Into the Valley of Dearth!

10-Vintage-Desk-Lamps-Light-Up-Your-Life (1)

I’ve finally done it. I’ve sworn off dating websites forever and always. I can’t take it anymore. Maybe it’s Texas. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s you. Maybe I’ve just damn well enjoyed all the crap I can take. Enough. No more. Fini. The End. No mas. Over. Nicht mehr. Done. Out with the cats. Cashing in my chips. Turning over a new leaf. Calling it a day. Moving on. Changing my tune. It’s a new dawn. It’s a new day. And I’m feeeeeeeeeling….good.

No. This does NOT mean I have no fodder for my dating cannon. It means the torture is over, and I can re-hinge my brain. It’s been about nine miles of broken glass, this hellish trip through the constant pain and disappointment of dating websites, and I feel like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet. And if you aren’t in Texas (or the South), you more’n likely won’t dig that reference. Trust me, it’s strictly PG.

Ah yes, Texas. Land of perilous freeways, (especially in San Antonio), pestilence, envenomating flying creatures who hit and run leaving mayhem in their wakes and victims wondering, “What the HELL was THAT?” and then inventing new cuss words as they run hellbent for leather to Google first aid applications for incredibly painful bites/stings from un-identifiable but highly skilled Ninja assassin insects. Texas: Home to the famous armadillo, best known as a carrier of leprosy. Now that we have Ebola here, why not bring back some old-fashioned leprosy, (now known as “Hansen’s Disease,” because the word “leprosy” apparently didn’t have a real hopeful kind of ring to it), to really liven things up? Eat a few armadillos and see what happens to you.

baby armadillo

What the…? Is this some kind of mutant kangaroo?

I don’t mean that of course. I would never recommend eating an armadillo. Not when there are hundreds of snakes around, 11 of which are dangerously venomous (see above for finding first aid tips), not to mention five varieties of scorpions whose stings range from the kind that involve immediate and painful death to mild histamine reactions. My advice? Benadryl. Don’t leave home (in Texas) without it. Texas is a desert. There is one natural lake here. ONE. NATURAL. LAKE. And mountains? Fuggedaboutit. Hills. As in Hill Country, not to be mistaken for Lion Country, Bear Country or Wine Country.

I would love to love Texas. The climate is absurd, and the men…oh, my. Bubbas to the left of me, bubbas to the right, here I am, stuck in San Antone again. I sing songs about Texas–several of them. People love it here; they really do. You can tell, because they don’t leave. In fact, more are moving here all the time. Mostly for jobs, but some because they are mentally unbalanced. (FYI: Texas is not the cure for this. Just sayin’.)

Here’s a riddle:

Q: How can you tell if you’re talking to a Texan?

A: Because Texans are the only people  in the world who can say ‘you all’ in one syllable and ‘Texas’ in three.

Texas politics are as unpredictable as the weather. You know it’s always going to be some kind of hideously obnoxious extreme, you will be very uncomfortable when you’re exposed to it, and you never know what the heck is coming in the next 10 minutes.

But what about romance? Is it alive? Is it dead? Do Texans even have romance? Yes, maybe, and sort of. I had a romantic encounter in Texas that involved me driving through an entire night to meet a man I really liked but who lived very far away (in normal terms this would be interpreted as “several states” away…in Texas this can be interpreted as approximately 8000 miles), so that we could have breakfast, then go to a beautiful forest of mesquite trees and watch the sun come up, after and/or during which we had some truly fabulous sex in the front seat of his pickup truck. Now THAT’S romance! It was also the beginning of the best “date “I’ve had since I moved to this godforsaken beautiful garden spot of the US of A.

I think we can use this Ebola thing to our advantage. Kind of a tourist attraction. Maybe we can put up posters: Come to Texas and get…EBOLA! It’s Not Just For Africa Anymore! Okay, that idea may need some work. But I think there’s got to be a way to turn this thing sideways and squeeze some hell yeah! and hot damn! PR out of it.

Optimistically yours,
~~The Invisible Woman

It’s Not Me, It’s You. No, Really. It’s You…



Sometimes that old chestnut, “It’s not you, it’s me,” is true. But usually it’s just a chicken-livered way out of a relationship that’s gone bad. And by “gone bad” I mean it’s like that leftover whatever-it-is in the far back end of your refrigerator that used to be food and has now turned into a UFO, (Unidentifiable Food-like Object), and you’re not even going to open the container for fear of what noxious effluvia might waft out of it if you did. That kind of “gone bad.” Relationship-wise there are situations where the thing just dies, and it will sit in the back of the fridge until someone finally just tosses the whole thing into the trash and moves on to the next science project  relationship.

So instead of unearthing whatever the reasons for the badness are, we just need to toss that puppy–no need to open it up and give it a good whiff to know it’s past saving. We often employ the “It’s not you, it’s me” technique in these situations because it helps keep us from having to delve into that nasty stuff and figure out what it used to be before it went all penicillin-factory on us.

But what if it’s not true? What if it really is him (or her) and not you? What if it’s his drinking, or gambling, or snoring, or lying, or clipping his toenails over your coffee table,  or other countless ungodly annoying habits he has that have caused that infatuation to flee for its life and which has now been replaced by a total lack of respect and (at best) indifference or (at worst) even homicidal impulses? Though many of my romantic friends would disagree with me, I believe it is possible to kill love.

The romantic argument is that “Well, if it’s really love then it merits saving, not euthanasia!” Nonsense. Real love and romantic love have about as much in common as leather and pleather. Let’s face it folks, pleather ain’t never gonna smell, look or feel exactly like leather no matter how good the imitation is. Oh sure, it may look the same from a distance, and a pleather purse can carry things around for you as well as a leather purse can, but it sill ain’t the real deal, Sparky, and that’s the bottom line.

My Aunt Sydney used to say that “the roughest things on a relationship are marriage and children.” And she may be right, to an extent. But in my experience it’s the small, every day annoyances that lead to the death of love. And, tragically, sometimes lovers, too.

Examples: You’ve told him about eight thousand times that you can’t stand it when he leaves the top off the toothpaste tube, but he still doesn’t take two seconds to put it back on. You’ve told her an equal number of times that you don’t like your socks rolled up, you like them folded, yet you look in your sock drawer and there they are, rows of rolled-up socks, each one screaming at you in your soon-to-be-ex-lover’s voice: “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! But I’m too passive-aggressive to actually deal with that, so I’ve rolled up your stupid socks again, just the way you don’t like them, so fuck you!” Ditto for you leaving the top off the toothpaste tube.

Yes, these are the symptoms of a relationship science project in the works. Someone needs to put the poor thing to sleep before real pain is inflicted.

Words. My Informal Logic professor said, “Words have no power.” I argued that they do, because we give them power; words, once spoken, cannot be retracted. He said that made his point–that words in and of themselves have no power but only the power we give them. I said that where the power comes from is immaterial–words have power. Ipso facto, Q.E.D. (which stands for “So fuck you, ’cause I’m RIGHT!!” in Latin). We use words to think, to communicate, to analyze and to wound. That’s power, all right. And the lack of words holds power, too, of a different kind. My recent dating experience is an excellent case in point. There is yet another small chapter, an addendum, if you like. And that chapter is this:

After two weeks of radio silence I received an email from this man only last night. In it, he states that he had been out of town doing something with his parents in Houston, and did not have his phone with him, therefore he did not know that I had sent him two text messages, three emails and left one voicemail during my attempt to contact him and set the record straight. “After all,” his email says, “family comes first!”

Now, I certainly agree that family does come first. (Except in my case, where family comes in dead last. But that’s another blog.) For most people, it is true, and I respect that. Here’s the problem, though: What kind of person, in this day and age, leaves his cell phone at home while he goes to Houston for over a week to visit his elderly parents? I would point out that he not only has a job and friends and family in the area where we both live, but also his son and daughter-in-law have just had a baby–as in three weeks ago. Is it truly credible that he “left his phone at home” and therefore did not see my emails, text, or hear my voicemail? Your honor, I believe the answer to this question is a resounding “NO!” Members of the jury? Ah, I see one dissenter. Madam, I can only tell you that you are even dumber than I am if you believe this hogwash for one second. The verdict I render is–guilty, by reason of lack of honesty on the part of the defendant. In other words, he’s lying like a rug.

The irony is that since neither of us had much invested at this point, all he had to do was say he wasn’t interested. We never had to have any of this ridiculous bull of going back and forth and playing the “Oh, gee I forgot my cell phone,” stupidity game. I wasn’t going to explode, no pets would be harmed, my ego would not shatter and the world wouldn’t come to an end. It’s just not that big of a deal, so why not be honest?

There is as much point in trying to argue someone into liking you as there is in trying to argue someone who hates liver into liking it.  Aint’ gonna happen, so why try? Liver may have all kinds of nutritive value, but if a person doesn’t like it, it could be the super dooper-est of super -foods on the planet–that person is not going to force something he doesn’t like down his gullet. And it’s nothing personal against liver. It’s just a preference…nothing more. Are we all so desperate to be liked that we feel we need to argue someone into liking us? How toxic is that?

So. The next time you’re confronted with this problem, just go ahead. Say it. Say, “It’s not me, it’s you.” You’ll feel better, trust me. And you’ll avoid creating another science project that’ll just have to be tossed out eventually anyway…and meanwhile you’ll have more room in your fridge for non-science projecty type stuff. You know, things you actually LIKE.

~~The Invisible Woman

Houston, you ARE the problem…



I think by now we’ve established that I have issues with dating. One of my issues is the word, “dating,” itself. Back in olden times (i.e., 20 or 30 years ago), “dating” meant a man and a woman (or two men and two women, let’s not be all homophobic here, dating is equally hideous no matter what your proclivities are), were going out to public places and spending time together. Movies, dinners, dancing, and so on, were all activities performed on neutral ground. The purpose of dating was to find out if you liked one another enough to sleep together. Or, if you were particularly prudish, to marry, and then find out if you wanted to sleep together. The latter being a practice I personally do not condone, as I have participated in it, and it did not go well.

Now, however, the times they have a-changed. And so when you tell your friends you are “dating” someone, the inference is that you are sleeping together. You know, having sex. So a term that once meant a social experiment designed to separate the wheat from the chaff in terms of desirability has now become a term which denotes  sexual intimacy.

So that’s one issue I have. The other issue is that there is something wrong with men. I have done my own study of this, and although my experiences can hardly be called scientific, it is one of two logical conclusions I could potentially arrive at. Either there is something wrong with men, (or, to be more precise, the men that I have dated), or there is something wrong with me. I will be the first to acknowledge there is plenty wrong with me. However, these things are not immediately evident. They only come to light when I reveal my inner self to people. On the other hand, the things that are wrong with the men I date, (or even consider dating), are immediately apparent and quite mystifying.

For example: If I read a 50-something year old man’s dating profile and it states he’s never been married, I see that as a serious red flag. I know, some of you are thinking, “But Invisible Woman, maybe he’s never found the right woman! Or maybe he’s lived with a woman (or women), before, and doesn’t that count?” To which I reply, “No.” It doesn’t count because if, after over five decades of life, (that’s half a century, for those of you who are dysnumeric, as I am), the guy hasn’t had the cojones to commit to marriage, it is probably because he is deeply flawed.

Second, there is something wrong with men because they have either never been taught, or have managed to forget, the rules of common courtesy, let alone the rules of dating. And no, I am not referring to that ridiculous book “The Rules.” That is a lot of unhelpful nonsense designed to sell books. (Unfortunately, it did, and is still doing, just that. )No, I am speaking of simple rules, such as being true to your word. If you say you are going to call, you call. If you ask a woman out on a date it does not mean you call her the day of the date and ask if you can “come over.” And I’m not speaking of the third, fourth, or even fifth date. I’m talking about the second date. Or possibly even the first.

Let us consider this thorny question, using an experience I had a few weeks ago. I went out with a man I liked very much. For a first date it went very well. He did everything right, was kind, attentive and nicely dressed. His table manners were fine. He listened well, and laughed at all my lame jokes–but not too loudly, and not to impress me, because as most of you know, I can be sorta funny, at times, but I don’t like to be condescended to. At the end of the date, as we were leaving the restaurant, he did another good, first date thing. He asked me, “So, when can I see you again?” Wow. We were on a roll. I said, “Well, technically, we haven’t stopped seeing each other, since I’m standing right here next to you.” And he even laughed at that lame joke. I said, “I’d love to see you again, call me and we’ll talk it over, okay?” He said “Okay,” and gave me a nice, non breast-crushing hug and we said good-bye, both of us in good spirits. Off to a good start, yes?

Except. That first date was on a Sunday, and he called me on the following Thursday to ask if I wanted to go out on Monday, which happened to be Labor Day, a holiday for both of us. Fabulous. I said yes, and he said “I’ll call you on Friday or Saturday and we can firm up the details,” to which I also agreed. And this is where the rubber meets the road. He did not call me on either of the appointed days. Instead, he sent me a text message on Monday, which said, “Can you come out and play?” To which I responded, “Maybe, what did you have in mind?” His response was: “Can I come over?”

Now. A lot of you are thinking, so? What’s so wrong with that? Others of you are thinking, “Ewwww…creepy.” I am in the latter camp. I said, “I’m not comfortable with that, so I’m going to have to say ‘no.'”

There then followed a series of very odd text messages which went like this:

Him: I understand. I wouldn’t want to do anything that would make you uncomfy [sic]…

Me: Good, because I’m not comfortable with that at this point.

Him: How about if I stand outside and we can talk through your door?

Me: Stop that.

Him: What if I stand beneath your balcony and talk to you that way?

Me: Really. Stop that please.

Him: Maybe I could park my truck in your parking lot and we could exchange text messages from there?

Me: I’m not laughing here. Seriously. I’m not liking the direction this is going, and I’m not happy.

Him: Are you okay?

Me: No. I am nervous and shaking and annoyed. I am not okay at all.

Him: Why?

Me: I kept this day free at your request, but you have failed to make any plans, or call me, and now you are asking me to give you my home address. I’ve met you exactly once, and I’m not comfortable doing that.

I will let my treasured and gentle readers decide for themselves if this seems like a “normal” exchange between a man who allegedly “likes” a woman and who has asked her out on a second date. To me, this sounds like a man who thinks that now he’s taken a woman out once he should be entitled to get laid.

So, although I’m not ruling out the probability that there’s something deeply wrong with me, I also feel there is something even more deeply wrong with this dude.

I find myself wishing two things now: One, that I could go backwards in time to the old-fashioned way of dating (without the no-having-sex-before-marriage taboo of course), and two, that I had never re-activated my profile on the dating website where I met this guy, OkCupid, which will remain nameless. I felt an ominous and slightly disappointing sense of déjà vu. Probably because I actually have been here before. Sort of. I mean, I’ve had to straighten dudes out and let them know that first-date and/or probably even second-date sex ain’t happening. But I’ve never liked a guy this much, after only one date, nor felt such an odd sense of loss when he  turned out to be just another twit. Or, as my friend LafemmeRoar would say, just another schlong.

So I’ve tossed that one on the pile, along with the others, because the whole thing rapidly deteriorated and ended with him telling me via email that he “really wanted to be in my life, and there are no hard feelings at all,” and then refusing to respond to either of my two subsequent emails. Oy.

I’ve taken down my profile–again–because frankly, this whole thing is exhausting. I have an actual job, which is demanding and stress-inducing, an actual life, ditto, and other things which take up my time and energy. To play these adolescent games with dudes who seem to have somehow lost the decade where they grew up is an annoying and useless use of my most precious commodity: my time.

C’mon guys! Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s the grownups who get to have all the real fun? Who else gets to eat ice cream for breakfast if they want? Sheesh.

Yours in perpetual frustration and mild angst,

~~The Invisible Woman

Life in the fast lane? Surely gonna lose your mind…


On the dating highway…

For me, it will always be 1972 somewhere. Which is why, fun-lovers, it is so hard for me to date. I never learned how. As children of the 60s and 70s, we didn’t “date,” really, did we? We lived life in the fast lane and sex was the determining factor of compatibility. As in, if you slept with someone you were either his girlfriend or you never saw him again because you or he didn’t like it.  Not really the way I want to do things any more. Sex has a different meaning for me now, and though I may be cheap, I’m not easy. Recently I’ve had dates with:

  • The guy who asked me to leave his house after I stated I was in favor of small government, (an actual tenet of the Constitution–how dare I??), and that I thought there were women who were more stupid than Sarah Palin. I never even got to say that I don’t think Sarah Palin is stupid; I was presenting a logical argument about the comment he made (“Sarah Palin is the stupidest woman in the world”). Wow. My mother was right. Again. Never discuss religion or politics. In my defense, he brought it up. In all honesty, I knew better. But still. Geez. I mean, hey, I’m not even a Republican, for God’s sake. Anymore.
  • A guy who wore a baseball cap during dinner at a nice restaurant, then smacked me on the butt when saying “good-bye.” Okay, not as bad as trying to put his tongue down my throat, but still, sort of in the same ballpark.

Of course I realize that dating is hard at any age. It’s not ever “fun” for most people. It’s like a job interview only worse, because the outcome isn’t even as black and white as “yes” or “no.” And in a job interview you don’t have to discuss who’s picking up the check beforehand.

I know it’s difficult for men, too. On the advice of one of my online male friends, I created a profile as a man, so I could see the other side. Yikes! One woman asked me what I thought of her profile picture, and since I am a woman in reality, I answered as a woman friend would answer–honestly, but with kindness. I told her that I didn’t think it showed her in the best way, (she wasn’t even SMILING!). Whoa! A barrage of nastiness came my way that I NEVER received from any man. Of course, men are much more secure in their feelings about how they look, so a man would be less likely to ask such a question. Still, it was odd. So was every other aspect of that experiment. I learned that a lot of women my age are desperate and extremely lonely.

I’m an odd duck, admittedly. I don’t get lonely much. When I am alone I feel like I’m in good company. I’m not desperate for a man–that’s why God invented…electronic devices. I like men, I’d like to be able to have actual sex once in a while before my body completely goes south, but I’m not interested in being a nurse or a purse for someone. I’m picky, these days, and I don’t have time for games or guys who need housebreaking. Those requirements alone take me out of the “desperate” category. I’m not here to give anyone grief; all I want is not to be on the receiving end either.

So I mush on. What the next date will tell, who knows? But I try to stay positive, because not all the dates I’ve had have been horrible–only the ones I write about on here. The good dates don’t make it, because they’re not as amusing (to me, and probably not to you, either), and because I learn more from the bad dates, the horror shows. Like the Worst Date Ever, which is coming up…

~~The Invisible Woman

The Classy Guy

dating in modern times

Ah, how wonderful to reach out and touch someone…without contact!

Well, here we are, and here I am. Again. Yep, for now I’m back in the wonderful world of endless “flirts” and bad grammar, not to mention etiquette. “Huh? Whass tha’?” I hear some of you asking. Etiquette, my friends, comprises the rules under which we interact socially. There are many, many, (probably way too many in fact), books about etiquette, from authors ranging from Emily Post to Peg Bracken. Rules of etiquette govern how we treat one another. For example, it is considered very bad form, when attending a formal luncheon or dinner, to use your shrimp fork, (usually the one furthest to the left of your real fork), to poke your date in the eyeball, simply because he’s been flirting with the dumb blonde across the table all night. The salad fork would be best, as it will cause the most damage. But enough about food, let’s talk dating etiquette, shall we? Specifically, online dating etiquette. Which pretty much doesn’t exist, except in the negative (is that even possible?).

Now you, Gentle Readers, who know me, already know that I have a big problem with people, (no, not just men, but as it happens we are speaking of dating here, and I don’t date women–sorry gals!–yes, in this case males), who don’t do what they say they will. Such as call when they say they’re going to or…as happened recently, say they want your number so they can “hear your voice” and want to speak to you, then…Okay, so here’s what happened: Dude asks for my number for the aforementioned reason, I give it to him ’cause I’m in a giving kinda mood, it being Christmastime and all, and I ask him to give me his number so I don’t avoid his call–which is what I usually do when someone calls me, since I hate talking on the phone. So what does he do instead? He sends me a TEXT MESSAGE saying “here’s my number, can we meet tomorrow?” Hmmm. Now, agreed, this is not a capital offense, however…

A) This was not the agreed upon course of action, and B) I don’t like it when men ass-u-me that I’m available at a moment’s notice for, well, whatever; especially a man I haven’t even met yet, but have only communicated with via email, or, in this case through this new anonymous website which shall go unnamed

So I sent him back a text message saying, Hey, Mr. Classy, ah, no. Go fish, but in someone else’s pond. You wanted to call me–you didn’t. I didn’t ask you to text me, nor to assume I was “available” to meet you on the spur of the moment. I said you could call me. You didn’t. Good luck, good hunting and godspeed. Or something of that nature. No swearing, no nastiness, just laying down da law, baby, and layin’ it down right. I have no time to waste on dishonest, desperate dirt-bags looking for an easy lay. I may be cheap, but honey, I ain’t easy.

I received a text message back from this guy explaining to me that it was “sad” to him that I had been “so deeply hurt by someone that I had to resort to name-calling” (?), and blah blah blah. Disco! Blocked, and blocked. Blame-shifters also need not apply. Idiot. There–now I’ve called him a name. Now shape-shifters on the other hand…hmmmm well, (Alcide! Oh, my my my YES!) And if you’re not a True Blood fan you will totally not get that digression, to which I say, “What?? You’re a female and you’ve never watched True Blood? Dudette, really. It’s worth it–for Alcide alone! And wouldn’t we all love to get Alcide alone? Hell, yeah baby!” Go rent all 86 seasons, and do it NOW!

But getting back to our Classy Guy, here’s the problem (or part of it) as I see it: In these modern times, when we do so much communicating via email, text, online fill-in-the-blank media, we have totally forgotten about old-fashioned manners. Etiquette. How we should treat people. How men should treat women–especially if they want to get laid. The men, that is. It’s assumed the women want to get laid. I do…at least, sometimes. But if getting laid were my only priority, I could do that in an ant’s heartbeat. Unfortunately for me, I have what used to be known as “standards,” and if men don’t meet ’em, I don’t be greetin’ ’em. And that’s all there is to it. If women don’t demand (within reason–let’s not go all Rulesy here, okay?) that men treat them with respect and a bit of chivalry, then it’s not unreasonable to expect that men will then treat us as disposable commodities. And don’t even get me started on Kant‘s Categorical Imperatives! Oy.

Stay tuned for our next episode, in which our heroine experiences The Worst Date Ever, then deconstructs it as an added benefit, so that dudes can avoid ending up as the subject of that kind of blog post. Guaranteed to keep your heart sweating, your sweat glands pulsating and your brain wondering, “For real? How is this possible?” and “Why is she still trying to date at all?” as you peruse this harrowing tale.

~~The Invisible Woman

Whoa, a rave? From the Invisible Woman?

Greetings Earthlings,
I come in peace. For once. I have been absent from this particular blog for many reasons, both personal and professional, but mainly because I have been not been dating, and have not joined any websites since my last post. Nope, couldn’t even make it one whole year. Oh, well. Waddaya gonna do, right?

So anyway, I just wanted to say “hey,” and that I’m baaaa-aaaack. Had another first meeting today and I have to say, it wasn’t half bad. And NO, you cynics (who know me so well), that does NOT mean it was ALL bad. Geez. Sometimes, you know, things are allowed to go well. I’d keep that in mind, Gentle Reader, the next time you go all judgey and whatnot on a sister’s be-hind. I might even start singing those dumb country songs again, who knows? Long as I don’t write any, it’s all good.

I’ll keep you posted… so to speak.

~~The Invisible Woman

Why Men are Different from Women


Aside from shaving their faces (yikes!) why ARE men so different from us?

Why are men so different from women? Apart from the obvious (the fact that men are genetically programmed to take out the trash and women are genetically programmed to expect them to do so), the answer is more complex than it might appear. In “Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus,” the author supposes that the difference(s) are due to not only genetics but also from societal expectations, childhood programming and so on. While this may be true, (albeit simplistic), there is another factor which most have failed to consider. This aspect has to do with basic physics and brain chemistry, and proceeds thusly:

When a male hits puberty, he gets, at some point, his first ‘real’ erection. As many people realize, boys do get erections prior to puberty, but these don’t really count. These erections are, in males, as  real contractions are to Braxton Hicks contractions  in pregnant females. Mere biological practice. But once the first real erection occurs, an odd and little-understood phenomenon accompanies it.

Due to gravity, a profusion of blood flows from the upper extremities to the lower, allowing the penis to engorge (meanwhile the hypothalamus stimulates the pituitary gland which in turn stimulates mammoth amounts of testosterone in the testicles which in turn tells the brain, “Hey, shut up! We’re horny down here, man!).  This combination of sudden blood loss to the brain along with testosterone flood causes what later creates a condition known to us as ‘frontal lobe impairment and displacement,’  or, more commonly, thinking with one’s dick.’

The testosterone takes over from the ‘normal’ brain chemicals such as norepinephrine, dopamine, serotonin and acetylcholine and others, rudely shoving them out of the way, thus disabling the ability of the frontal lobe to function properly (aka “thinking”). Meanwhile, back in the lower quadrant, most of the blood which would normally supply the brain is busy taking charge of the penis, making it stand up and demand attention, whether the owner likes it or not. So the brain of the pubescent male is compromised: lack of blood in the brain plus testosterone flood equals thoughtless urge to copulate coupled with (if you’ll pardon the expression) an inability to think through to the logical consequences. (Which would be too numerous to mention here, and if you don’t know ’em go read “Everything You Never Knew About Sex But Should Have.”)

But why, you ask, should this matter? What possible deleterious effect could this possibly have for the adult male? The answer is surprisingly simple: GRAVITY. Due to gravity, the blood which left the poor testosterone-flooded brain essentially defenseless, never quite makes its way back to its origin. Forever after, so long as both he and his Johnson live, the male is lacking blood in the brain. This accounts for the odd fact that so many males, though long out of puberty, continue to behave in ways that reflect more the adolescent than the adult version of human masculinity. If you question this theory (as well you should), you have only to watch one episode of “Bridezillas” to confirm its validity.

Or, if that is too painful for you, (and no one would blame you if it were), go to a real-life bar and watch the kind of things that go on there. Or take a gander at your family tree. Or mine. The answer to the question, “What the !@$% does he see in HER?” then becomes clear. Nothing, because he’s not looking with his EYES, (or hearing with his EARS for that matter). The optic nerves go directly from the eyeballs to the brain. The frontal lobe then interprets what it sees. Since males are lacking blood in the brain from onset of puberty until, well, death, not only their inner vision but their actual vision are equally impaired, thus allowing for and explaining such otherwise inexplicable semi-human products such as “The People of Walmart,”  the Kardashians, and so on.

That does it for today’s science lesson/sermon. I hope this helps shed some light on a long misunderstood and thorny issue. We need to pity men, not condemn them! It is morally wrong for us to be “bashing” on men for something that is far beyond their control and a clear case of biological misdirection. Prayers, not curses, are in order, my friends. Pray for our testosterone-ridden, brain-blood impaired compadres to be restored to a semblance of sanity.

And don’t toss that drink in his face just because he stuck his hand up your dress before he even asked your name! Be grateful it was only his hand. Especially if you go commando.

~~The Invisible Woman