ADVICE FROM THE RABID SHREW AND OBAN THE KNUCKLE DRAGGER
OR
WHAT I LEARNED FROM THE OPPOSITE SEX
By Julie Dolcemaschio
So, what HAVE I learned from the opposite sex, now that I’m…over 40? Why do I care? My eldest son is a senior in high school, and when I was talking to his Honors English teacher the other day, she told me that she had given the class a writing assignment. The assignment was quite simple: What Have You Learned from the Opposite Sex.
Wow. I told her I was fascinated with that idea, especially considering the group she was asking. She assured me that this was going to be an incredible assignment for the kids. She also asked me if I would write something on the subject. Naturally, I said I would. Her unabashed enthusiasm is part of why I love her. The other is that she can open a tequila bottle faster than anyone I’ve ever met.
So, where to start with this impressive and interesting subject? The first thing I thought of was that they are a sad bunch. Then I thought, ‘Oh, God, I can’t say that, can I?’ I mean, how sad can they be? They’ve ruled the earth since Oban The Knuckle Dragger discovered fire, and they still do, no matter how far women have come. But, I do believe they are sad. Sad and hurting, and I don’t mean it as in hapless or incapable, like they sit around and drool into a cup all day. What I mean is that they are hurting deep in their souls. They don’t know who they are supposed to be and they are unable to tap into their authentic selves for reasons both obvious, and not so. And as the wife of a man, and the mother of two men-in-training, I hurt for them, too.
In the 50s and 60s it was easier to be ‘a man’. The expectations were clear; their roles in society, in the workplace and at home were well defined. Rarely did we see a man at home taking care of his children while his wife worked. A man coming home after a long day, and doing anything other than sitting in his favorite chair, snapping open the newspaper, and signaling for his bourbon was a rarity as well. This, of course, did not advance the role of women any, but let’s face it; back then, women’s roles were pretty well defined, too. Society expected her to be a good mother and a good wife, and if she had to help bring home the bacon, she’d better know how to prepare it to her husband’s liking. No bourbon or newspaper for her. The kids better be clean, preferably fed, and ready for bed, and once dinner was served and the dishes were done, she’d better be ready to perform her wifely duties in bed.
Today, a man’s role is less clear. The Feminist Movement, while essential in moving women forward and up in the workplace and in society, confused the issue somewhat for men. Back in the day, a man who helped a woman on with her coat, pulled out her chair, and opened doors was a gentleman, and the behavior was expected. Once “The Movement” took hold, these kind souls were blasted with dragon fire for assuming a woman was incapable of putting on her coat or opening a door for herself. Suddenly the lady of the house wasn’t offering him the paper, a bourbon, hot dinner, and a roll in the hay when he walked through the door; she was handing him a screaming baby, a dinner plate on top of the microwave, and no chance in hell of sex.
In the workplace, his boss—a man—with whom he once shared a nightly gin-for-the-road while listening to exaggerated stories of golf scores and trysts with the hatcheck girl at Sardi’s, has been replaced by a woman who had to work twice as hard as her predecessor to become the boss, and she believes that the only way she’ll get any respect is to behave like a rabid shrew who keeps her employees’ freshly amputated testicles in a jar on her desk. And for the first time in his life, he is being turned down in bed. He is no longer king of his domain and he’s wondering what fresh hell he’s wandered in to.
Here’s how I see it, and I have been married for 26 years to the same man—a man’s man, an enlightened man. What I learned from him is that men have a deep need to connect—to their guy friends and to their wives/girlfriends. They want to be loved and understood and honored. Yes, I said honored.
When a man feels he is being honored for the man he is, he opens like a flower. When he does not feel honored, he shuts down. Pretty simple. When he feels appreciated for his contributions—even if it’s shelves or a widescreen—he feels like he is taking care of business. When he hears we’re unhappy that he didn’t notice the new drapes or acknowledge we’ve lost a few pounds, he’s understandably hurt—The Big vs. The Little again.
When a man is honored for acting as the leader and mentor in his house, he will lead. When a man is allowed to bond with his children, make mistakes, and be open about his insecurities without being made to feel like a drooling buffoon, he will nurture. When a man is allowed to love, protect, and provide for his family freely and without being made to feel as if he’s dominating or taking over, he will thrive.
A man wants to fix, find solutions. When his wife or the kids get sick, he’s pissed he couldn’t prevent it from happening, and even angrier that he can’t fix it. That’s when he’ll turn to his wife and say, “How the hell did you let this happen?” This will prompt her to say, “I’ve been cleaning up barf all day and I’m tired” or, “I’ve been barfing all day, give me a break.” This is his cue to say, “Yes, of course, my angel. Let me make you a cup of tea,” but he doesn’t do that. He wants to know why she is acting like such a bitch, and why the hell she is, or the kids are, still sick, dammit.
This is a good time to acknowledge his need to problem solve, and her need for a stiff martini—or a cup of tea. The bottom line here is he is dying to be understood, and he is woefully incapable of understanding himself. I have found that in the acknowledging, there is acknowledgment. Everyone wins—most of all the man.
The genderless way in which many people live today is not good for men. I’m not sure yet how we women are fairing, but I can tell you it is not good for the men. They need to be men. They need to be able to be open about their needs, their wants, their hurts, and their desires without being labeled a whiner. They need to be able to express themselves sexually, where appropriate, without being labeled a cad or a pervert. They need to be given permission to admire the beauty of a woman without being labeled a leering wanker with a lazy eye.
When I quit my job almost 18 years ago to stay home with my son, I had a hard time adjusting. I’d worked for my own money since I was fourteen, and now I found myself in the position of contributing nothing financially, and on top of that I was expected to have the kitchen cleaned and dinner ready when he got home. When that wasn’t happening to my husband’s liking, he let me know about it. I believe his words fell along the lines of, ‘This is your job now’. Did I enjoy hearing that? No, I did not. But the man wasn’t wrong. It was my job—that, and caring for a baby. He had his own job to do outside the home, and it was damn stressful. He brought home a nice paycheck and he denied me nothing. But, in my mind, I wasn’t an equal in the work force anymore. I was a housewife. I was June Cleaver, and all I was good for was a clean house and smiles at the end of the day, while he navigated through the exciting world of business. I didn’t have my own money, and this made me feel incredibly insecure.
But, wait…I chose this, didn’t I? I decided that I didn’t want to go back to work. I decided I wanted more for my son than a woman-who-was-not-his-mom coming in every day to care for him while I went out and fulfilled my obligation to the feminist movement. Even my mother, who worked all during my formative years, said, “I’m afraid you will lose yourself if you don’t work.” I didn’t. I actually found myself, and when I did, I found a woman, and I liked her. I decided I would be the woman and let him be the man. I decided I would let him protect, I would let him provide, and I would let him cherish, and I would do some things, too.
And cherish he did. I noticed the change right away. It was immediate. Gone was the closed mind, the demanding tone, the business-like way in which he dealt with our marriage. I got back the man that I married, simply because I let him be a man. I was in no way diminished by letting him be who he was, naturally. And from this came his need to connect, his desire to let me know that work wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and that he worked his ass off for me, and for the kids. And he told me he’d rather be home with me than anywhere else, and in those cherish words, those heartfelt love words, in that honesty that I can only guess came from the changes I made, I, too, opened up. I became more, and then he became more. It isn’t always perfect, and occasionally we forget the Mars and Venus stuff and we fuck up. A past-lives expert told me once that in one of our many previous lives together, my sweet boo killed me—quite violently, in fact. I made the mistake of sharing this with him after one particularly silly argument. “And this surprises you?” he snorted. He’s funny, in addition to being manly.
If I had the ear of all the young men in the world, I would say to them the following: Be who you are as a man, every single day. Strive to be a good man, in society and in your home. Love hard and strong and with honor, always with honor. I would tell them that Snookie and Kim Kardashian will never honor them as men, so look and enjoy, but do not bring that home.
I would say be brave in expressing your needs, because unless those needs are taken care of, you will not be able to meet the needs of your wife and your children. Open doors, pull out chairs, and help with coats if that makes you feel good. The right woman for you will take it for what it is—a gesture of love, and not an attempt to weaken or dominate. I would advise young men to connect with their guy friends as deeply as they can. Where a woman lacks, your buddies will fill in. Don’t let the lure of sex weaken you. It will be there, whether you are a dog or a man of honor. Choose honor, and with the sex you will also get respect. Be conscious of how you speak around girls your age. Broadcast that you are notthat guy—the guy who thinks of them as nothing, not worthy of respect, or decent language, or a kind word. Speak and act with honor.
I would also like to invite young men to hug their mothers once in a while. You know you want to, so do it. She won’t bite, or offer to change your diaper. She knows you’re grown up because she has felt you drift further and further away from her since you were ten. Hug her and let her honor you as the man you are becoming. She sees it, sees where you’ve been, and where you are going, and it kills her, and it fills her with pride. She knows she has to let you go, because she’s been doing it for years. She can’t wait to see how things will turn out, so hug her once in a while. It won’t kill you.
Last, honor yourselves. Honor the man you are becoming and the one you’d like to ultimately be. Don’t compromise and don’t settle. Honor yourself, be true to yourself, and pass it on to your friends. You’re worth it. The women of the world need you—and we need you at your best.
Julie Dolcemaschio is a writer and a poet. She has written several books of poetry, including Jewels in the Dim Light, The Phoenix Elegies, Map of Me, Musings, life, untitled, Surface Cuts, and An Angel Walked In, dedicated to her mother.
Testarossa is her first novel. She is currently slogging through rewrites of the sequel while mothering and wifing.
She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two children. She is not Italian.
“Mom, if I ever get hurt, will you help me, even when I’m old?”
“Yes,” I answered him. “Of course.”
“Even when I’m old.” This was a statement, not a question.
“Yes. Even when you’re old.”
That was my six year old, back when he was six. We were in the car, going to, or coming from—I don’t remember which. He and I had conversations like this a lot.
“Kids get lost, you know,” he’d stated, as if this were late-breaking news.
“Yes,” I’d answered.
“If more kids held their mother’s hands, they wouldn’t get lost, right?”
Right. How could I tell him it wasn’t that simple? That once in a while we had to let go, for their sake as well as ours.
“I have a feeling something bad is going to happen,” he said. He had been saying that a lot. I settled on my pat answer.
“You stick close to me for a while, then, alright?”
The first time I said this, a week or a month prior, in answer to his statement, I never elaborated on what I meant. But he knew. He held my hand tight that day, whenever we were out of the house and not in the car.
“I’m sticking by you,” he reminded. “Just like you said.”
He was looking out the window at the passing cars, deep in thought. “Mom,” he said. “If I ever get lost, will you find me?” The pain in my stomach was so rich that I stopped breathing. You read, you hear on the news all the time about kids getting lost and never found, no matter how much their parents love them. I couldn’t help but think about how many children go missing each year. To me, a mother, the numbers are staggering.
In reality, stereotypical kidnappings, where the kidnapper intends bodily harm upon the victim, is quite low—around 100.
Small comfort if you’re that kid’s mother. The question threw me, stunned me. I knew without a doubt that I would die trying. Would he wait, patiently unafraid, because he knew I’d be there? Or would he worry that I wouldn’t show up, that I’d forget? This discussion, framed differently, was like all the others. They all held a central theme. The same idea remained; the same question hovered in the air, but never asked directly.
Do you love me?
The sun was out, I remember that. John Legend was on the CD player, I remember that, too. He was sitting in the back, in a booster seat he wished he didn’t have to use. His brother, who was 13 at the time, didn’t have to use one, so why did he? He’d had a haircut recently, and it was shorter than it had ever been—almost shaved. He wanted to look like his brother. He had a foot up on the seat, while the other one hung down. Between the haircut and the way he was sitting, he looked much older than his six years. I knew what my answer would be, but I questioned the success of it.
He had good reason not to trust. I’d let him down before. I write. I never expected it to take up so much of my time, both physically and emotionally. I have a book out—a crime novel, oddly enough. Marketing and promoting Testarossa, while putting the finishing touches on the sequel, takes up a lot of my time, and it’s time I take when I’m not mothering—or wifing. I am not as present as I should be. I’m always thinking of the next scene, the next red herring. I forgot to read to him last night. We ran out of time. But really, I didn’t make sure we took the time. When I first began writing, late in life after children were had and finances were secure, I felt guilty, devoting myself to something other than them. I was distracted from them, preoccupied with something else—and enjoying the hell out of it. I wasn’t spending enough time. I was forgetting. I didn’t care enough. I wanted to be good at something, because I certainly wasn’t good at motherhood. And now we have all settled into a familiar pattern, where I disappoint and they are disappointed. Perhaps I am a better writer than I am a mother. The sooner they accept this, the better off they will be. No disappointments when you understand the way things are. No expectations then. No expectations, no disappointment.
His question hung in the air like a wet fog. I imagined him sitting back there, waiting for me to answer, and knowing what my answer would be. Would I disappoint?
He is nine now, and he still takes my hand, still sits on my lap, still stops me on my way to something else, grabs on to me, holds on until I return the love. The day is gray and still in anticipation of the coming storm. The TV is on. I am folding clothes. He is making an AK-47 out of sticks and camouflage duct tape. If he weren’t such a gifted baseball player and linguist, he’d be a ballistics expert in some big city police department. For now, I’m content that he’s a sweet, funny fourth-grader who’d like to play for the Yankees someday—or announce games for them.
The newscaster, a blond woman too perky and wide-eyed to be anything but, informs us that a mother waited thirty-one days to report her child missing. As the evidence mounts against her, she flirts in court with her attorney. Evidence of death and chloroform were found inside the trunk of her car.
“She didn’t hold her daughter’s hand,” he says, not looking up from the perfect replica of the killing machine he has almost finished building. His hair sticks up on one side, his refusal to comb it evident to all but him. His oversized shorts, his red t-shirt with some pithy baseball slogan plastered across the front, still serves as his uniform, even on a cold, almost-wet day. The fire is on, we are warm inside our house, and we don’t know about suffering—we only hear about it from others. By his comment, I see that he doesn’t understand, wasn’t paying attention to the story, and for that I am beyond grateful. He does not realize that this woman is being accused of killing her own child, then partying for thirty-one days before reporting her missing. I cannot fathom this, and frankly, I’d like for him not to fathom it either, at least right now.
“If she had,” he said, “I bet she wouldn’t have killed her. Can’t kill something you’re holding. Impossible.”
“If you ever got lost,” I answered my six year old, “I would absolutely find you. If it took me forever, I would find you, and I would bring you home.”
He smiled and looked out the window. “I knew it,” he said. “I just knew it.”
And in the quiet loaming, under a moon full and a love ripe, I shed a child, and became blessed.
