Every single female in the USA should watch I'm with Lucy.  

This isn't a highbrow film.  It's not Oscar material.  But it's excellent education for any woman who is dating and wants to find the right man.

[Spoiler alert!]

Basically, Lucy has a very bad breakup, then dates 5 different men.  

We know early on that she is going to get married, and we flash back to fragments of the dating, trying to guess which one she will end up with.

But here's why I think it's important.

This film details the compromise that most women have to make if she choose monogamous, heterosexual commitment.

Yes, yes.  I know you will tell me that your man is different.  He doesn't fit into one of these categories.  He's got A and B and C and there's nothing else you would want, bla bla bla. 

Well, my dear, pat yourself on the back.  You're in the special 5%.

The rest of us have a choice to make.

Lucy's choices are the archetypes most of us, as women in America, have to choose between:

Man No. 1: Sweet, loving, sees you as an equal.  Not afraid to make an ass of himself, and you laugh a lot together.  He shows you new things, hobbies, but nothing too out there.  He tries hard to please you and genuinely loves you.   Your backgrounds are similar and so you have a common understanding.  Sex will be nice, even good.  Your family will like him.  You'll be comfortable, but not rich.  If there are any ups and downs, they're on an old-style wooden rollercoaster, not one of those newfangled ones with the flashing lights.  Everything will be ok.

Man No. 2: Sensitive and sweet, this man will worship you.  He's not afraid to cry, and not afraid to give his whole heart.  Sex will be soft and sensuous, and he will be generous.  He may even have a fetish or two.  Intelligent and very well read, this man will have a very large book collection and not be particularly sporty.  You'll never have screaming fights - you'll talk through things, sometimes ad nauseum.  Not much passion, but a lot of tenderness.

Man No. 3: Great sex.  Very different world view from you.  Amazing sex.  Opens your heart to art, or music, or theater.  Experimental sex.  Not much else in common.  Mind-blowing sex.  Not much conversation.  He may very well like to have sex with people other than you.  Still, when he comes home, it's incredible sex.

Man No. 4: A manly man.  There will be body hair.  Will make you feel safe, and feminine.  He's into sports, beer, rock music.  Innate sexism and probably other -isms.  Conversation will only go so deep.  Vivacious, virile, if vanilla, sex - assuming he hasn't pissed you off that day, of course.  Will expect you to breed.  Good, if conservative, father.  Your daughter will probably rebel and be a goth.

Man No. 5: Mmmmm, a charmer.  Intelligent.  Educated.  Good family - your mother in law will probably be a bitch.  Works hard.  Makes good money.  You'll be sitting pretty.  Maybe you won't even have to work.  He'll be in damn good shape, and you better stay in shape too.  Luckily he can pay for plastic surgery.  Seeing as he's paying for everything, you better play ball.  Subconscious sexism.  You need to be the proverbial whore in the bedroom (clad in Victoria's Secret), chef in the kitchen (cooking a la Julia Child), maid in the living room (or at least know how to hire and direct cleaning staff), perfect hostess in the dining room (knowing Emily Post by heart), and model mama on the playground (clad in Lulu Lemon).  One slip up and there'll be a younger model waiting in line to replace you.  Try to marry without a prenup.

I've spoiled enough of the movie without telling you which one Lucy chooses.  

I find the American dating ritual - where you keep your options open by seeing several people at once, like you are house-hunting or something - bizarre.  Checklists, rules.  

Loosen up, girls!

The point is, as my mother used to say, "Marriage is compromise."  

And so is finding someone to marry in the first place.

So which man are you dating, Single American Woman, that you have disqualified because he only rated 8 out of 10?

Lucy actually says, at the end of the film, she's hasn't found the perfect man - she's found the right man.

1. Don't go (i.e. miss the networking opportunity)


2. Go but don't participate (i.e. be a decorative woman)


3. Go and be so good that you beat the men at their own game (this takes talent or a lot of practice - who can be bothered? - and ends up getting you seen as one of the boys)


4. Go and participate and be crap (i.e. be humiliated and be forced to be a "good sport" even though this activity isn't something you would ever choose to do or pay money for).

I tend to go with 4, and try to leave early. But I don't really have that much fun.

Am I reading too much into this, or are these events evidence of a low-grade sexism?

(feel free to answer in the Comments)

I am trying to think of team events that I'd be more comfortable with. The goals of a team event are decompression, interaction, networking, fun.

How about:

• Linedancing?


• Karaoke?


• Salsa lessons?


• Booking up a comedy club and asking them to pause between acts for us to eat and hang out?


• Trivia night booked at a pub?


• Wine tasting basics evening?


• Cooking class?

Now I'm looking up stuff online. Check this out:

• Drum class


• Rowing


• There's a guy that comes and reads your palm! Now we're talking!


• Go to a local tourist haunt (how many people see tourist sites in their own town?)


• Geocaching or treasure hunts
• Chocolate tasting class! YEAH!

And yes there are cooking classes, wine tasting, etc., too.

OK now I'm being pro-active. I'm going to email these links to my boss. We'll see what happens...

You know the kind of thing I mean:

• The Witches of Eastwick
• Death Becomes Her
• The Banger Girls

So I am watching The Women, wondering how a director, screenwriter and editor have managed gather the most amazing female actress ingredients and yet cooked up something so very, very bland, when Bette Midler hits the screen.

And there I am, on the TV. The character she's playing in that moment, is me.

Let me set the scene. Whatsername from When Harry Met Sally... Mey Ryan! Yeah. Well, her character's husband has cheated on her and so she is getting a divorce. She isn't dealing with it well so she goes off to some yoga camp thingy. There are four women and a butchish instructor stretching by the side of the lake, next to wooden canoes. And along comes Bette, in full regalia: jangly jewellery, jumbo purse, velveteen tracksuit. 

Instructor: OK everyone, take a deeeeep, cleansing breath. Look around. Respect the power of nature. This is why you have come to the camp. Let it heeeeeal you.

[...bla bla other stuff you don't need to be bored with...] 

Bette Midler: Hold on, I'm coming! Don't start without me! Oh my God! I'm sorry. I'm just not used to getting up at the crack of friggin' dawn (excuse my French). Is this the time you always start? Because I'm pretty sure the lake will still be here at noon.

Instructor (crossing arms): We always canoe at dawn.

Bette (shrugging): I always fake my orgasms. That doesn't make it right.

Oh yeah, that's me.

As I always say when people talk about camping (after I snort with derision) "No room service - no deal."

And yes, I have seen the beauty of mother nature in the morning... Back in my twenties when we used to go clubbing and stay up all night. 

Sometimes, I can feel myself starting to get tired.

It's the mornings and evenings when it really hits. I feel heavy in the mornings, and struggle to get out of bed. Going to work seems like a chore even though, once I am there, I enjoy what I do. Once home from work, I don't have the energy to do anything social and I plonk down in front of TV, generally preferring to watch mind-numbing stuff.

Then something happens to really tip me over the edge. A bad incident at work, a misunderstanding with a friend or, as happened today, Puppy Dog being really sick and having to have a barrage of tests at the vet.

And then the crawling headache starts. It's like a demonic octopus-type creature is sitting in the middle of my back and it starts to stretch out its tentacles, sending an ache creeping between my shoulders, pain into my neck and throbbing across my temples. Finally the creature really takes hold, wrapping itself around my forehead in a tight, tight grip. All this comes with soupcon of sensitivity to bright light and a charming little nausea.

I only get these things about 4 or 5 times a year, but I've got better at spotting the signs early on, and taking a sick day. But lying in bed or on the couch watching daytime TV doesn't cut it.

There are five key elements to the cure:

1. Painkillers (obviously)
2. Couch
3. Very long, very hot shower
4. Lots of cups of tea
5. The Chick Flick

The Chick Flick (today it was Nights in Rodanthe) is not there to renew my faith in true love of the bonds of family. It is not there to make me feel empowered as a woman. It isn't even there to give me a chance to perv at the male lead.

It's there to make me cry.

I think I need to have the catharsis of achieving suspension of disbelief and of having a good old wail at the trails and tribulations of others. Because, let's face it, my life is pretty good, and there is nothing in it that would make me actually want to turn on the waterworks. So I let actors, screenwriters and directors show me a situation that does warrant the boo-hoo-hoos, and I go at it.

Now, please note: the Chick Flick for the Crying Trick needs to be chosen carefully. It has to be well acted, and have a decent story. It has to be something I can relate to - where I could see myself in the shoes of the protagonist. And it has to be sad, but not too sad.

Terminally ill child? Too depressing. Gritty documentary about set somewhere hot and sticky? Too messy. Feelgood movie about a handicapped person overcoming adversity? Too corny. Death of a faithful dog? I want to cry, not kill myself. Old Yeller is out. Irritating overplayed-heartstring-tugger starring Tom Hanks? Puh-leeeeeez.

Here are some of the best examples of Chick Flicks for the Crying Trick:

• Terms of Endearment
• Fried Green Tomatoes
• The Notebook
• Beaches
• Thelma and Louise
• Steel Magnolias
• Postcards from the Edge
• Sophie's Choice
• The Hours

• Away from Her
• In the Bedroom

• Longtime Companion
• Torch Song Trilogy
• Brokeback Mountain

• Kramer vs. Kramer
• Coalminer's Daughter

I heartily recommend the Chick Flick Crying Trick... I already feel so much better.

Man 1 - let's call him Hottie, because he is - told a story about some ridiculously athletic and energetic vacation activity. I began to tell the story of something related to that when Man 2 - let's call him Old Fart, because he is - interrupted me.

I got so mad I didn't say anything for the rest of the conversation, and just started to watch what was happening.

Hottie made eye contact with me and made reference to me when he spoke. Old Fart did the opposite. After the interruption, he did not glance my way at all for the rest of the ten or so minutes we were together.

Men interrupt women more than the other way round in mixed-sex conversations. Women ask almost three times as many questions in mixed-sex conversations as men. If a man and a women are talking, men talk longer than women.

Think I am spouting a bunch of crap? Sorry ol' chum, there's research to back me up:

http://www.mentalhelp.net/poc/view_doc.php?type=doc&id=286

I heard of one writer who theorized that an organization was a collection of conversations. If women are constantly interrupted and subordinated in conversation, what chance do we have within the organization? The Glass Ceiling isn't just salaries and bonuses, it's not making ourselves heard every day, in all those little conversations, discussions, meetings.

Unfortunately for me I did a little side course in Women's Studies led by an ardent feminist back when I was at university, and it opened my eyes to things which, were I still in blissful ignorance, probably wouldn't bother me.

So, not only did I let Old Fart interrupt me, and then fall silent like a willing subordinate, but I knew I was doing it.

WTF?!?!?!?

I am going to go to my room and flagellate myself now.

I love Nordstrom.

A few years ago I found myself in front of a photograph of the original shoe store, with Mr John W Nordstrom in it, and I did a Wayne's World "We are not worthy!" in front of it three times. These are the moments my husband walks away and pretends not to know me.

What do I love about Nordstrom?

I love the stores, I love the website, I love the Nordstrom Notes discount vouchers, I love getting invitations to pre-sales events (my husband does not love this), I love the fact that they come out from behind the cash register to hand you your bag, I love the sales assistants who are all like personal shoppers, I love the woman at the cosmetic counter who sends me a personal thank you note, I love crazy makeup artists at the Mac counter, I love the huge fat lady section, I love the massive, clean toilets, I love how well they reconditioned my battered handbag and steamed out the beer smell, I love the valet parking, I love the shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes (us girls are all thin when we try on shoes) and I especially love the sales.

I love the fact that I can finish this blog and go online and find something nice to buy....

Gotta go!