Boys 2 Men

I read something recently that got me thinking. Wish I could say I've been boning up on Carl Sagan,  but I haven't and, besides, that sounds kind of pervy. It was an excerpted piece from the book by the very funny Mindy Kaling, and in it she talked about how many grown women end up dating perpetual high schoolers. Mindy has her own ideas about what separates the men from the boys (besides chest hair),  but her main philosophy is this: men aren't scared of committment. Not committment to a woman, necessarily, but a committment to their own lives. A committment, as Mindy says, to not floating around anymore. A boy floats from job to job, apartment to apartment, spontaneous road trip to spontaneous road trip, never accumulating anything that can't be sold, abandoned, or stored in his parents' basement because he just isn't the type to be tied down by material things, baby.

This is something I know a little about. It's safe to say my friends and I have known enough man child types to stock a VERY well-attended Peter Pan convention. So put down the Xbox controllers and listen up.

Grown men do what they say they're going to do. It's that simple. I'm not talking about an ill-advised, tequila driven, "Yes! We should absolutely go shark diving" plan. That's just testosterone, and you did agree it sounds like fun... No, I'm talking about the much smaller scale stuff. You're going to come help me put up that shelf?  Great. How's Saturday? You'll drive me to the airport? Awesome - my flight's at 8. You've got the first round next time? Bottoms up. Don't be the sometime guy. "We should hang out sometime." "I'll make you dinner sometime." " Let's play pool sometime." Boys sometime you. Grown men do what they said they would. If you can't commit to the smallest things, I'm not likely to trust you with the bigger things. Like my housekeys. Or my heart. And I've spent way too much of my adult life wondering just when the hell "sometime" really is. Is it Central Time? Greenwich Mean Time? Daylight savings? Fuck. 

Men own things. Grown-up things. I don't mean houses, necessarily, or really nice cars, because those things aren't important to everybody. But a grown man owns more than two plates. And sheets that match. Men have actual bookshelves. And a teakettle. You don't need to have lots of throw pillows or anything. If  you do, we probably have a lot in common. Like a dirty crush on Anderson Cooper. Men can't pack everything they own into their car "just in case". In case what, exactly? You witness a gangland killing? Little tip for you: if you do happen to witness a gangland killing, I'm pretty sure the fact that your bootleg Marillion albums are in a milk crate and ready to go won't be your biggest concern. Buying furniture tells me you aren't going anywhere, and it tells me you're happy to just hang out, somewhere warm and cozy. Which bodes well for my cleavage. "I'm only there to sleep" was a fine rationale for that skeevy hostel in Portugal in 1999, but not so great for your home. And you can only use "but your place is just so much more comfortable" for so long.  Because that doesn't make me think you have a lumpy sofa; it makes me think you have a live-in girlfriend.

Grown men expect you to call them on their bullshit, at least some of the time. It's awkward for me to bring this up. Not because I have a problem giving my opinion, but because turnabout is fair play, I can be a moody caustic bitch,  and having it pointed out is up there with dental surgery on my list of unfavourite things. But a grown man will respect you for telling him when he's being a jerk. Seriously. At least the good ones will. Because a grown man doesn't want you to be a pushover.  Many guys will tell you they hate confrontation. Who doesn't? But what they really mean is they hate being called on their assholery. Do not let this deter you. But think it through. Is a man who'd prefer to watch a hockey game instead of going to a Katherine Heigl movie really an asshole? I'd argue he might just be the only rational person in the room.  And really - you'd make him do that? Who's really the asshole here?

I know it's different for everybody. My immature, unthoughtful jerk may be your boyishly distracted dream guy. Actually, he probably is, given how quickly the men I've dated have moved on. And god knows there are plenty of women who are still floating around, too, because life does seem easier before you own occasional chairs and four types of wine glasses. But being a grown up can be pretty great too (no roommates! sex on the occasional chairs!). So really, gentlemen, isn't it time to commit to being a grown up? It's not that hard:  do what you say you will, buy a real coffee table and, whatever you do, don't let me go to the new Katherine Heigl movie. Unless that's your way of telling me I'm being a bitch,  in which case I deserve it.  Don't you feel more grown up already?

A long December

How in the hell is it January already? December was even blurrier than usual (what's up, red wine?), and I didn't even get a chance to review the December Cosmo. I wasn't going to bother, since it's long gone from newstands, so even if the review piqued your interest, you wouldn't be able to buy it. Then I remembered I'm not the New York Times Book Review; you people don't read this to see if you want to buy the book, you read this to see if I say "cock" again. So fashionably late, and sort of slutty (kind of like my old roommate), here you go.

Adele is on the cover. Unusual for Cosmo, given that she's neither a size two nor seen as a typical sexy girl. But I cannot say a bad thing about her; I have loved her since her first album. She's smart, funny, profane and emotionally wise beyond her years. Not to mention psychic; based on a couple of songs, I'm pretty sure she's dated at least two of my future ex-boyfriends. You know about the ex who tried suing her for profits from her first album because he inspired some of the songs, right? Geez, I hope that doesn't give some of my exes any ideas about suing over this blog. Have at it, sweethearts. By my count, that entitles you to half my back issues of Cosmo, a smattering of emails where my friends try to guess which late 20s / early 30s era jackass I'm writing about, and half a caramel macchiato someone bought me because they wanted to talk  about cock shots.

I'm a bit peeved. The cover trumpets "100 Best Sex Tips of the Year".  Are you fucking kidding me? I wasted all that time memorizing god knows how many useless positions and tongue flick thingies and now you're telling me I just could've waited for this issue for the best of the best? I haven't felt this resentful about reading since the Margarets Laurence and Atwood in high school.  I've read all the tips before (you're welcome), so there's really nothing new here. I did a double take when I read #71 - "the CAT doubles your "O' odds". Then I realized the uppercase CAT is an acronym (coital alignment technique, keeners).  Thank Christ, because I'm here to tell you that a lowercase cat, far from being erotically advantageous,  is actually quite the mood killer. I don't quite know how they can manage a judgy yet disinterested, disapproving yet pitying face all at the same time. It's like having sex while a furry Russian figure skating judge sits on the end of your bed.

There are at least 10 Nasty Health Situations (and their instant fixes). You're on your own, kids. I tapped out right around the time I found myself wondering, should it ever come up, just what sort of oatmeal to put on my irritated bikini line. Should it be steel cut, or is instant okay? Apple Cinnamon? High Fiber? Weight Control? Don't give me half-assed medical advice, Cosmo.

"The Fierce Sex Every Couple Must Try" caught my eye. Until I realized they were talking about "werewolf sex". For the love of  poorly written young adult novels, can we please give it a rest with the whole undead creature of the night as romantic ideal / masturbation fantasy? Look, I enjoy a good vampire as much as the next former goth girl, but I doubt I'm going to bang one, so tips on vampire foreplay or werewolf sex are kind of wasted on me. And given that they're having a moment right now, what's next - zombie orgasms? Because that just seems messy.

"When He Shouldn't See You Naked". Easy - between 9 and 6 Monday to Friday, when I'm sober, when he's sober, after I've had too much pasta, when I have Cream of Wheat on my bikini line (I'll likely be out of oatmeal, so I'm improvising). Apparently, French women have the whole seduction thing on lock because they maintain an air of mystery with their paramours. I'm all for an air of mystery (I think peeing with the door closed is the new black), but French women also spend 20% of their income on lingerie, go to Gerard Depardieu movies and fork feed their tiny dogs in restaurants. They might actually buy lingerie for their tiny dogs and then take them to Gerard Depardieu movies, so tread wisely.

5 Steps to Crank Up My Kissability. Actually, there's prep, then 5 steps. Five? Really? Here's mine: Prep - apply Blistex like a mofo.  Step #1 - buy him a shot. Steps #2-5 - repeat step #1.

I always enjoy "101 Things About Men". But boys, boys, boys - 50% of you are lying about something. No, it's not that you don't care about Katy Perry and Russell Brand splitting up (you do so care), it's that you're going full Pinocchio when it comes to the number of people you've slept with. Are people really still having this conversation? Come on! Have I taught you nothing? This is a trap! There is literally no good answer when you're talking sex numbers. This is like when your girlfriend asks if you find another woman at the party attractive.  The second the question leaves her mouth,  you've already lost, dude. As a matter of fact, you probably lost 20 minutes ago, when you didn't even notice her new earrings. You just didn't know it yet. So lie if you must; the important thing it to get out of there alive. And ladies, that goes for you, too. He does not want or need to know.* Cut the number in half, round it up (no one has slept with 3.5 people), and smile when you say it. Think of it like the sexual metric system; those conversions are never exact when you do them in your head. * This may need to be revisited if either of you has slept with Ashton Kutcher.

Apparently, some men have marriage checklists, things they feel the future missus must have. Sadly, Mom, none of the men listed "excellent baking skills" or " fairly decent knowledge of post-Impressionism", so you might not be getting those grandkids. But a willingness to send Mark, 22, dirty pictures while he's at work is a surefire way to get a ring on it. Where exactly do you work, Mark?  Your boss not around much?

Oh - infidelity alert. Guys with a strong jaw, large foreheads and thin lips are more likely to cheat. Frankenstein must've been a total player, yo.

The average weight gain from (American) Thanksgiving to New Year's Day is less than a pound. They mean per day, right?

There's a quiz to help me figure out my Stress Personality.  The potential results are compartmentalizer, internalizer and externalizer. I skipped it; any stress personality quiz that doesn't give me "become huge bitch" as an option can't be very comprehensive.

They talked to guys (most in their 20s) about pregnancy, and what freaks them out / confuses them. Oliver, 21, has a question about dilation. He knows dilating has something to do with his pupils when he's "really buzzed", but he's not quite clear on what dilates on a woman. Is it maybe the "pouch thing around the baby, is it her entire belly, or is it her lips?"  Well, Oliver, I'm not sure what the "pouch thing" is unless we're talking about a kangaroo. Anywho, it's her pupils, of course. They get really big  - when she's about to push an 8 pound human being out of her vagina. Do us a favour - read a book. And for fuck's sake, wear a condom.

That's about it, dear readers. And while I apologize for not being more timely with my review, all is not lost.  The next time you're at the doctor's office about one of those 10 Nasty Health Situations, you just might be able to swipe a copy from the waiting room.