Tough Love

Recently, a man with whom I'd been sharing some not so disappointing energy slapped me upside the head with several rude comments about moi as well as women in general. As usual, I sought the zoological perspective of my jaded, but well-informed cousin. He's my own Steve Irwin when it comes to dodging the deadliest dates on the planet. Like the Crocodile Hunter, he's also been between rocks and hard places with poisonous snakes and Komodo dragons. He's courted cleptomaniacs, slept with psychos and been pinned by more than one pin-up boy. And he's still alive. Crikey! I'd never make it out alive if it weren't for me pal Professor Python!

First, let me drive the point home like an SUV driven by a soccer mom on a cell phone and her fourth Red Bull that what the animal in question said was truly mean-spirited. I won't go into specifics for two reasons. One: I don't believe in flogging by blogging. I'm too highly evolved for that. Two: Keeping the dolt's identity quiet allows a variety of men-children to fear/hope I am talking about them. Besides, specifying that he's the guitar-playing crybaby who looks for jailbait on My Space doesn't actually narrow the possibilities. So, for professional writerly fun, I'll just refer to him as Jack -- as in Hit the Road.

Although I have not been around the block as much as my cousin, I have spent a disproportionately high amount of time dating losers. You know, the kind you don't take home to mother because he won't go. The kind who cheat on you and then tell you it's because he doesn't like your hair conditioner. (I swear to God.) The kind that act like they're semi-normal until you realize that they have a totally different interpretation than you do of the word boyfriend. "Well, I'm a boy .... and.... I'm ... your friend," he says with an impish grin brought on by one too many swigs of Ny-Quil.

Of course, all of that is the past. When I still held onto the belief that if a sweet and snippy gal like me could exist then a kind, but slightly bitter dork probably existed as my match. I mean, I was realistic. I didn't expect my dream dork to show up with a DVD of the Joy Luck Club, a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and peppermint lotion for my foot massage. I have girlfriends for that. But wow, now it seems as if simply hoping to meet a man whose neuroses match mine is just pie-in-the-sky deluded. So, the truth is, I don't date. Jack is just a friend. But he is a friend with whom I had some good chemistry and good intentions. Until he testosteroned all over it, that is.

And thus, we have come to the part where my dilemma was deconstructed by my ever-fabulous cousin. He told me that I was correct in interpreting Jack's behavior as the cliche of Man Like Woman. Man Kick Woman. (And guys, that is just so not helpful once we've moved off the playground and well into our thirties.) "However," the Snake Whisperer added, "the kicking is not a strategy. He kicks you and doesn't even know why. He just does it."

So, there you have it ladies. Evolution at it's finest. It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't own everything. As for me, I watch Sense and Sensibility endlessly and massage my own feet. It will be a nice surprise when the nice nerd with the dry sense of humor shows up with an even drier wine. I won't be expecting him. He'll have to knock pretty hard to get my attention. And that will impress me, providing he doesn't knock my teeth out to show me how much he likes me.