Tag Archives: high standards

Boys Will Be Boys. Thank Goodness!

Boys, boys, boys.  Men and gentlemen.  Players.  Soldiers.  There are so many of you in the world — and thank goodness for that!

You beautiful creatures that are born as our sons, then grow into our men; but then again, despite of our occasional complaints, so many of you remain our children — even as our husbands and lovers — and so many of us would NOT have it any other way!  Because when you stumble out of our beds early in the morning, scratching your bodies — youthfully supple or gracefully aging — when you clumsily rummage through our cupboards, then reach for your favorite cereal (which we’ve memorized long before learning your Social Security Number, or your mother’s birthday); when you pout, whist still barely awake and unaware of your age — you make us, women, wonder about the little boys you used to be; and in that moment, you are indeed — our sons.

And there is no higher praise to your manhood — and all the abilities, endowments, talents and skills that come with it — than when a woman chooses you to father her own child.  Because somewhere along loving you, we begin to daydream about watching that same sleepy face reappear in the cribs of our firstborns (and that pout!  oh, that pout!).  And when it is time for our children to start stumbling out of their beds, we will weep at their resemblance — to you.  It’s ALL dedicated to you! 

Because we too wonder about your teaching our sons how to throw a ball or a punch; how to shave (or whatever else you, boys, do behind those closed bathroom doors:  we love you, but we don’t really want to know); and how to choose the right socks or the right girl.  And we too desire for our daughters to worship you more than they seemingly do us; to adore you enough to look for you in their choices of men who, of course, will never be up to your standards.  (Because it’s always different with daughters:  They turn our men into pussycats.)  

You stubbly creatures of the opposite sex:  How you can break a woman’s heart with a mere aloofness or a deficit of attention; but then to build her back up with a single curious gaze that so many of you still don’t know how to execute without being unnoticed.  Please don’t ever stop giving us compliments, even if — and especially if — they won’t get you anywhere!  Don’t censor your praise of our hair, or eyes, or earrings — compliments that make you sound like an admirer of beauty, even if you haven’t figured out its source.  You often have no idea why a certain woman makes you turn your head (while hundreds of others can pass you by unnoticed).  And even if your compliment doesn’t earn you our time or phone number, please know:  It is never taken for granted.

The rougher men who have suffered through difficult lives and mean jobs:  You still have the ability to inspire a woman’s fantasy about being lifted with those capable arms of yours.  Some of us fall in love with women:  their grace and softness, and the way they manage to always smell so sweetly.  But for those of us who still adore the other gender:  It’s your physical ability — your capability to always be stronger than us, to stand taller, to be more ready — that makes us worship you until heartbreaks.  And when you do those things we needn’t know how to do (change a tire, fix a sink; negotiate with a mechanic or a cabbie; catch a fish or play the stock market), you make us feel safer.  And for that rare, fleeting sensation in life — we are forever grateful.  (A little secret though, boys:  Some of us have learned how to do those things, but we’d rather watch you take over.  Thanks.)

Those smooth players who choose to move through their lives as gentlemen:  How ever do you know where to buy a suit and when to tailor a jacket?  Who’s taught you how to be decisive about our first date’s destination and time; and how to settle the tab without making a fuss?  When do you make up your mind on whether or not you will ever wear cologne or the style of your underwear?

Your stubborn choice of your own higher standards — your substance — will continue to turn us on until the end of civilization.  Don’t ever stop getting our doors and chairs; lifting us over puddles or carrying us out of fires.  Continue to show up on time, to come through with your word (a man’s word!); to tolerate our emotions and to guard your own.  Insist on asking for our opinion on those pastel-colored Banana Republic shirts, but remain authentic to your taste (and always devoted to your collar stays!).  Know the best dry cleaners in town but don’t mind us if your dress shirt — is the only thing we want to wear while fixing you a sandwich.  Do send us flowers and hand-written notes.  Do make the first call, but allow us to keep the illusion that we — have the last word.  And the sooner you let us have the remote control, the sooner you can take us to bed.  (But you may also proceed on the couch.  Or the floor.)

And when you do undress us, fumbling with our buttons, or bra hooks, or garter belts — all too dainty for your rough, manly hands — continue to study us as if we were a work of art (perhaps, while unawarely pouting).  Or your dream car.  Or your dream girl. 

Oh, to the modest smile of Paul Newman and the intelligent squint of Robert Redford; to the swagger of George Clooney and the slight indifference of Clark Gable; to the promising ability of Steve McQueen and the effortless power of Bill Clinton; to the mastery of Obama’s self-deprecation and the reserved grace of Eastwood; to Denzel’s esteem and Jay-Z’s universal rule:  To you — we sing our odes and griefs!  To you — we give our youth and dedicate our sex.  Because no matter how many times you break our hearts, it is YOUR love that we continue to seek; and it is ONLY that love — that makes us better women.  And thank goodness for that!

(But don’t you worry:  We will always return that last favor, no matter how late in life:)

“Without Love — There is Nothing.”

Today, I woke up feeling quite melancholic.

“Well, duh?!  You bitch are Russian,” you just might say.  “Don’t you guys pass out with your head collapsed amidst empty shot glasses and wake up reciting Chekhov over a cup of oil-black coffee?”

Da.  So, that happens! 

But V is not V if she won’t analyze the shit out of a situation.  My pondering usually looks like this:  With my face hidden behind a curtain of frizzy gypsy hair and my forehead scrunched up to eventually give me a headache, I pace around with a very firm step I’ve inherited from my mother.  While doing so, I look down—and only down!—which has made my previous lovers wonder if:

1.  I was dangerously pissed off; and

2.  if I was about to hurt them. 

(Trust me, no self-respecting American wants an angry Russian on his hands:  It’s just not that therapeutic for the cock!)  In other words:  I look fucking intense and there ain’t nothing anyone can do to snap me out of it.  Men have tried and failed, painfully.  Embarrassingly.  Because the worst thing a person can do to me in that moment is torture me with interrogations on what may be wrong or what he can do to help me.  No one can do jack shit!  I am my own responsibility, like the only child that I am.  I am my only source of misery and I am the creator of my light.  As a fifteen-year old, I once made my father—a Soviet Army official and the biggest power player in our town at the time—weep and turn gray in front of my eyes when I told him that I would be leaving his country (not mine!) and he had one choice of action:  to support me unconditionally—but never financially!  So, what skill can a lovely American with a charmed life summon to cope with a stubborn, high-strung, survivor’s will of mine?  Nada.  Nothing.  Thank you very much:  but I got if from here!    

Back to reality.  It took me a few hours of Nina Simone surfing to find the reason for this morning’s broodiness of mine.  It eventually revealed itself a couple of nights ago, when a beloved suffered in my arms from a friend’s betrayal.  A generous soul, he had been unjustly attacked by a person in the grips of jealousy and self-loathing.

“Is that all there is?!” my beautiful boy wondered.  “Does it ever get easier?”

Oh, but it does my darling.  Oh how it does!  Because these relationships are mere lessons, and eventually—you fucking learn.  Some people carry on with their friendships, no matter how disappointing they’ve turned out to be.  Then, they couple up with a person and a shrink that annoys them the least—and proceed to bitch and moan about the failure of human nature in others, and to judge their friends behind their backs.  They still hang with the haters and the competitors, only to be disappointed again; and to bitch and moan; and bitch and moan; and bitch and moan.  That’s one approach (in which one must get a certain level of enjoyment from being miserable).

I personally dance to a different tune.  I stubbornly keep the high standards in every love of mine.  My friends are a group of meticulously selected, time-tested Mafia of ball-breakers and perfectionists; and I can count them on my two hands.  They are the bunch whose numbers I’ve tattooed into my memory for an extremely rare occasion when I might need help.  For those few, I shall book a red-eye to anywhere in the world and double over with pain for the length of the flight because they are my very limbs and heart.  Their names have been written into my will; because unless this gypsy steals a child to inherit her money—they are the masters of the Estate of V.  They are my family—because my life has granted me none!  They are my witnesses with the harshest verdicts (but not harsher than the ones I reach on my own) and an army of shadows that follows me through my chaotic existence.  But if I just happen to reach back to grab them—they metamorphose into a fucking armor. 

The rest—I call “acquaintances.”     

“A pretty grim outlook, Russian,” you might justly point out. 

Yep.  Life’s a cunt.  But here is its secret.  (Man!  I’ve gotta start chargin’ for this shit!  ‘s alright though:  I’ll just have to settle for my first book contract!):

A life is nothing without love.  Life summons as much of an impact as a kernel of sand in a sand storm:  The world may know of its existence—theoretically—but neither does the world care about or empathize with its journey, let alone its suffering.  The only way to matter—is to love.  To love your Self first—yes!—to love your Self enough to do the best you can.  But most importantly—to love another.  Because that Other is the ear and the eye and the skin that will remember your happening.  You will not be forsaken!  You will not die forgotten if you’ve had the presence of soul to shut up the bullshit of your ego and to surrender to changing your and at least another person’s make-up—by loving.

So, this gypsy is calm.  Because she’s got herself an army of shadows!  Her Mafia of Lovers that marches to the beat of her heart.  Because no matter the scar tissue all over my brown skin, I shall never—I pray!—look at an opportunity to love and wonder, “Why should I?” but nod, and reveal myself from behind the gypsy-hair curtain, and utter:  “Fuck yeah.”