Male Substitution Chart

Have you ever been stuck in a situation and you did not know what to do? Did you think to yourself that it would have been easier with a man around? No need; now presenting the Male Substitution Chart. If you find yourself in one of these situations, just look to the right for a simple solution. If you can substitute sugar with honey in some recipes, why not substitute for a man in daily life?

Single Woman's Handy  Male Substitution Chart

    

Problem                                 Substitution

Scary Spider                                                      Bug stick    

in the bathtub    

Cold winter nights                                              Electric blanket          
                                                

Choking on peanut butter                                   Hemlich yourself 

when alone                                                        on the back of a 

                                                                         chair.
             

Jar lid is stuck                                                    Electric jar 

                                                                         opener

                                                                                                                     

Lack of male, "company"                                   Discrete battery  

                                                                         operated device.

                                                              
                                                                  

Horrible late night silence                                    Noise machine set to spring rain or ocean.  (note
                                                                          that the settings do not include: adenoids, choke-

                                                                          snore, or noisy nose whistling. )Be glad for that.

Someone to come home to                              1. Rarely go home 2. Buy a pet cat or dog  3. Create a       

                                                                       charming imaginary spouse who exists only between 6 and 

                                                                       6:01 PM on weeknights.

Can't reach the highest shelf                            Step stool and grabber device 

Flat tire or locked out                                     Membership to AAA and the number of 

                                                                      two 24-hr.   locksmiths

bug vacuum, doesn't harm bugs and you can put them outside.

Cost of these items: about $300
Cost of a messy breakup or divorce: Substantially more ... and then there's the money.




       

Amateur Shrink of the Day

  You would think that finding out that the guy who seemed perfect and then dumped you suddenly is mentally ill would make things seem a bit better. It wasn't your fault, he was just hypomanic and every year around October, seasonal affective disorder kicks in and boom there goes the depression. It doesn't make me feel much better, but just kind of sad.  I wondered for a long time how my judgment could have been so horribly wrong; I can usually spot a jerk from twenty yards away.  It is more difficult though when the jerk basically behaves as two different people depending upon the weather. (To make things easier, let's give the guy a name. How about Mr. Y.?) Looking back, I can see some smaller episodes; Y would break down into  sudden crying jags or sport generally pissy mood swings followed by incredible periods of maudlin self-pity which would disappear within hours and then he'd suggest caterers for our wedding reception.

  Here's the scoop: falling in love looks pretty similar to a hypomanic episode. First of all, the idea that you have beaten the odds and found a great person who feels the same as you do makes a girl feel like she's won the lottery. It doesn't seem so strange that he discusses marriage and children after six weeks because you are both so happy and there is no reason to wait around. Right?  Try to remember that period when you first fall in love, don't you feel indestructible? As though you could conquer the world with only a gesture? As though God him (or her) self has turned the sun's warmth towards you after a very long metaphorical winter? Nope, it turns out that the guy you are dating is just crazy. He's done the same thing before and he'll do it again. 
(edit) I wouldn't be at all surprised if he had some new great love. After all, it was a pretty mild winter. (edit) A friend of a friend has told me that he has a new victim for this year. Again, she is the one etc. You would think by age 39, that this guy would understand destructive patterns. Yeesh.

The only thing he does differently is find women with different coloring; it's like his own Benneton poster of multi-cultural women. (As if changing cultures will cure mental illness and a -holishness).My guess would be that he's trying to hook up with an East Indian or someone from the Middle East. Oh and he'll dig them more if they're virgins and then insult them because of their beliefs. If you know a single woman doctor that is dating a guy whose chief claim to fame is being able to Charleston, you may want to give her a heads up. I sure as hell wish someone would have done so for me. When I met his family, it was as though they wanted to tell me something, but they couldn't. I understand the whole thing now. I wonder what they'll do with the new victim?
He also has a thing for doctors which again is ironic because if they have been in an elementary psych rotation, she should be able to spot it.

J

J

J

 Though all of us have been guilty of being in love with the idea of love at some point, we usually figure out the difference between the real thing and the concept pretty early on. The best lie is one you believe yourself and I, for one was fooled. I'm not alone in this at least, and again, that should make me feel better about my ability to figure people out. But, it doesn't: instead I just feel horrible for whoever Miss Y 2011, 2012, and so on will be. s and Miss Y 2006-9 were.  I wish sometimes that people had a holographic billboard that flashes "warning! There should be a scarlet letter J for jerk tattooed on the forehead of  (male and female) people who flat-out should not date, (or at least not until they get some issues squared away.)

 Crazy does not give you the right to be an ahole.
The problem remains that if I say that Y was a jerk, I seem insensitive to his illness. And if I chalk it up to mania, he ends up possessing no free will; and I don't think this is the case. Maybe he just now figured out that he has it and has not yet made the fairly simple deduction that he does the same destructive mating dance every spring and the same train wreck every fall. Before you deem me a monster though, read this.

·  . A few months ago, he wrote me a note telling me that he was taking a particular psych medicine. I looked it up and found out that it can only be prescribed if at least one other medicine for bipolar disorder has been tried and did not work. Therefore, he was aware of this problem and did not tell me, or any of the other Miss Ys for that matter. That omission left all of us wondering what we did wrong and why we didn't spot his obvious issues. How a person could go from wanting to marrying you and planning the reception for the next Spring to coldly slapping labels like, "needy, cold, talkative, too shy, too sheltered, or jaded," on us IF we can cook and want a family, we are ignorant peasants and if we are smart, we are cold and ugly. 

And in the grand tradition of self-unaware cookware everywhere, dubbing us as depressed or confused as to where the relationship was going.  In other words, Y could have gone out with Miss America 2003 who has her PhD in quantum physics and a masters in medieval Islamic poetry, is a chef, still competes in gymnastics, earns a million dollars a year, runs three charities to help the poorest and sickest people, likes animals and children, wants nothing from him except occasional sex and an intellectual conversation, (after which she'll go and sleep in her own bed,), and who agrees with him about everything, would still not be good enough. Her teeth would be too perfect or she wouldn't spend enough or did spend too much time with him. I thought the crazy notice would make me feel better and I am disturbed to find some real resentment and anger building up. Here's the deal: having an illness, be it diabetes, depression, or the flu, does not give a person the right to be a jerk or toy with other people's time and affection.  Being horrid knows no boundaries of race, class, gender, sexual orientation, religion, age, health, mental state, or season. The whole situation becomes even worse because it is possible that Y is so self-deluded that he believes the tripe he spews and still hasn't made the connection between his disorder and what he decries as his, "miserable luck finding the right woman,” because as he says, "they just aren't good enough."  Following this theory to its logical end means that statistically some people with bipolar disorder will be aholes. So will some clowns, some people who love to eat Doritos, some people with narrow feet, and etc.  I'm left unable to do anything with this new information. I feel it's my duty to the single female community, but trying to tell him about it would not only be futile, but also embarrassing. He would definitely interpret such a conversation as the workings of a desperate woman who cannot get over no longer being near his glowing perfection. And, he'd still be no closer to understanding or trying to change. As a thoroughly imperfect human being myself, I know how difficult it can be to change when the problem is clear.
To fumble around for the greater part of a decade in a kind of sisyphusian romantic loop is punishment enough. Still, I'll be honest, after reading some of the posts he wrote about me and the other Miss Y's of years past; I think I would be entirely justified in slapping him in the face just once. One slap for all of the decent women he strung along and left bewildered and wondering if they were crazy. One. Really hard. Slap!

  MENTAL ILLNESS AND STIGMA

  I wouldn't wish any kind of illness on anyone, but mental illnesses seem to me to be a special kind of hell. First of all, there is still a social stigma towards those who suffer. Though people rarely ever say so aloud, I think many still believe that the person dealing with a mental illness is somehow morally less capable.  One of the last bastions of socially acceptable prejudice is calling someone crazy. That word alone means that anything he or she says or anything he or she does can be discounted and ignored. No further argument is needed; just say crazy. After dealing with chronic pain for a decade, I have run into this line of thinking too. It is impossible to know precisely what another person's mental or physical pain feels like. So, when someone tells me they are in pain, I believe them and take them seriously. People can understand pain if the cause is obvious; let's say you have a broken leg and have orthopedic pins sticking out of it. That would be clearly painful right? You wouldn't tell the patient to toughen up and to work harder would you?  Still people see mental illness not as a complex mixture of circumstance, behavior and brain chemistry but rather as a moral weakness or perhaps a sign of not having the grace of God on your side and the sick don't.  It is easier to judge and label than to understand. Perhaps this stigma was so great that Y never tells women he falls for; he assumes that they will run. To be fair, many would. I think I would have. I looked up the medicine he said he was taking online and it is only prescribed after other bipolar meds have failed. That says he knew about it and chose not to take his meds. Every spring, he'll convince himself that he has changed through some series of exercise, diet, WoW, and talking to other dregs of society online and his profile will boast about his intelligence and gentlemanly ways. He will claim to love children and animals and his desire to find the one and get married. And the world is just lonely enough, that a few women will respond. He becomes a poisonous flower, blooming every spring and as it dies in the fall, it drags the whole garden down with it.

Looking into my crystal ball, I can see him repeating the same thing for many years. Finally, no women will go out with him because the word has gotten around and let's face it a 40 year old guy who still wants to date 25 year olds, that's creepy.  On that warm summer day, when he sits alone at the park and sees one of his summer women happily married and pushing a stroller, it will come to him that even though the mania may  difficult to control; his treatment of women was not. And as he goes home to a tiny condo with sparse furnishings except for the cold ghostly blue gray light from his computer, he will sit down and weep. And after a few minutes, he'll reactivate his account on every online dating site believing that women will flock to him and if they don't that he's too sexy for his cat and shirt anyway. He'll go on believing that in the past he has just had bad luck... believing that an inordinately large percentage of substandard females was sent his way over the years. He'll hit 40 and then 45, the paunch will become more substantial, being called long-term single and socially awkward will turn to the phrase weird hermit old guy. All I can hope is that in the coming years, his family or few friends who have seen this cruel pattern repeated will give the next girl a head's up.  And yet, he is still confident about finding the one. I guess he has one thing on me, either a great reserve of hope, or a great reserve of powerful delusion.

 

  "Hypomania, a less severe form of mania. People in a hypomanic episode may feel very upbeat, energetic and productive. To others they may just seem to be in a really good mood. This state usually can't be maintained for long. It either escalates into mania or crashes into depression. Seasonal Affective Disorder: A mood disorder often associated with depression. Can also be a symptom of bipolar disorder I. The patient will cycle in a hypomanic episode during the warmer months. This behavior may seem like confidence, happiness, or enthusiasm to others, but it is indeed hypomania. Patients repeat the same cycle every year as the seasons change. " (Wikepedia, Bipolar I and SAD)

Off Ramps

Some people only like beginnings because they are new and exciting. Others like endings because they are dramatic. And since he couldn’t stand the boredom of the middle, he did beginnings marvelously and endings with a real flair for the awful. About a week after the startling breakup, they arranged to briefly meet so he could fix a problem on his old laptop he’d given her a few months earlier as a welcome and generous gift for grad school. It was not easy for her to ask the favor as she was inherently  proud. The last time she saw him, her parting quip was  a very dramatic  combination of,”bullshit,” and “I never want to see you again.”  That is until the computer froze and only he knew the passwords to unfreeze it. The rains had just set in after a long Indian summer.  She pulled on a cashmere cardigan and a silk shell and left her hair down, putting a tiny dab of perfume on her neck. It occurred to her as she dressed to meet him, that he had never seen her wear a coat or a sweater. It had been strictly a warm weather love affair and as soon as the days became shorter and temperatures dropped, he too became colder and crumpled like a dry leaf.

    She dressed carefully to appear attractive and yet unaffected by the whole ordeal, but not so perfect that she seemed to be trying. Looking alluring and touchable but still casual is a difficult balance. At this point, she doubted he would have noticed either way short of her sporting a flour sack or a sequined evening gown. 
They met at a Starbucks in-between their respective homes at noon The place was packed and the rain had changed from mist into shower. As she got out of the car, it beaded on her hair and stayed there in droplet before soaking in.  Standing outside the door, his hair wet either from the rain or a recent shower,s he spotted him.  A piece of paper fluttered from her purse and he motioned to alert her.  Momentarily flustered, she picked it up deciding that no matter what she would remain unflappable. That she felt a  fist squeezing her heart to pulp like a ripe tomato and that her hands were shaky for some reason would be completely invisible. Instead, she would be agonizingly polite, brief, and neutral; the three deadliest weapons of the Northwest WASP.    

“It’s packed in there, we can sit out here,” he motioned to a metal table with wood benches and a summertime umbrella partially covering it.

They sat next to each other on the damp wood bench. Only two weeks earlier, they would have been holding hands and chatting. He wore clothes she had seen before but, somehow he seemed like  a stranger. After asking him why he chose that particular Starbucks, he mentioned that his car had some problems and his garage was nearby.

“Nothing too serious I hope?” she asked coolly.

“No, not too serious,” he answered and continued to tap a few keys and  taking an edge of his jacket polishing the screen.

“Thanks for doing this,” she said

“It would be on my conscience as a computer tech to leave someone with a problem,” he replied.

She took a quiet quick breath and bit her tongue. After what he had done with such casual cruelty, the idea of him possessing a conscience seemed ludicrous to her. However,  pointing that out to him would not only solve nothing, she decided, it would make  it look as if she  cared either way. Whatever else happened,  it was paramount to her that she would remain composed and entirely unmoved. As he popped a disc in, she fumbled through her purse for her checkbook and  pen.

Engrossed in the repair, he paid no attention as she wrote a check for $100. That was fortunate because her fingers weren't working properly and the note on the check, "time, repair, purchase," was nearly illegible.   As he clicked the last key, she handed him the check her fingers delicately pinching the edge so she could avoid the awkwardness and  of accidentally touching him. It was nothing like the thrill you get when  you first brush by a hand  or kiss; but rather like  the anticipation of  the sting  when  pouring rubbing alcohol on a deep cut.

   “You said the laptop was worth $50 and the other fifty is for your time, travel, and the repairs. Thanks.”  she said, quickly.  The check flapped for a brief second in the wind and he looked at her as shocked as if she'd hit him upside the head with a hammer. 
"It was a gift," he said and either a small tear welled up or the  a stray raindrop landed on his face. She couldn’t tell anymore. She thought she should have gained some satisfaction out of seeing him in pain, but she didn’t.  Putting her put my checkbook in her purse and fishing out her keys, she left him this time with slightly softer words even if they were in a cold tone.

"I don't take gifts from people I don't like," she said and put the check on the table with a pen to hold it down.

As she walked away, she  swore she heard him mumble, “I’m sorry," and she could feel him watching her walk away. Not wanting to end up like Lot's wife, she resisted swiveling back. That would have been a sign of weakness. Instead, she walked casually shoulders back to her car wishing she had eyes in the back of her head.

   She locked the door  and adjusted the seat to put the computer safely in the back. Her birthday was in a few days and she remembered he had said he bought her something. Maybe he'd get it in the mail and it would just sit there because he didn't like to waste things. She smiled at that vengeful thought.As she put the keys in the ignition, she saw him walking in front of her car only a yard away. He looped back towards Starbucks through the walkway in the center of the parking lot.Why was he walking through there when his car was at the other end, she wondered.  Had he followed her and if so why? She didn’t try to figure it out for long.
Turning on the radio and maintaining a neutral expression, she drove over a speed bump jarring her on towards the exit. He’d parked on the opposite side of the lot, so his car was now in front of her as she headed towards the main road.   Pretending  he was invisible among the other cars, she mimed played drums on the steering wheel. The radio was playing a talk show. The road  was constructed so she had to follow him for about two miles to get to the freeway. She swore he looked in his rear-view mirror directly back at her a few times, but she remained frozen swearing not to get caught looking at him or even worse, to make eye contact. Time went by like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point and when if finally snaps, it still comes as a surprise. For a microsecond she forgot all of her rules and turned her head, catching his profile in her peripheral vision.

  The light changed and their cars were parallel to each other for a second. The arrow turned green, she turned right, he turned left and they each blended into the thousands of other non-descript cars on the ever-looping ribbons of freeways. She wondered  as she drove home watching the pewter skies and dust rising from the pavement as rain hit,what would happen if those loops were every straightened out? Would the distance between people be shorter somehow, could we see each other coming straight on, or would it be just another busy and anonymous road?