip-hop world." That's right...JDate is the new MySpace for somewhat Jewish artists. Um, isn't this illegal? I went to the Terms of Service to find out. While they do impose a 30-message a day limit to protect members against people who might use the site for spam solicitations, the only other limit on what's in the communications is "You will not engage in advertising to, or solicitation of, other members to buy or sell any products or services through the Service." Technically speaking, Chad Love's people are promoting him, which is one technical step removed from contract violations. Maybe. I'm still not convinced. In any rate, the move makes sense at least in terms of language. Firstly, his name is "Love," so I get the theoretical connection to JDate as a place that one might (theoretically) find love. Secondly, in record terminology, he's gonna drop the record like it's hot, and people on JDate get dropped all the time like hot potatoes. So poetically, I'm on board with it. And after seeing the dude and hearing his tunes, you know the dude's Jewish--he sounds like Derek Zoolander. The site describes him as an Italian Jue, a "Pizza Bagel", and someone who grew up in "an upper-class suburb of New York City." But that don't mean he ain't keepin' it realz, yo. Does he roll on Shabbos? Probably, because it's hard out there for a pimp.

"Free to Be" -- First Person Singular (JW)

This time I'm reprinting the whole column here, for your convenience...and I have to say that given the tax I had to pay on this year's purported income, the column turned out to be remarkably prescient. May your days be filled with the sweetness of freedom.--EDK Free to Be... by Esther D. Kustanowitz Growing up, I often listened to a work of feminism undercover as children’s album and book — “Free to Be You and Me.” From “Free to Be,” I learned that I could be anything, that parents were people and that “every boy in this land learns to be his own man, and in this land every girl grows to be her own woman.” I learned that partners should not be your superiors, but equals, running neck-and-neck with you until you both cross the finish line together. I learned that those who expect to be treated like royalty because of their looks and who demand “ladies first” will probably be eaten by a pack of hungry tigers. (Metaphorical tigers, I’m sure.) Today, with the girl in me having grown to be her own woman, living single and independent, even my profession has liberation in its name: I am a freelance writer. Friends are envious. I am my own boss, I choose my projects and my hours, and I’m flexible — able to work at a coffee shop or a library. When summer arrives early, I can take an hour to enjoy the sunshine or sit in the park, while my peers are chained to their desks. But with no central employer, I’m also free to worry, buy my own health insurance, and to wonder if my doctors will suddenly decide — as they recently did —that they’re no longer accepting my coverage. I wonder if I can stretch this month’s earnings to cover next month’s expenses. I’ve got to stay on top of my invoices, or my clients will feel free to not pay me. And if I can’t make freelancing work, I’m free to either get a full-time job or, although I haven’t asked them, to move back in with my parents. So freelancing isn’t really free. With no such thing as a free lunch, there are always obligations, strings attached, although they might not be visible at the time. Pessimists say that’s what dating’s all about — determining if the inevitable strings attached to supposedly free meals are strings you can live with. I don’t love that definition, but it makes me realize that for all of my professional independence, financially, I’m not all that free. I have often wished that I were part of a creative commune, where we would all work to provide each other with sustenance and shelter, with enough to enable us to focus on our creative work without worrying about financial security. We could judge each other by the content of our characters rather than have our perceptions tinted through money-colored glasses. On this creative kibbutz, a basic stability would free our minds. We wouldn’t need excess, only comfort, to create. And by being more in touch with our inner muses, we’d be truer versions of ourselves, more open to relationships, and, to paraphrase the Bard, we would not admit impediments to the marriage of true minds. For artists and other miscellaneous creatives, the search for comfort is constant. They hope that a deep enough excavation will uncover love, happiness or some other great truth. But once a dream is achieved or a truth is attained, everything shifts, compelling the creation of a new dream, a higher goal, a deeper truth. Writing itself — as profession, leisure activity, spiritual exercise, intellectual inquiry or demonic exorcism — is not a right; it’s a luxury, living in the domain of the independent and the land of the free. Every spring, Jews revisit freedom as a concept. And we don’t think solely of our literally enslaved ancestors: we think of the restrictions that we have placed on ourselves, metaphorical enslavements of the heart, will and mind. We understand that our inability to move forward in relationships or our fear of change isn’t slavery of the make-bricks-from-mud-and-straw variety. Actual slavery still exists throughout the world — from poverty in New York to Indian children born into brothels, from Russian prostitutes in Israel to poverty, violence and atrocities in Darfur. And here I am, pondering my metaphorical freedom and my own professional “enslavement” to Manhattan rents and sub-par insurance plans and complaining that a month of JDate is too expensive. My freedoms aren’t rights. They’re luxuries. And all of the smaller enslavements of daily existence for a single youngish American Jewish freelancer — even JDate — are insignificant when you consider the major benefit to living in a free society: I have the luxury to keep on dreaming.

Mars & Venus Go to Shul: Third Date (BlogCarnival of Jewish Dating)

Sorry about the delay in this Carnival...looks like once a month is the best I can hope for with this kind of crazy schedule... and now, with Passover, I probably won't get back to writing here for a week. So enjoy the links, explore on your own and write in with your recommendations for the May edition of Mars & Venus Go to Shul... Mars & Venus First Date Chick, who became blogfamous for chronicling each of her first dates with a new man, has started seeing someone, and is wondering what that might mean for her blog audience. She might want to check in with Honorary Jew (although I'm not sure that's a compliment) Ken Wheaton at the Non-Dating Life with his post about "what to do with your dating blog when you're in a relationship." First-timers club....Ladies and gentlemen, the battle of trying to understand another "planet" doesn't end once you're married...I give you the Muqata on the subject of Passover cleaning. First-time Carnivaler Channahboo, at Little Miss Graham, is a triple submission threat as she presents her views on PDA, adventures with Purim costuming, "Got Milk?"and anthropologically ponders the differences between the Jerusalem single woman who is "Desperately Seeking in Katamon" and the "Katamonster":

The Katamonster deserves no pity as she gives none. She has no pity for the women she tramples over in the scramble to claim her prize; she has no remorse for those she leaves heartbroken in her trail; she bares no thought to the hurtful words she uses to badmouth a competitor.

Whatever happened to sisterhood? Oh yeah, all's fair in love and the search for love. You Don't Look LIke Your Profile (Online Dating Adventures) Our carnival regulars, Hilary and Annabel Lee, are still struggling with the games of dating and relating with guys they meet online. So check them out in general, now and forever. I mean it. P-Life, passionate and high-energy as ever, has thrown himself into a new relationship with a woman from California--they're totally making it work so far, and P-Life took it on himself to sort of semi-retire from his single blogger life, naming me among others as one of the pioneers in the writing about Jewish singles arena. Also calling it quits is JeruGuru. ILikedYourProfile has launched a "funny dating email contest" that could win you a $20 Starbucks card. Hilary gives words to the thoughts of many singles who find themselves homeward bound for Passover. Don't forget to make your submissions for the next edition of this BlogCarnival, coming in May to a blogspot near you... Happy Passover and/or Easter...

The Power of Paying

One of the toughest questions in dating is also one of the shortest, and seemingly, one of the simplest. But the reality is that in today's world, where we pay lip service to equality, the question of who pays for dates is not as simple as it seems. So, who pays? One of these is the correct answer, so consider each one carefully. 1) The man pays. Every time. No excuses, unless it's his birthday and his woman wants to buy him dinner. Aww, shucks--ain't she sweet? 2) Whoever did the asking does the paying. It's a modern world--if a woman asks a man out, she should assume the responsibility of paying. 3) Whoever makes the most money should foot the bill. 4) Whoever chooses the restaurant should pay. 5) If you'd like to make a gesture that says "I like you and it was my pleasure to sit here with you," no matter what your gender, or whether you were the asker or the askee, you should pick up the check. 6) None of the above and all of the above. We're all screwed. Over at the E-Cyrano blog, Evan posts about this issue of the expectation of payment. (Feel free to weigh in over there as well...) He hits many of the issues, but for me, the issue of who pays establishes a strange kind of power dynamic that I've never been 100 percent comfortable with--in dating and with my other friends too. But in dating, payment feels especially like a contract, like I'm expected to deliver something that I might not yet (or at all) be comfortable delivering. Maybe that's a sign I'm watching too much Law and Order SVU. But because money has a disproportionate value for me--I tend not to spend it because I don't have that much post-rent-and-utilities wiggle room in my budget--it's therefore a big deal when someone (even my parents) treat me to dinner. With friends, I feel obligated to "get them next time," and usually manage to keep that promise even though I'm budgetarily limited...but this is probably my issue and not everyone else's. Is money power? And does the forking over of cash for dinner establish any other kind of contract? What do you all think? Because the more I think about this, the more I think I have the answer. The answer is 6).

And That's Why Men Should Kiss Men and Women Should Kiss Women...

Too many episodes of Queer as Folk and The L-Word for Esther? Perhaps. But that's not the point of this NY Times article about the art (and artifice) of the social kiss, especially in business settings.

The kiss is "happening more and more," agreed Peggy Post, a spokeswoman for the Emily Post Institute founded by the doyenne of etiquette. "We're much more informal in everything from the clothes we wear to how we greet people." Ms. Post advocates the handshake and agrees that it's better "to steer clear of kissing people of the opposite sex, which can be misconstrued in some cases." This is especially true on first meetings. Later, kissing as a greeting depends on the relationship, she and others said. [emphasis mine--edk]

I think the answer is for all of us to become shomer negiah all the time except for when we are in relationships with other people. Think of the clarity: first of all, no awkward business kisses. (Or Shabbos kisses, if any of you remember those boggling busses from that time between the Friday night service and dinner at Camp Ramah or USY Conventions.) Secondly, you'd never have to ask "What is the deal with those two? Are they dating or not?" nor would you ever have to answer "Well, no one knows for sure." Kissing etiquette is hard. So that's why I'm glad my staff of research assistants sends me articles like these, with helpful hints buried on page two of the article, like the fact that Blistex maintains a section on kissing etiquette (and pretty much anything you'd ever want to know about lips) on their site. On a not wholly unrelated note, today I bought two new lipglosses. Smooches, everyone! Or not...

F-Word

Here's the way it happens. There's clicking, audible and palpable. One shoe of expectation has dropped and the resulting thud is reassuring--it massages you like your trainer as you prepare for your moment in the ring, readying you for your graduation, at long last, from this infernal division. The thud is a herald: "this is it!" it trumpets, kneading your shoulders and prepping you for greatness. But you've been here before. You've been this close to the title, and have never worn the belt of achievement. You've seen it up close, touched it with your greedy, deprived little fingers, but it was never yours. So now you wait for the other shoe to drop, the way it always has in the past. And when that thud comes, it's anything but reassuring. You try to see it as a new beginning, as freedom from the slavery of just not knowing. That it's an end should serve as some relief. But you can't help feeling that it's a small death of sorts, the end of something, the curtailing of possibility, the decapitation of hope. You hear it spoken, as you have many times before. It never sounds good. But now, repeated ad nauseum by voices of various timbres over decades, it sounds somehow sinister, as if hissed with a forked tongue, even though the word itself should be a badge of honor. Is there anything more important? Use of the word in proper context is a compliment like no other. When meant, truly heartfelt, it conveys the deepest respect. It's an acknowledgment of greatness, of affection and honor. It designates you as special. It separates you from the herd, brands you with a special marker, binds you to the speaker through public accolades of your importance. And yet, every time you hear it, your disappointment overwhelms you, obliterating the positives. As the syllable rings in your ears, the only thing it sounds like is failure.

Double Standard?

So, you guys remember that post that started because someone wrote me a letter suggesting that women in their 30s consider dating men in their 40s and 50s? Well, we determined that some of those men feel that they "deserve" a woman who's young and pretty, who can wear the designer fashions that they want to see their woman in...and the truth is that for some of these men, 30s is too old...they skew toward late twenties... The other night, at Blog Night, a reader told me that she read somewhere that some ridiculously high number of older woman-younger man relationships fail. But we didn't have any stats about the older man-younger woman dynamic, probably because it's more common and no one cares. But if Demi dates Ashton, or Cameron dates Justin, everyone's like..."ooh...she's old enough to be his mother!" So my question is: is there a double standard in effect, or am I (this is the theoretical "I", of course) "allowed" to date someone ten years younger than I am? And if not, is the double standard biological in origin--that men have a biological drive to procreate, so they seek out those likely to be the most fertile? And what about that possible-myth about women reaching their sexual peak in their thirties, while men peak at 18? Is there any truth to that, and if so, what's the big deal with women dating younger men? And now I step back graciously, as the discussion commences.

"Making Space" (Jewish Week)

Many of today’s college and post-college-age young adults are involved in an online community called MySpace. When you register, you are given a homepage, which you decorate yourself: You design it, decide what biographical information to include in the profile, what kind of music or video will greet page visitors and put up as many pictures of yourself or other people in your life as you want. And although you can invite other people into your network, it’s still not called “OurSpace” — you choose your affiliations, but ultimately the profile belongs solely and completely to one individual: you. In some ways, MySpace inherits a solid literary legacy, with subtle flavors of both Virginia Woolf’s “room of one’s own” and Emily Dickinson’s soul that “selects its own society.” The message of both concepts is that to find yourself — whether it’s your truth or your art — you have to experience solitude. To exist in a place apart from others enables you to define yourself in a relative vacuum instead of in a biased social or familial context. And so, online communities provide young adults with room to be and breathe in an environment of their own creation.

To read the rest of "Making Space," click here.

Small JDate World

For all of those of you who are experiencing some "challenges," let's call them, with the people and process of JDate, I thought you'd enjoy knowing that at least you hadn't had this experience yet...

Today, Jdate, the online Jewish dating service, e-mailed me a potential match. It was my brother. It's a small world, I know. And this is Georgia. But one would hope the idea is to expand the dating pool, not limit it to one household.

The article's worth a read, if only to finally understand what the whole VPL ban is about. Plus, Jdatesgonewrong gets a plug from one of the interviewed daters...

Find Your "Eerily Effective" Soulmate, Plus Ads!

Because the online dating scene is both unsatisfying and resplendent with fun-poking opportunities (not to be confused with "fun poking opportunities"), Google Romance has joined in the fun...

• Upload your profile – tell the world who you are, or, more to the point, who you’d like to think you are, or, even more to the point, who you want others to think you are.
• Search for love in all (or at least a statistically significant majority of) the right places with Soulmate Search, our eerily effective psychographic matchmaking software.
• Endure, via our Contextual Dating option, thematically appropriate multimedia advertising throughout the entirety of your free date.

And yes, if you click far enough (for instance, on the link to "Post multiple profiles with bulk upload, you sleaze"), you will suddenly be reminded of today's date, and feel silly that you believed they were totally for real. This is the way Google does Happy April Fool's Day, y'all. (Via EV, who has no website) And here's my vote for runners-up in the Best April Fool's Day post contest: "Watch Your Diet By Watching TV: Certain shows can put weight right on those hips, others found to help shed pounds" Keep dreamin' y'all...