Men have an innate ability to cut to the goddam chase. There is no let's pretend Johnny is good-looking even though he's got acne scars and one eye facing in the wrong direction. He's called Fugly (short for fucking ugly) or Wall Eye (Wally for short). We don't have the time or inclination to bullshit our way around the reality of life-we put the cards right on the table. It's why guys never know who the good-looking guy in their gang is until they start hanging around with girls and witness which guys the girls go crazy for. It's the truth-we have no idea if a guy we know is handsome and we don't care-as long as he is willing to grab a shovel and go to work or play whatever sport it may be as hard and driven as the rest of us he's an equal member of the team. Once we find out he's good-looking-there is no jealousy. We just immediately go into "what can we get out of this" mode. In other words-the prettiest chick at the party will probably wanna talk to him which means her slightly less pretty friends will need other guys to talk to-which is where we come in.
One of my old friends is Matt Dillon and let me tell you-when it's just the guys hanging around, no one gives a shit what Matt Dillon looks like. He's gotta carry boxes or cover the wide receiver or pass the ball or do an equal amount of driving as the next guy.
Women-however-have this built-in desire to tell even their fat ugly friend that she is pretty. Or funny. Or talented. When in fact she is none of the above. Ask any guy and he'll tell you-when a guy's wife or girlfriend says oh you just gotta meet my friend blah blah blah she is SOOO funny and soooo great, the first thing we ask is-is she hot? The pause right before they answer is all the information you need. No-the pause is telling you-she is not hot. At all.
Listed below are the first four things most chicks say about their available friends, followed by the truth:
a. She's really cute, she's got great eyes and she's funny. (She's got cute lips, nice eyes and snorts like a stuck pig when she laughs.)
b. She looks like Michelle Pfeiffer. (IF Michelle Pfeiffer had just been in a car crash.)
c. She's very very pretty. (She's fat.)
d. She's got an amazing body. (But the FACE of Tina Yothers.)
e. She's incredibly smart. (She won't shut up.)
Likewise, if you hear any woman describe another woman using the terms listed below-almost the exact opposite will be true:
a. She's an idiot. (She's got massive tits.)
b. She's anorexic. (She's got great legs and a flat stomach.)
c. She's so self-centered. (Guys love her.)
d. Her ass is huge. (She's Jennifer Lopez.)
e. She's a bitch. (She's gorgeous and funny and will fuck your brains out five minutes after she meets you.)
Chicks will take precious time and carefully chosen words to spend on chubby or homely or big-boned female friends-referring to their bee-stung lips or slow metabolism or zaftig curves. But when they watch Cindy Crawford walk out to greet Jay Leno on The Tonight Show? She's too hippy. Julia Roberts in an extreme close-up during a big-budget romantic drama? Her mouth's too horsey. Kate Moss in a magazine? I don't find her sexy at all. Okay-but then again, you don't have a cock. I do-and take it from me when I tell you that four out of five men who HAVE cocks? They would jump into bed with either one of those three in half a heartbeat.
There's a very good reason why most of the girls who star in American-made romantic comedies are considered "cute," "cuddly" or the classic "girl next door" type. Because women are the main audience for these chick-friendly flicks. Women are almost guaranteed to drag their boyfriend/husband/sperm donor out to see it on opening weekend. Women will go see the film several times more if they like it. Then rent or buy the DVD a few months later. As long as the star is not a threat or-at the other end of the same spectrum-represents the hope that normal chicks could possibly land an incredibly handsome and devoted and charming and lovable guy.
That's why you hear women say how cute or cuddly or classically beautiful women like Renee Zellweger, Reese Witherspoon and Sarah Jessica Parker are when-if you ask a guy-the same three girls would be described as elflike, pointy-chinned and "has a killer bod." Could one of these girls land a Richard Gere or Chris Noth or Jake Gyllenfacenhaulen in real life? Sure. Reese Witherspoon DID land Gyllenfashionpuken. Who is considered a good-looking guy. I actually find that guy very funny and really talented which is what he probably likes about her-but let's not pretend she's Michelle Pfeiffer. 'Cause she ain't.
Which is fine. Renee may occasionally resemble a leprechaun from certain angles but as Bridget Jones she was funny and funny goes a long way in my book (the one in my head as well as the one you are reading). Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde? Big laughs, big points. And Sarah Jessica-well, how often do you get a girl who looks that hot in hot pants AND can honestly make a man giggle.
Giggles, guffaws and shrieks of laughter last a whole lot longer than legs and other assorted things men like to look at. So embrace the actual instead of the virtual.
God knows, men do.
Real men. If you're dating a guy who's more interested in the size of your chest than the length of your laugh-maybe you better start shopping around.
Men don't play the let's pretend about our friends game.
When it comes to a guy like Matt Dillon, the most you'll ever hear another guy say about him is this (followed by what they really mean):
a. Wow. That Matt Dillon's a pretty good-lookin' guy, hah? (Wow. That Matt Dillon's a pretty good-lookin' guy, hah?)
b. Matt Dillon, that guy's a good actor. (Matt Dillon, that guy's a good actor.)
c. My girlfriend's got a thing for Matt Dillon. (My girlfriend's got a thing for Matt Dillon.)
d. Matt Dillon is a giant fag. (My girlfriend's got a thing for Matt Dillon and she won't shut up about it.)
I think it's fair to say that men's interests in the female gender are very much up-front and common knowledge between the sexes. Women however can still be supposedly surprised or befuddled or disbelieving about what makes their motors tick. I've been co-writing and producing a critically acclaimed hit show about New York City firefighters for several years now-one my writing partner and I have based on our own research and the very real lives of my firefighting friends in the Big Apple. It involves lots of smoke and flames and women. Lots of cute, hot chicks who are very attracted to men who run into burning buildings. Time after time in both the press and real life we have been accosted by women who wonder how much action these guys can actually be getting. The answer is: tons. I have witnessed it firsthand in firehouses, on the streets of Manhattan, in supermarkets, bars, parking lots, elevators, nightclubs-you name it. Smart, sensible women-even sometimes one or two who have just finished saying how ridiculous it seems for women to melt just because a man in bunker pants and suspenders with an FDNY T-shirt appears-have melted and fawned and stuttered and flirted and giggled like a little schoolgirl when one suddenly approaches.
It's the "I wanna be saved" syndrome.
It's the "big, handsome he-man" virus.
It makes them wet.
It makes them swoon.
But some of them just don't want to admit it or simply refuse to own up.
Until a big, handsome he-man shows up and glances at them.
I've listened to very smart women I know bemoan the idiotic behavior of girls over twenty-two years of age who go weak in the knees because some half-assed celebrity or middle-aged rock star is supposed to be attractive based on some raggedy-assed magazine's most recent listing of America's Top Fifty Hunks and then-Matt Dillon walks in.
Cue the giggles, the bleats of laughter, the hands gently sweeping Matt's arm, the swishing flip of her hair-you know the drill.
I bring all this up to illustrate a point-women have a power to bullshit and nurture that men do not have. Men have the power to cut right to the chase and make do with whatever weapons they might have in hand.
Women are born with oodles and oodles of empathy. Most men have trouble spelling it. Empathy, I mean. Oodles rhymes with noodles, which men like to eat, and anything they can put in their mouth and may have to-at some point in life-order in. Generally speaking-with food-they tend to learn which letters go where.
Empathy is why two girls on the Central Washington College Girls Softball team carried-I repeat, carried-a member of the opposing team, Western Oregon State, around the bases-repeat, around the bases-after she hit a game-winning home run but tore a knee ligament as she reached first base and was physically unable to travel all the way to home plate in order to make the victorious blast official. As she lay in the dirt, struggling to stand and in danger of having her hit limited to a single, two of the defensive players felt bad and picked her up and did the honors she could not do herself.
Men would never do this. Not in college, not in high school. Such an event would never happen even in a grown men's BEER league softball game.
Even if it happened to your twin brother and you were playing first base and you were and always had been bigger than him-in fact, big enough to carry him around the bases all by yourself-you still would not entertain a minuscule amoeba-sized nose hair of a cell membrane of an iota of a smidgen of the NOTION of carrying him because your testicles would not release the required enzymes from deep inside your scrotum.
Your balls would-however-immediately remind you that his home run was now a single and therefore your team was still in the game and the cold, clammy hand of defeat that was balling into a fist somewhere deep inside your chest would unclench and become a fiery desire to, once again, win at any cost.
No pain no gain.
Women see physical shortcomings and wish to heal, fix or make them disappear. They believe in hope, they believe in helping, they believe in making a difference.
Guys? They believe in roast beef.
It's why women seek out special bras and special panty hose and plastic surgery and shoes shoes shoes. Guys? Slap on a dabful of deodorant, a pair of old Nikes and we're pretty much good to go. Women wanna put pink floaties and life jackets and goggles and ear plugs and flippers on kids just before they climb into the baby pool WITH them. Guys? We pick a kid up and toss him into the deep end of the ADULT pool. He swims back up to the surface? He's a keeper. He doesn't? He's either gonna be riding on a very short bus for a very special school due to the brain damage caused by seven minutes of oxygen deprivation or he's taking a long dirt nap while daddy finds another mommy.
Mom says yes-dad says no.
Mom coos and coddles-dad barks and bites and boots you in the ass.
Mom cries with you-dad screams "what the hell are ya cryin' about?"
The yin is mommy telling you how gorgeous and nice and smart you are-the yang is daddy saying get your giant head out of your evil red ass and stop acting like a retard.
There is no such thing as a helicopter dad. Unless your dad is an actual helicopter pilot.
Three words for all the prospective parents out there in America: give it up. Your money, your plans, your wishes, your clean car-all of it. Even your looks. There was a feature story in an American magazine recently showing moms what makeup was best to wear when giving birth. Which outfit to bring to wear home from the hospital. Not for the baby-the mom. You wanna know what my mom wore home? A smock.
Blue smock, white smock, smocky smock, UNsmocky smock-who gives a shit? Is the baby okay? Does it have ten fingers? What about the toes? The heart lungs kidneys liver? These should be your concerns.
I just read an article in People magazine about Jennifer Lopez and her newborn twins. By the way- People magazine reportedly paid six million dollars for exclusive rights to the first photos of J.Lo's two kids, which probably made her jump with joy. Until she found out Brad and Angelina got eleven million for photos of their new twins-man, those box-office figures can sure be a bitch.
Anyway-J.Lo and her hubby Marc Anthony plan to raise the kids with the help of two full-time nurses and a butler. How nice.
You know who the butler was when my kids were small? Me. And "Hey-Butler!" was not amongst the appellations I heard my wife use when she needed me to get a bottle or a box of diapers or a bowl of applesauce.
J.Lo also said "I want to accomplish something this year, something to make my babies proud-like, run a triathalon."
Uh-huh.
You wanna make your babies proud? Stay home. Raise them. Kiss them. Hug them until they almost burst.
Forget the triathlon. Run the triathMOM. That's where you breast-feed one kid, then the other-then fuck your husband blind.
Because that's what it's all about. The family. My mom was always home-for better or worse. When you needed her to be there, when you wished she wasn't because you had a bad report card in hand-every time all the time. My wife Ann's first and last thought every single day of her life since the moment we found out she was pregnant with our first child has been this: the kids the kids the kids the kids. We may not have been perfect parents but she certainly made sure the kids were the number one priority.
If you wanna know how to raise children, you no longer even need to consult a medical encyclopedia or a self-help tome. Just watch The Real Housewives of Orange County-or its sister Manhattan show-and do the exact opposite of what those self-centered, Botox-bidden, trout pout- pursing, fishnet and finger-skirt-wearing witches do: think about the children. What THEY want, what THEY need. One of the selfish moms on the Manhattan show has a frozen face, a brownstone on New York's Upper East Side and three teenaged kids who almost never see her. She calls herself The Countess because she's married to a Count. Remove one key letter from her husband's title and you will find a word that perfectly sums her up.