dumb assed simpletons like this, and her ilk (read: religious freaks, dogmatic automatons seeking the ‘truth’ or at least ‘the program’, at worst ‘some kind of frickin manual’…
YOU PRODUCE (THRU PERPETUATION) THAT WHICH YOU DISDAIN IN YOUR FELLOW HUMANOID.
vote for what you wish the future generations had MORE OF.
ugly humanoids? which two of us screwed and made THAT?
murderers/rapists/psychopaths/just plain asshole types? WHO SCREWED and made that?
don’t fuckin SETTLE.
To settle diminishes the potential we all have as a collective species.
Why do you think LUST exists? No not so you can go to some cubicle on Sunday and repent.
We are drawn to people, not only in a physical manner, but intellectual, social, passionate way BECAUSE perhaps we are actually SUPPOSED to procreate with them.
This affinity, may actually NOT be an explicit display of compatibility but an IMPLICIT one which hides within it, some future genetic linkages that may JUST benefit humanity…
So say you are male and DRAWN to BIG ASSES—what does this POTENTIALLY mean?
No not that you are sinful, not that you ‘objectify’ women, no no no
Perhaps, just maybe it implies that your genetic programing is steering you towards a program compliment that which thereafter will create a healthier individual or produce an enzyme that is unique or allow for larger craniums to pass thru larger hips, and thus produce a more complex neurological function 1000 years hence…
Question the PURPOSE of your hormones. Question the purpose of your yearnings, cravings, affinities, and dislikes.
Don’t fuckin settle. You might as well be a comatose vegetable being inseminated in that case.
Use your intuitive + rational functions. you don’t have them for nothing.
Wise girls settle, loveless writer says
February 04, 2010
In stores Thursday. Just in time for Valentine’s Day!
That’s the pick-me-up pitch from the just-released Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough, which surely will be flying off bookstore shelves right about … well, this instant because the book, at least in marketing terms, is deemed to be a sizzler.
The Today Show will be pumping it. Oprah has published a quiz in her eponymous magazine. (Question No. 7: “What does having it all mean to you?”) A Marry Him video is to be posted on YouTube on Thursday. Tobey Maguire has reportedly signed up for the movie version, which is odd, given that the book has but the faintest whiff of a plot.
No matter. Marry Him is a predetermined juggernaut.
In the service of Star readers everywhere allow me to step forward and take one for the team. As in: Save the $32.50 and buy yourself a nice bottle of Prosecco instead and, oh go on, a heart-shaped box of chocolates.
The author is Lori Gottlieb, who famously, yes, famously, penned Marry Him! for the Atlantic magazine in March 2008. The key insight: Hunting for a mate customized to a long list of expectations (cut abs, dark hair, smart, funny, millionaire, nice dog, sports only in moderation, no smelly feet) will doom young women to a forever state of disappointment until such time as she is too old and saggy to be deemed marriage material.
“My advice is this: Settle!” cried the exclamatory Ms. Gottlieb in the Atlantic. “That’s right. Don’t worry about passion or intense connection. Don’t nix a guy based on his annoying habit of yelling `Bravo!’ in movie theatres.”
Stretching the premise to book length has allowed the author to hang out a full laundry line of behaviours/habits/characteristics that some women dislike about some men. I will admit, I found this bemusing, in a horrifying way. Among the relationship “deal-breakers”: cheesy flowers; no flowers; nose hairs; saying “fabulosa”; “always looking at me with those adoring eyes”; and, my personal favourite, “He’d never seen Casablanca … how can you be 32 years old and not have seen that?” (In the mind of the dismissive woman in question, not having seen the Humphrey Bogart classic “speaks to a larger issue of cultural void.”)
These strictures are recounted not in contrast to, but in complement of, Gottlieb’s own life.
The author has energetically mined the meditations-on-self genre, from Stick Figure, a book-length account of her adolescent journey through anorexia, to The XY Files, an Atlantic piece on her decision as an unattached woman to bear a child via sperm donor. (The first person she informed of the successful pregnancy was her therapist. “I didn’t know who else to call,” she writes, which may tell us something.)
Anticipating, with dewy naïveté, the joys of motherhood, Gottlieb registers surprise that her baby-on-hip status (no time to shower, eat or “urinate in a timely manner”) didn’t make her a prime fish in the dating pool.
Finding The One is what Marry Him is all about, trailing Gottlieb’s own admissions that her list of male no-no’s is excruciatingly long – polka-dot bow ties, working in the pest-control trade, You’ve Got Mail revealed as a favourite movie. The result, surprise, has been a narrowing of the field of candidates.
She decides to make a personal shift, brave girl, and break up with her list. So she sets it free in a helium balloon, a moment made movie worthy when a cute jogger (curly hair, muscular legs, UCLA law sweatshirt) trots by, makes eye contact and says, “You really shouldn’t do that. It’s bad for the environment.”
Men come off really well in this book. The jogger. Evan, the dating coach who repeatedly tells Gottlieb to get over herself. Gottlieb’s rabbi. And Kyle, who stands for all men who do not microanalyze the way women do: “If a girl seems like she isn’t going to have too many unexplained crying jags or have too many antidepressant prescriptions or want to endlessly discuss the minutiae of the relationship, or go through our email or Google the names of exes, that’s a huge plus for us. It’s like cha-ching! Yahtzee! Touchdown!”
For Gottlieb, there is no happy ending, at least not on her terms. She remains single and holds the book out as a cautionary tale for young women.
How are they going to torture this into a Hollywood movie?
Gottlieb writes: “I’m the ghost of what could happen to you if you don’t broaden your idea of Mr. Right.”
She calls it settling.
I’d call it re-educating glassy-eyed 20-year-olds, nurtured at the teat of reality television and celebrity magazines, to seek substance over superficiality.
Of course, that presumes a level of maturity, which Gottlieb had to pass the age of 40 to reach.
You could say this is a book about “settling” for Mr. Good Enough.
Or you could say this is a book about growing up.