Manicorn

Manicorn- (n.) elusive, legendary male creature in which the species known as women envision, idolize and dream of; symbol of perfection

The manicorn has wash-board abs but accepts us as we are; educated but not prudish; beautiful but not vain; a good guy yet a bad boy. He puts his woman's needs before his own - always listens, always patient. He desires a family including a dog and white picket fence. He wants to hang out with your mom and babysit your nephew and nieces. He knows what you need before you do and showers you with gifts of various kinds.He is never selfish, hates sports, waits on you hand and foot, cries when you cry, laughs when you laugh; and above all else, worships the very ground you walk on.

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"Oh my, you can even filter height and salary!" I observed as my friend tweaked her search results on Match.com. "This is like 'build a bear' but better. It's 'build a man,'" I said as I briefly considered the dating scene online.

Why not? We shop for everything online - from clothes and computers to flower bouquets made of fruit.Why not shop for men? Ryan Gosling, here I come!

I've met them in church, at restaurants, been set up... why not online? I can search and tweak, then tweak and search. Sign me up!

If only it were that simple then everyone would be signed up, and I'd already have 2.5 children living in the suburbs. Unfortunately, the manicorn is elusive for a reason, the reason being he doesn't exist.

Why do we women hold such high standards for men yet not hold them for ourselves? I have come to realize the perfect man doesn't exist, neither does the perfect woman. Now does that mean I should settle for Joe Schmo off the street? No, but maybe I should be a little more forgiving.

People shouldn't be defined by salary or height or some other ridiculous standard. Don't get me wrong; I don't want to be a sugar momma, neither do I want a troll of a boyfriend. But just because he doesn't make a seven figure salary doesn't mean he won't be a good provider.

Get out your list. Come on; you have one. Whether tucked away in your diary or tucked away secretly in your mind, you have one. And too many times we dismiss others if they don't fit it perfectly.

I know you're wanting me to stop before I tell you Noah on the Notebook doesn't exit. I can see you now, alone in your room as the rain rolls down your window pane while listening to Taylor Swift. Stop your crying.

The next time you dismiss Mr. Not So Perfect, look in the mirror and ask yourself if you're so perfect.

A Good Man Is Hard to Find

These shirts are not cool... period.

While eating mixed nuts and enjoying a movie by myself the other night (yes, I relish my alone time), I had an epiphany:

Finding a good man is like searching for the cashews in mixed nuts; there are only a few, and they’re always the first ones to go.

(And I’m not exaggerating when I say I only found about five in the whole can. Imagine the let-down.)

Now, I do know there are good men still out there. So please don’t misunderstand and take me as a complete cynic. And I’m quite the opposite of a man-hating feminist as well.

But, a girlfriend of mine described the dating scene for us late-twenty-somethings quite accurately: “There’s rarely a 'normal' or happy medium,” she said.  She went on to introduce me to the two extremes we often encounter. And granted, many have been set ups by close friends. Note to self, and to all you single people: More often than not, set ups equal upsets.

Now back to the two extremes:

Meet Mr. Douche. My picture of the typical douche looks something like this: He is usually wearing a tight fitted tee, maybe by the ever-so-classy Ed Hardy along with Buckle jeans. If his back pockets are embellished, you know he’s the real deal. He’s the guy who thinks he looks good and spends more time in the mirror than any of his girl friends.

Don’t get me wrong; they come in all sizes, shapes, styles and personalities. But what they all have in common is their lack of commitment to anything substantive in their lives.

This is the guy with all the right lines to say, the best excuses to give and compliments that melt your heart. He knows how a woman works. He has studied her.

He’s the guy that plays ever so sly, the cat and mouse game. If you’re a guy reading this, you may start to feel a tinge of guilt… and girls, you may realize you’re being played. It’s a fact of life.

Don’t be fooled by the first date. He knows how to wine and dine, at least for the first couple of dates. You enjoy each other’s company, start to hang out consistently, but realize girls: this boat ain’t movin. He doesn’t like to talk seriously about relationships or commitment, and he will almost always refer to the status of your relationship as “hanging out.”

If you’ve given into sex at this point, you’ve already lost the game, ladies. He’s now he's eating his cake and having it, too. You’re the perfect amenity to his life. Because there is no commitment, and you only get together a time or two a week, he has the benefits of a girlfriend without the nagging and obligations. He doesn’t have to worry about going to your great aunt’s birthday or helping you babysit your niece and nephew. He doesn’t have to consider your role in a significant way in his life at all

Oh… and he’s probably talking to other girls on the side. What else do you think he’s doing the other five nights a week?

Don’t be fooled by his excuses or his "fear" of commitment or emotional intimacy. Whatever his deal is, he doesn’t want commitment with YOU. Yes, I said it. It may have hurt. But know that you’re worth more than that. Walk away while you can.

If you ask for more, he’ll just give you another excuse and try to keep you on the line.



Meet Mr. Creepy Clinger. “Baby, do you miss me?” This is not a sweet question from a long-term boyfriend away for the weekend, but rather a text message query sent two days after a first date that one of my friends went on. Would you be surprised if I told you it was also a set up?

(To all you wannabe match makers, ask yourself one question: Would you date him? If the answer is no, then we probably don’t want to either.)

Her response to me: “No! I didn’t miss him. I’ve been thinking about work all day.”

The Creepy Clinger tends to be the guy that attaches to you like your friend’s annoying cat's hair on your favorite black dress. No matter what you do, you can’t seem to get it off!

“He’s cute enough to keep around and maybe he’s just nervous,” you keep telling yourself after the 10th text in a row.

This is the guy who would iron all your clothes, including your underwear, if you asked. He’s the guy who thinks you’ve hung the moon…hell, maybe even the sun. “Baby, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world,” he said after the first creepy text to her. Although flattering, it’s way too soon to talk like that, guys (if ever; really, you can't come up with something better?).

These guys seem great at first. The attention is flattering. You feel appreciated. But this is also the guy that wants love so bad that he’s more in love with the thought of the relationship than with you. You start realize there’s a screw loose after the second week.

Recently, I had two different girl friends express their dating mishaps, both of which involved Mr. Creepy Clinger (two different clingers, to be precise).

“He’s called five times since I’ve been here, “ one said while we were eating dinner.

“But he’s cute, and nice. And I know he’d always treat me nice. Maybe I should just keep him around, just in case no one else comes along,” she contemplates. Unfortunately, this a thought we gals have in those desperate moments when we fear we'll always be stuck in a sinking boat with Mr. Douche, bailing away and trying not to sink too soon.

But is the clinger okay to keep around? No. He’s only going to get more attached. And how would you feel being a backup girl? Do him a favor and cut the ties while they’re still short. I know you want your bedroom repainted but just hire someone to do it.

Can we escape these two extremes? Probably not. Can we change these guys? No, we cannot. But once you see the red flags, stop rationalizing and get the hell out.

And to the guys: As one of my friends says way too often, “Lock it up!” Get your [crap] together. Seek help. Talk to a friend. Go to therapy. Get over your fear of committing to anything more long-term than a jumbo-sized pack of toilet paper. Then date.

For the sake of all single women out there, “Lock it up!” and try to find a happy medium. We'll both be better for it in the end.

...Continued --The Class Act

The Class Act. "Hey, Pretty, call me back. I can’t wait to hear from you,” his soft, sweet yet masculine voice resounded on my voicemail. He was my middle school crush whom I had run into 14 years later.

My middle school crush was better known as a “lady’s man.” You know this kind of male – the lion in the jungle who loves to hear himself roar, see how many females he can pounce upon, and after, gloat in victory while stroking his mane.

But I thought I’d give him a chance. After all, he knew the kind of girl I was, so maybe he had changed.

 

As he walked up, my mind went back to him playing football in high school. His towering physique loomed over the dinner table, and I instantly remembered why everyone liked him so – his charm was far greater than his looks.

I was intrigued. Why was he interested in reconnecting with me? Had he really changed?

 

To my surprise, he was humble and honest. He recounted the past few years and made it clear he was a more serious person now, exhausted with the bachelor life. I believed him. He opened the door, paid for dinner, and guided me up the stairs with a gentle touch, making sure I didn't stumble in the darkened stairway.

We went on a few dates, and he wanted to see only me. I had reservations in my gut but didn’t know why. Or maybe I did.

 

Maybe it was the time I was recovering from a week-long sickness of strep throat and was invited to a relaxing day at the pool -- or so I thought. “ I could use some some sun. Maybe it will make me feel better, “ I told him as I rummaged through my clothes searching for my swimsuit.

I arrived on the scene. Entering the pool gate, I saw a sea of people, at least a hundred. The loud music made my head hurt as I searched for him among the crowd. There was not a chair to sit in. At first glance, the girls were pretty, until you saw the beer can in hand and belly hanging over the bikini. The guys looked like guidos from Jersey Shore as they bumped the beach ball in the pool. “Was I a part of a taping for MTV?” I thought.

I stayed no longer than 45 minutes, and he agreed to leave with me. Apparently, this was an every-weekend occurrence during the summer months.

As weeks passed on, I met his friends. There was always an excuse to “go out.”

It seemed that every time people saw us out together, I was warned -- and not always by close friends. On several occasions, they were people I had never met, including the anonymous texter, once while Mr. Charming was on a beach trip with all females (granted, he had planned it before me.)

The texts recalled his Excel spreadsheet of hundreds of women he had slept with and the list of his future prey. After being creeped out, I still took it with a grain of salt. Unless the texter came forward, I wouldn’t take it seriously.

After these texts, however, little things began to annoy me, including the reoccurrence of his shirtless body. Whenever we entered his house or went to a friend’s house, the shirt came off. And a time or two in public.  But the best outfit was yet to come.

His birthday weekend was coming up, or rather his “birthweek” as he called it. The Saturday arrived and all his friends gathered at their favorite pub starting at noon. I refused to come at noon. I arrived at 4:00, unfortunately, four hours after the drinking had begun.

And there he was… not shirtless this time, although that would have been better, but with a “peewee” football shirt tight around his body which hung as a belly shirt. I was mortified. I was dating a cave man.

They drank and drank and ended the night with karaoke. The images of him booty dancing on some random girl and falling out of his chair feet up as he leaned over to whisper something are still etched in my mind.

I dropped him off at his house, and I went home. The next morning, I received a call. He was confused and remembered nothing from the night. “Come eat breakfast with us. It’s Sunday Funday,” I gave in. After hours of sitting in the front lawn with his friends still drunk and continuing to drink the day away, I knew I had to leave. I was too old for Sunday Funday.

“I have to be productive, “ I told Mr. Charming. That was the last time I saw him. A few weeks later, he sent me a video of him on his knees drinking a Smirnoff Ice. The message read: “Look what you’re missing out on.”

I replied, “Classy.”