Tag Archives: husband

“She Works Hard for the Money! So Hard for It, Honey!”

“I am… um… parent.  Every-thing changes.”

She stands at about my height.  I rarely see much difference between me and other women, though:  And unless they’re tall enough to grace the covers of beauty magazines — or the streets of Manhattan — I consider them pretty much my height.

Although born on the coast of Mexico, her skin bears the same caramel color as mine.  Her face, I can tell, used to be very pretty, even doll-like.  Her formerly black hair is snow streaked with gray highlights; and it is gathered in the back of her head into a thick ponytail of luscious curls.  Rich women would kill for thick hair like that!

I catch myself wondering how much she would have aged — had her life not been so hard.

I bet there is an encyclopedia of domestic tricks up this woman’s sleeve:  Washing her hair with egg yolks, making masks out of avocado and honey, moisturizing her heels with Bengay.  I’ve seen my own motha invent a few of those.  We are immigrants:  We get crafty, in survival.  For life is relentless:  It takes a toll on all of us all, but it’s most unforgiving — to us, women.

“I come herre… twenty fah-yv jears,” she formulates her words slowly.  “I am… um… sixteen jears.”

“Me too!” I say, and I begin nodding and smiling aggressively:  Just anything to make her feel understood.  “I was sixteen too!”

I want to tell her to switch to her native language, because I am pretty sure I get the gist of her already.  Despite the difference between our birth coasts, we seem to speak of the same tales.

But then again, maybe not:

I keep flaunting my American education in order to impress employers with gigs at a higher rate.  She — cleans houses for a living.  I tend to get hired to work the phones and to organize the lives of others that have gotten cluttered with too many demands.  She — creates order in other people’s homes, with her no longer soft, but womanly hands.  Besides the existences of my bosses, I am responsible primarily for myself.  She — has three kids to take care of, and a boyish husband.

“You?  No marr-rried?” she asks me.

The importance of family defines happiness in her culture; so, I get slightly embarrassed for a moment.  Despite the difference between our birth coasts, I so very much want us to be alike.  Is it this woman’s approval that I’m striving for; or just her empathy?

In one breath, I deliver:  “NoIamnotmarried.”

“In a couple more years, you’ll be middle-aged,” a man has declared the other day.

This woman’s arms are cradling a tiny dog; and in the folds of her stomach, he easily goes to sleep.  Her figure belongs to a mother:  She is fuller, curvier than my boyish frame.  Her hands are more sure and seemingly more knowing than mine.

“Is good you no married so soon,” she says.  She must’ve picked up on my embarrassment.  “Life more hard.  I am… um… parent.  Every-thing more hard.”

I ask her about her kids:  She nods and smiles when describing each of the three:  a two-year old baby-girl and a little boy.  Her oldest daughter wants to be a nurse.  When she speaks of her husband, she averts her eyes; and despite the slow manner of her chosen worlds, she quickly switches the topic to his job.

“Is good…” she concludes.  “Warehouse.  Down.  Town.  Is good!”

The little dog shifts on her stomach and extends his fluffy paws toward me. I take them and rub the un-callused pillows on the bottom.  She laughs and teases the bangs above his eyes; and when her hand brushes against mine, I notice that her skin is tougher than the one I’m rubbing in between my fingers.

“You…  work?” she asks me.

“Of course,” I say and begin listing my gigs.  This is the first time I doubt she understands me.  To my own ears, I begin sounding busy, and slightly fussy.  So, I stop.

I interrupt my list.  “Everybody works here,” I conclude; and the woman begins nodding and smiling aggressively.  She is getting the gist of me.

I study her eyes:  She stands at my level, and most definitely — at my height!  But then she leaves for work; and I reluctantly begin mine.  It’s life — at work; and in its working, it is especially unforgiving to us, women.

“‘Cause, I Built A Home. For You. For Me.”

Beautiful.

Beautiful beach.  Beautiful bodies.  Very beautiful boys, tall and lean — lovely, really.  And those gorgeous behinds of the girls — who are also beautiful — passing along the tide.

It’s lovely, really, to not be so blind to life.

I’ve only got an hour here — a small break I’ve permitted myself smack in the middle of my day.  I have chosen this life of malleable schedule; and it demands much more responsibility than showing up at one place, every day, at eight.  But then again, that other life seems so brutal.  That other life of others:  I’ve tried it.  I can do better.

An hour.  That’s all I’ve got.  I’ve imposed a halt onto my day and taken a detour to the beach.  I’m going to make up for it later, I think; and I wish I could be more romantic about it:  more romantic than crawling out of my skin with my chronic impatience at time.  Just how much longer is it going to take until I achieve the life that’s unlike the life others?  A life of my own:  How long does it take to mold?

In this part of the beach, mostly populated by locals, it is always so quiet — and so beautiful.  It’s lovely, really.  But I do wish I could be more romantic about it:  I wish I would catch myself thinking about the opposite shore where I just happened to be born several decades ago — and that must be why I keep coming by here.  To recharge.  To reconnect.  To think of home, as others often do — in their own life of others.  But I have left that shore — that’s the truth — on purpose, several decades ago.  It wasn’t working.  I tried it.  I could do better.

Still, I raise myself up onto my elbows and squint at the line where the dark blue of the water meets the dusty white of the sky:  Nope.  I can’t really see home from here.  Home — is just gonna have to be wherever I am.

But still:  It is so lovely, really.  And it’s lovely — to not be so blind to life.

I watch a threesome of youth things fling a frisbee to each other, near the tide.  One of the boys is stocky.  He’s the funny type.  I can tell by the way he makes the other two double over with laughter, even though I can never hear the ending to his jokes.  The other boy is tall and lean.  He’s lovely, really.  Whenever he leaps to catch that thing in midair, he reminds me of a dog.  I wish could be more romantic about it.  I wish I could catch myself thinking about a lovely boy of my near past.  But that’s all done now.  The thinking, the rethinking — the endless groveling for reasons, clarifications; hastily gathered apologies, crumbs of hope for a reunion, or for some sort redemption, at least — that’s all done now.

I watch the boy launch the frisbee with a mere bend and release of his wrist.  Vaguely, I begin recalling all the ones I have treated with kindness, in my life.  Thankfully, the ones that got the lesser of me I can count on only two fingers.  Because less than — wasn’t really working.  I tried it though.  I can do better.

And then, there is the girl of the threesome.  I think she is very young, hiding her torso underneath a long-sleeved surfing top.  She giggles too, a lot and often completely unprovoked.  But it’s the ruffle that circumvents her hips along the bikini bottom that tells me she’s still got so much life ahead of her, and way too much youth.

Out of the three, she is the least equipped for the game.  When she dashes to catch a throw, she never takes off on time and she always misses.  And when the frisbee lands, she runs to it, while laughing; bends over to pick it up, then starts slapping it against the bottom of her right butt cheek, shaking off the sand and making the rest of her body vibrate with suggestion.  I think I can overhear her apologies:

“Sorry,” she giggles, vibrating with laughter and the bounce she has started against her gorgeous behind.  “I suck!”

But the boys are mesmerized.  They don’t mind the stupid game, or that it slows down every time it’s her turn to throw.  The tall, lean lovely attempts to coach her a little.  But whom is he kidding?  She is not interested.  Soon enough, she pulls out of the game completely and runs over to the camp of their towels.  The beautiful boys do a couple of more throws, but the game is no longer fun.  They follow her: Their girl.

Lovely.  Really.  It’s lovely — to not be so blind to life.

And I’ve only got half an hour left.  I shoo away the fragmented thoughts of my next obligations.  It’s my life — it’s not the life of others — in which even the breaks have to be disciplined.

I think I doze off.  The smell of coconut and perfume brings me back up onto my elbows:  Three meters down a family of four is stretching out a cotton sheet, bleached out to perfection.  It’s gigantic, waving up in the air like a sail of a boat bringing home a beloved vagabond.  The two sons are on one end of it:  They are tall, lean — lovely, really.  The father is giving out commands from the opposite end, but whom is kidding:  He cannot stop from twisting his neck sideways toward a lean and handsome woman, applying sunblock all over her youthful body.

“Hence, the coconut,” I think; and I watch her bend over and slide her thin wrists along each leg, methodically.

This is the life of others.  Not my life.  And I find myself feeling romantic about it.

The family positions itself onto the white sheet:  The handsome woman chooses her place first.  The boys immediately flock her, in their unspoken adoration; but they cannot stay down for long.  Soon enough, they take off for the tide, with so much youth ahead of them.  The father inches over toward his lovely wife:  His girl.

This is the life of others.  And it’s quite lovely, really.

Okay.  Five more minutes.  I give myself — five more minutes.  They can’t delay me too much.  I squint toward the horizon where the two gigantic matters meet, but not where my home is.

My home — is just gonna have to be wherever I am.  And wherever I am — is quite lovely, really.


“Young Hov’s a Snake Charmer: Move Your Body Lika Snake, Mama!”

Rule No. 1:  If I’m not perfect for my man — he is not my man.

Rule No. 2:  If my man is not happy with me — it’s time to look for another man.

That’s a rough translation, sort of:  from my gypsy grandmother’s mouth and directly into your modern ears, my comrades.  Still rings true though, nyet?  The wisdom — lives on!

That woman was a badass!  She strutted around her port city, lithe and decisive in her hips, as if she ran that motherfucker.  She was one them proud broads, asking no man for help (other than her father); and it was just her luck that by the time she entered the workforce, her country was on that whole socialist equality shtick.  So, the broad held jobs that not many women were interested in; and she flourished, climbing whatever level ladders her Communist Party chapter advertised.

She had been a construction worker and a collective farmer in the country.  But by the time I met her, she worked as manager at a fish cannery.  Oh, I’ve seen that broad at work!  From a rustic desk some moron once thought up to paint the color of a stewing swamp, she gave out her packing orders like some women give out their expectations.  She refused to be away from her people, so she moved that swampy thing out onto the factory floor, by the conveyor belt; and considering no Soviet machinery ran low on sound, anyone who needed to talk to her would have to holler out their lungs.  Nope, that job was not for the dainty-hearted!

But she did have a little corner getaway upstairs, which is where she would sit me down, underneath a black-and-white shot of one drunken righteous leader after the next.  For a while there, these leaders would die on us like flies, so she’d leave their portraits leaning against the wall:  What’s the point of worshiping a man if he ain’t planning to last long?

And to keep me entertained, while she strutted on the factory floor — lithe and decisive in her hips — grandmother would equip me with a can of black caviar, a spoon; an old world atlas and a pair of scissors.  There I’d spend my days, cutting up the world and acquiring the beginnings of my sick misconception that there was no distant corner I couldn’t cut through; no country I couldn’t slice across.   

“Thirsty, little rabbit?” grandmother would reappear at intervals with a glass of foaming sparkling water from the dispenser machine outside; or better yet, with a bottle of Pinocchio soda that tasted like a liquid, lemon-flavored Jolly Rancher.

Of course, I’d be fucking thirsty:  Gobbling up that caviar was like drinking sea water or licking the lower back of a tanning Brazilian goddess!  (Plus, all that cutting of corners!  All that wanderlust!)  As if to finish training my stomach to handle anything — in case I ever swallowed anything bitter or toxic (a cowardly lover, for instance) — she would rummage in her pockets and whip out a plastic bag of dried calamari rings:  My favorite!  Like some children with raspberries, I would top each finger with those rings; then, I continue to trace unfamiliar shores and continents, before cutting them to shreds.

What man could possibly keep up with a broad like that? 

The one that knew that taming a descendant of a gypsy was a moot point.  The one with balls enough to wait for all the unworthy, drooling endless admirers and ex-lovers to flake away:  because none of them could handle that hot number in the first place, bare-handedly.  The one with a freedom of his own, addicted to circumvent the globe’s ocean as if each round were a growth ring on a tree trunk of his life.  The one who’d seen enough, who’d lost enough to know that a good woman is a lucky find; and even if it chills you down to your bones with paralyzing fear or with the breath of your own mortality, you better give it a goddamn worthy try — to not keep her, to not conquer her — but to have a daily hand at trying to be worthy of her staying.

To that man — my grandfather — this woman was meant to be followed.  And so he would:  on our every Sunday walk to and from the bazaar, if he happened to return home from his circumventing.

She rarely kept company with other women (but then again, could outdrink every man she’d call “a friend”).  So, when walking, she’d always go at it alone, just a few meters ahead; perfectly content with the pace of my little feet, yet with a strut of someone running that motherfucker.  Sometimes, I’d look back to find my grandfather’s muscular arms with his fisherman’s tan; and from underneath the tattered hat, with a cig dangling on his lips, he’d smile and wink, as if he had just been caught at a naughty secret.

One day, I chose to walk with him, letting my grandmother lead the way, just a few meters ahead.  He lifted me onto his shoulders and told me to hold onto his ears:

“Otherwise, you’ll fly away!”

Every once in a while, he would reach above his head and make a crocodile mouth with his hand; at which point, I would pucker up my lips and let the crocodile devour my sloppy kiss.

And from up there, from the first pair of a man’s capable shoulders, I fell in love — in my youthful lust — with a woman.  That day, she strutted just a few meters ahead of us, lithe and decisive in her hips; and with each step, her tight wrap-around dress rode up higher and higher, bunching up at her tailbone and revealing the naked back of her knees.  A long, shiny, jet black braid ran down from her top vertebra down to the lower back; and the unbraided tip of it would tap each ass cheek as the hips continued to sway and sway, lithely and decisively, making me slightly dizzy with adoration and bliss.

That day, I knew:  It was not a bad deal to follow a woman’s lead.  (It was delectable, to the contrary.)  But it would take some esteem to be worthy of her staying. 

“Yes, My Heart Belongs To Daddy: Da, Da, Da”

What will you be like, the future papa of my child?  Will you be tall, but not necessarily dark?  Or will you be just competent, quietly but certainly, in the way all good men — with nothing to prove — are?  

Yes, I’m pretty sure, you’ll be tall. 

“What are you chirping about over there?” my own — tall — father chuckled on the phone last night, “My little sparrow…”

He hadn’t seen me grow up.  To him, I am still a child treading on the edge of her womanhood with the same gentle balance and vulnerability as if I were walking along a curb:  one foot in front of the other, thrilled and focused, not certain about the destination but quite alright with that uncertainty.

He used to follow me whenever I chose that activity on our walks.  Hanging just a few steps back, as if giving me enough room for my budding self-esteem and competence, he, while smoking his cigarette, would be equally as focused at putting one foot in front of the other, upon his own flat ground.  And according to him, puddles — were always the height of my thrill.

“Don’t get your feet wet:  Your mom’ll kill me,” he’d warn me — the best co-conspirator of my life.  Yet, he’d never prohibit me from my exploration.

Besides, with me — it was useless to object.  He knew that.  It was his own trait:  If I got an idea into my little stubborn head, you could bet your life I’d follow through.  So, he’d rest, while smoking his cigarette on a bench or leaning against a mossy boulder; or on that same curb marked up with my tiny footsteps.  And yes, most likely, I would get my feet wet; and I’d look back at him with a frown:

“Alright, let’s hear it!”

But all that would be given back to me was a grin that my father would be trying so very hard to suppress.

And, the future papa of my child:  Will you be of a quiet temperament, leaving all the chaotic emotions up to me; hanging back most of the time, as if giving me enough room for my sturdy self-esteem, but then always knowing when to step up to the plate — just because you will be taller — most certainly, taller! — stronger than me?  Just because you will be — my man?

True to my stubborn passion, half way through my teens, I decided to leave for a different continent.  That time, it was no longer a matter of exploration (although when wasn’t it, with me?) but a matter of a vague hope for better choices in my youth.

My father knew that:  The country of my birth was about to go under, and there would be no more gentle balancing for any of us, but a complete anarchy.  Yet, never in that chaos, would I see my father lose his composure.  Quietly, he’d take in one merciless situation after another, light up a cigarette and hang back while waiting for the best resolution to become clear.  And then, he’d step up to the plate and follow through, true to his quiet, stubborn, competent temperament.  My father:  The first tall man I’d fallen in love with.

So, when I delivered to him the news of my scholarship for a study abroad (something he’d never even heard of, in his lifetime), quietly, he smoked, hung back and took in the information.  Surely, there had to be a million questions chaotically arising in his head:  questions related to the unpredictable situations my life was certain to present.  But that day, he knew better than to get in the way of my decision to leave.  Because you could bet your life I’d follow through.  He knew that:  It was his own trait.

“Don’t tell your mom I agree with this:  She’ll kill me!” he told me that day, suppressed a grin; and we began mapping out our next conspiracy.

And, the future papa of my child:  Will you be the more lenient of a parent than me, hanging back while letting our kiddo explore his or her own curbs and puddles?  (Because you better be certain our child will inherit my tendency for stubborn passions.)  Will you quietly follow, hanging just a few steps back, alert enough to catch, pick-up, sweep off, dust off him or her, right on time?

Will you be more courageous to allow for our child’s falls:  Because that is the only way one learns?  And will you be calmer, leaving all the chaotic emotions up to me, when it is time for our unconditional acceptance of his or her missteps?

It would be one giant puddle I’d select to tread in my womanhood — an entire ocean, to be exact; and then — a whole other one.  No matter his own heartbreak, my father chose to hang back.  There would be many falls of mine he would be unable to prevent, a million of questions he couldn’t answer; many chaoses he was powerless at solving on my behalf.  But no matter my age — and no matter my defeats or victories — I could always dial in on his unconditional ear.

He would listen, hang back — suppress his tears or a grin — then launch into our next conspiracy.

“Don’t tell you mom I know about this,” he always warned me.

Because besides being an exceptional father, he also knew how to be a man:  How love a woman with a dangerous habit for stubborn passions.  My father would be taller than her, and always much stronger.  Yet, still, he would hang back, leaving all the chaotic emotions up to his wife and giving enough room for her budding self-esteem as a woman — and a mom.  And when he’d happen to catch us at our feminine chaoses — or silly conspiracies of our gender — he’d suppress a grin and say:

“What are you chirping about over there, my little sparrows?”

“All I Need in This Life of Sin — Is ME…”

Ahhh.  I went to sleep dreaming of Carla Bruni.  Titillating myself with her nudes in my bed last night might have had something to do with it.  (Don’t worry ‘bout it:  It’s a hobby of mine.  A very hands-on sorta hobby.)  Or it could be my still unquenched desire to go see her in that latest Woody flick, Midnight in Paris.  Or maybe it was the throaty whisper of her song that played in the background of my ‘hood’s bohemian coffee shop the other night, while I studied the face of my very exotic, multi-lingual companion.

“L’amour,” she purred sounding like Tinker Bell after a decade of bad smoking habits…

Oh, I’m sorry.  Have you not been introduced?

Behold:  Carla Bruni-Sarkozy.  The First Lady of the French Republic.

(Yep.  Yourr velkom.)

A model, an actress and a songbird; a muse to many beholders of her beauty; an heiress and a style icon of her country, she has been adored by her people for years.  However, one of her other, less agreeable for some accomplishments, has been her reputation as a lover to several famous (and quite difficult) men:  the very androgynous Mick Jagger and the very mercurial Nicolas Sarkozy alike.  Recently, as the First Lady, she has also tried her hand (and other body parts) at motherhood; and, from what I hear, she has been raising the bar all over Europe on pregnancy fashion and motherhood’s sexuality.

Yet still, both the French and the rest of the world continue worshiping that woman’s sex.  I myself have been a modest fan of hers since she took office as the First Lady.  But the main reason I went rummaging through my files of beautiful women last night (don’t worry ‘bout it:  it’s a hobby!) in search of her likeness — was my yesterday’s rant blog on power broads with a questionable past.  (That ranty-cunty bit focused on the difference between male and female politicians who may have committed certain promiscuous acts while holding public office.  As of yesterday, the conclusion was:  Men fuck around; women — not so much.  Because men run for office to be somebody, while women — to do something.)

But today, my ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my cunty pontifications are taking me a bit further:

What is the big deal, may I dare ask, when sex — is in the limelight?  And when it is, can we just have some fucking dignity about it?

Back in the 90s, when one of the smartest Presidents in human history (note:  a fact), William Jefferson Clinton, was going through his own trials and tribulations due to his poor choices of sexual partners (note:  an opinion), my comrades back in Motha Russia found themselves wondering about the reasons for such an uproar:

“Americans don’t want their Clinton?  We’ll take him!”

Do forgive them their flippancy, ladies and gents of the jury; but in comparison to the alcoholic buffoons and the greedy egomaniacs that have been running (or may I say, “ruining”) my Motha’land for centuries, a person of William Jefferson Clinton’s intellect, education and charm — with his world-famous talents for compassion and diplomacy — would not have been a bad choice for our own righteous leader, for a change.  His work ethics have proven to be unmatched (before AND after his Presidency); and to discount his work due to his promiscuous behavior seemed somewhat outrageous.

Yes, yes, yes:  “But he lied!”  Not a good choice, I agree.  But a lying politician:  What an oxymoron!  Who could’ve thought?!  Now, William Jefferson Clinton (mmm, I do like saying that!) has already been redeemed by history, so I’m not much worried about that power player.  But a part of me wishes that all of that lying and retraction didn’t happen.  Because William Jefferson Clinton (mmm!) was — and is — a man of power; and that comes with plenty of sex.  And to watch him grovel and apologize, in my eyes, appeared mismatched, back in the day.  I mean:  Can we just have some fucking dignity about it?

Back to the French and their own sexpot of a public figure:  I’m not seeing the First Lady of the Republic panic much about her previous sexual choices.  She is not retracting her history of sexual adventures or the galore of publicly available nude photographs of her famous bod.  In her reincarnation as a politician’s wife, she had chosen to cover up quite a bit — and quite well — and just do her fucking job.  And something tells me that when other lovers come out of the woodwork with any further evidence of her promiscuity, she won’t be crying in front of a microphone or wringing her hands.  True to her national character, she may even have a sense of humor about it all.  But as long as she returns to her current job (which cannot be easy considering the famously difficult character of her hubs), I bet she will continue to be adored — as long as she doesn’t grovel. 

So, where do I go from here:  with all of this pontificating and dreaming of Carla Bruni?  Ahhh.

Well, you see, my gentle gents and ladies of the jury:  I have been flagellating myself with theories on my own sexual past.  When that sexual past catches up with my taut ass, I can only hope to find myself holding the ground with some dignity, style and humor.  I pray to Shiva — and to all the world’s divinity — that having forgiven myself now, I won’t go defending my past choices, undermining my former self; and that I won’t start groveling for the public’s forgiveness to redeem that very current self.

And I also do so very much hope that my partner at the time (my own power player, however difficult he may be:  mmm!) will have the balls to stand by me and back me up.  And maybe — Shiva and all the world’s divinity willing! — in that mutual dignity and style, I can find some redemption, in my own and my public’s eyes; and then:  just go do my fucking job!

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:)