A man is a facade ...

I put on a clean shirt, clean pants and a tie every day. I scrape off the beard that insists on trying to grow anew each morning. I behave in a serious, respectable, responsible manner. I project dignity, gravitas and maturity -- or at least make an effort.

It's all a sham.

I am just a little boy trapped in this overgrown man-shell, who would happily spend the day examining ant hills and splashing in puddles if I could.

And I am just a teenager still riding the raging stallion of passions that will dog me,probably, until the day I die. I cherish the gold band upon my left hand and my beautiful Beloved is and always will be my Goddess, She and no other. But I would be a liar if I were to say that there is no other beauty in the world and even if there were, the presence of such beauty would have no effect upon me.

A visitor came to my office today -- like my Sweetie, a trim, brunnette Lady with a delightful smile. She wanted to talk about a computer system that we have installed. I kept a professional air, forced myself to look away when She leaned over the desk, refrained from drooling -- in short, struggled mightily in a manner that I certainly would not have, in the presence of some aging, balding man.

Why is it so hard in such a situation to even make eye contact?

Ah, I am pathetic. All men are pathetic. Marionettes dangling from invisible strings. Monkeys nicely dressed up to mingle with the crowd.

Do You Women just laugh at us amongst Yourselves?

A story

A woman was taking a much-needed vacation to Florida, after enduring the break-up of her marriage, the loss of her job – since her ex had been a friend of the boss – and a number of other miseries.

Strolling alone on the beach one morning, barefoot in the sand, comforting herself with a Capri Menthol and contemplations of better days, she spied a brass lamp ahead of her, half buried above the surf line.

Not being a woman who passed up opportunity, she scooped it up and gave it a rub. A rather odd-looking genie appeared. He appeared forlorn rather than feisty. Much like herself.

“This is a non-smoking beach,” the genie said, jerking his purplish thumb towards the woman’s cigarette.

“Your lamp might make a nice ashtray,” she warned, not in the mood to take guff from another man, especially a purple one.

He thrust his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay, keep the smoke. But I can’t wish away the fine if the warden catches you.”

“Warden?” she snickered. “You are one confused little genie. Wardens hunt for poachers, not smokers.”

The genie threw up his hands again. “So sue me. I’m a foreigner.”

“Ah, you don’t look as foreign as some of the university freaks I’ve seen around here,” the woman said, taking another drag of her Capri.

“I will take that as a compliment,” said the genie.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” said the woman.

“Look, I ain’t no ordinary genie,” the apparition said.

“Is there such a thing?” the woman asked, exhaling a stream of smoke purposefully at him.

The genie coughed and said:“Yes, there is. Most of us grant three wishes. You know the drill.”

“You can give the coughing routine a rest,” she said, “since you are made of smoke anyway. You men are all alike. Playing your head games.”

“I could say something about you dames, too,” the genie grumbled.

“’Dames’ hasn’t been in the lingo since the ‘40s, genie,” the woman said. “Who taught you English, Al Capone? Just run the wishes routine and get lost. I’m in no mood for men right now, of any kind.”

“Sheesh, what ingratitude,” the genie said. “Like I tried to tell you, I ain’t no ordinary genie.”

“Ain’t isn’t proper English,” said the woman. “So what makes you special, Archie Bunker Genie Boy?”

“I don’t grant wishes, I grant curses,” the spirit said. “Just one, please.”
The woman sighed and sat down upon the sand. “Figures. Men and curses, a natural pair.”

“You don’t get it, lady. I grant you a curse on someone else, anyone. The ether of the universe has sensed the injustice that you have suffered and wishes to balance the cosmic scales.

“You may wish upon your enemy death, poverty or a debilitating disease. You may curse him to be the victim of identity theft. Or to hear Muzak constantly in his head. Or to have chronically irritated bowels, incurable flatulence, bad breath, insomnia or a lazy eye. Or to be impotent, unemployable, itchy, annoying to all who meet him. I assume, since I have been sent here, that you DO have an enemy.”

The woman took a long, thoughtful drag on her cigarette, staring off into the distance across the waves.

“Yeah, I do,” she said, finally.

“Well, what shall it be then?” he asked. “I could give him horrendous heartburn. I could make a harpy fall in love with him and drag him through hell. The real one. Not the metaphor.”

“Care for a drag?” said the woman, extending her cigarette.

“Don’t tell no one,” said the genie, gingerly taking the Capri from the woman. “But thanks.”

He blew a perfect ring that danced away over the ocean and wiggled itself into the shape of a fish, ducking down into the waves and disappearing.

“Nice trick,” he said to himself, since the woman said nothing.

The woman sighed deeply.

“For my enemy, a man who once claimed to love me but broke all his vows, I wish …” she said.

The genie rubbed his purple hands together.

“… I wish him no evil but one,” she said. “I wish for him to have a conscience.”

###

Miscellany

My new shoes are polished for church tomorrow. I have made a decision this new year: though lacking empirical or emotional evidence, I will choose to believe.

***

I took my Beloved, aka Sweetie, to historic Williamsburg today. While She browsed through a store to Her liking, I sat on a bench in the unexpected sunshine and enjoyed the fragrance of a nearby Marlboro menthol being enjoyed by a Woman as She read a novel at the other end of the bench.

Sensory pleasures: sweet sunshine and the faint fragrance of fine tobacco shared gently, without words, without animosity ...

***
"Why is it that the only things you ever buy in these places are food?" my Beloved asked me. She had purchased a candle and some decorative doo-dads and stocking stuffers for next year. I was happily cradling a sack of Muscovado sugar and a jar of Zanzibar spice blend.

"Food makes memories," I told Her.

The exotic sugar will be perfect for making a loaf of dark, Grant bread.

***
I can't stand commercials that show only Women cleaning homes. We are not in the 1950's anymore, and there are plenty of men who vacuum, mop and otherwise help care for the homes they live in.

Likewise, I would like to bounce a brick off the head of whatever advertising moron has recently put out a commercial declaring that "men don't bake."

Like hell we don't. I can chop up a log into kindling, pitch a tent, fix my car or do other supposedly manly chores. And I bake. I can deeply appreciate a fine set of swaying Feminine glutes gliding past me or, more appropriately, the charms of my own Beloved. And I bake.

In fact, I find a man fearful of his own kitchen to be quite pathetic.

***
I tried out a new bread recipe the other day but failed to take a picture. It was a rich, whole wheat, British granary cob, round as a pillow and crusted with cracked wheat.

Guess I'll make it again and record the evidence.

***
We are home with our treasures -- the ones we bought and the ones in memory.

Last link for a while, I promise

Blog-buddies, I just had to add Lone Grey Squirrel to the blog list. I won't add anyone else for a while as I need some time to get to know all the new folk that I have met this week. Blogworld is like a great all-you-can-eat buffet and if you don't pace yourself, you'll explode trying to swallow down too much juicy steak, salad and sweet dessert.

LGS - what an amazing guy. Rarely do I feel inclined to say that about a man. But as I commented to him, his awesomeness is no doubt due in part to having spent much of his life in the company of Women.

Plus, I like squirrels, too.

I am capable ...

... Of now and then, noticing the good that is done by men, not just Women, and to find that a few of them actually have a little class and intelligence.

Please adjust your defibrillators, swallow your heart medicine, climb back into your chairs.

For example, I was quite pleased to see that a certain city official, imprisoned beside me in a horrendous meeting last night, had a copy of the classic "Crime and Punishment" tucked among his possessions.

The title was a propos to the situation, rather ironically.

I like to see people reading good books for pleasure, not by compulsion.