"Yes, Many Buddhas"

I once visited a monastery outside of Hong Kong called "Ten Thousand Buddhas." Don't be impressed: it was more of a "Ripley's Believe or Not" museum than the Shrine of Lourdes. Right in the lobby, sitting cross-legged, was the body of a man covered in gold leaf. This was the founder of the monastery, who had declared that his body would never, ever rot, so the monks had seen to it that this miracle was properly displayed. There he sat, in a small plexigas box like a hamster, not rotting, although I suspect he had help with his hair and eyebrows, which were thick and luxuriant. He looked pretty rotten to me, but then, I wasn't a believer.

What was remarkable about this place was the seemingly endless array of small statues of the Buddha, each one in a different pose - ten thousand poses, to be exact. Shelf after shelf of the Buddha with his hands in the air, the Buddha inquisitively resting his head on his hand, the Buddha relaxing with one knee up and an arm thrown across it . . . on and on it went. They were everywhere you looked - you couldn't swing a saffron robe without knocking one over.

Finally, I asked one of the monks, who spoke limited English, "Why so many Buddhas?"

"Ahh, yes," he smiled and nodded, then said sagely, "Many Buddhas."

Did I miss something? Was this one of those baffling parables I'd seen on re-runs of "Kung Fu?" Before I knew it, the kind monk would be asking me to snatch the pebbles from his hand.

I think about that Zen moment when I pointlessly ponder human behavior: Why did they do that? Why is she being so insensitive? Why is he being such a dick?"

Then, I hear the voice of the monk solemnly intoning, "Yes, many dicks."

I don't think the point of the monk's lesson was, "People can be dicks sometimes." But what came through loud and clear that day was that sometimes you just have to accept what's in front of you, whether it's a gold-leafed non-rotting body on display, or statues of the Buddha in ten thousand poses, or dickish behavior.

There is wisdom and grace in the realization that, "Yes, many dicks."

The Vexing Paradox of the Empty Box

Imagine a Venture Capitalist listening to a pitch for a new service: For a small fee, customers would have to wait in long lines during restrictive hours, adhere to the company’s rigid restrictions at the risk of being turned away, and still have no guarantee that the service they paid for would actually do what they wanted it to do.

The VC would silently shred the prospectus in full view of its author, then quietly buzz for security to escort the poor soul from the building.

Yet that’s exactly what the Postal Service expects us to do. But, to paraphrase the ad for a city that has adapted beautifully to change, “What worked in the 19th century should stay in the 19th century.” The P.O.’s creaky approach rules out an IPO any time soon. It may sound like a good idea to hang on to an institution because it’s been with us so long, but we tried that with things like segregation and not letting women vote, and, sorry to say, it just didn’t work out.

Nobody expects the Postal "Service" to be efficient, but recently, I was caught in the bizarre, Zen-like conundrum of trying to mail an empty box. What is the sound of one empty box clapping? The situation was a paradox wrapped in a riddle sealed with cellophane tape.

What I had was an oversized, empty box of Kodak film, a old-time camera store display piece for a shutterbug friend of mine. My friend requested I send it as is, rather than collapsing it and causing wear and tear on the seams. Simple, right? Yet, apparently, no one at the P.O. had ever encountered a hollow, three-dimensional, rectangular object before. To say the clerk was flummoxed is an understatement. Here is the actual dialogue:

Me: (putting Kodak box on counter) I need a box . . .
Clerk: You have a box.
Me: No, I need a box so I can send this box.
Clerk: (suspiciously lifting box) But it's empty.
Me: That's right.
Clerk: You want to send an empty box?
Me: Yes.
Clerk: You'll need a box.
Me: (mentally screaming) Are you Abbott or freakin' Costello??

Since the Kodak box didn't fit their standard shipping cartons, they kindly offered to sell me a much bigger one. How nice of them: the cost of the box and postage would have set me back more than twice the normal rate. Just to mail an empty box!

Did I mention they don't even sell those little foam peanuts you need to fill the space inside?

Heck with that, I thought, and set upon a banker's box with a cutter and tape. I built a box from scratch, slicing and sticking and winding up with a pretty good container. So there.

Or so I thought.

Sorry: it turns out the Post Office doesn't accept homemade shipping boxes if they have any markings left over from previous use.

Great. Box cutter and tape once again in hand, I sliced more cardboard and used it to cover the writing on the sides. Heaven forbid the mail carrier get confused and accidentally deliver it to "Weyerhauser."

By the time I had covered every outer marking with cardboard and tape, my poor empty Kodak box weighed more than a pound and change. If anyone ever wanted to annoy Al Gore with campaign discouraging recycling, this package could be used on a poster. (I already have the slogan: “It's Only Earth - Why Bother?“) It was the sorriest, most forlorn example of "Re-Use" ever.

I let my friend know ahead of time that this pathetic package was hurtling its way toward his home.

That is, if the Postal Service actually delivers it.

A Mixed Bouquet

If you were to characterize human beings as floral arrangements, there would be no
question that some people are definitely a dozen red long-stemmed roses: elegant, consistently beautiful, the kind that are presented to winners. In other words, everything I'm not. Turns out I'm a Mixed Bouquet: chaotic, eclectic, and eccentric; you may find the occasional carnation, but it's perfect for brightening a room. (Mixed Bouquets can also be obtained cheap at the entrance to Safeway, but that's another story.) Once I accepted my less-than-Rosy status, it was easy to recognize other Mixed Bouquets, who can always be counted on for a good time.

Not that I have anything against Roses! Oh, far from it! We need Roses to
organize things, keep everyone calm, and gently tell us Mixed Bouquets when we're overdoing it. I've even written an elegy to them on this very blog (see "The Mysterious Powers of Bev"). Roses are great. Really.

Whew! Glad I straightened that out. Didn't want anyone to think I'm Rose-ist.

But what if there are people in your life who want you to be a Rose when you're
a Mixed Bouquet? It's easy to dodge Rose-seeking friends, but what if they're
in your family? Where do you hide? You can't just weed them out like so much baby's breath. Holidays become hideous "How-come-you're-not-a-Rose?"-a-thons.

So I did what any self-respecting Mixed Bouquet would do: I consulted a level-headed Rose friend. She advised me to just ignore the bad stuff and float above the fray.

Ha ha! You first! Nice try, Rosie, but here on Planet Earth, the rest of us become
exasperated with each other and lash out and wind up curled in a fetal position, weeping in abject misery. Till the next holiday, when the cycle continues: lather, rinse, repeat.

But there's nothing anyone can do about the fact that I am a Mixed Bouquet. My purpose is to provide color to an otherwise drab world; not matter how hard I try, I will never be presented to a sobbing debutante who just won a tiara.

Come to think of it, Roses may not have all the answers. Truth be told, you can now find long-stemmed red roses right at the entrance of Safeway.

Over there, next to the carnations.

That Ship Has Sunk

Usually the expression, “You can’t play for both teams” refers to sexual preference, but not here. All the respect in the world to bisexuals, bi-curious’s, ambisexuals and/or omnisexuals: if you’re having sex, trust me, you’re in the game which means you win.

No, I'm talking about being shut out when I try to keep things friendly with the ex and his clan because I truly believed that treating each other well would be the best thing for the kids.

And then we could all join hands and sing “Kumbaya“ as we rode on rainbow unicorns into the sunset. But maybe you can guess the results of both those quests.

Is there an emoticon for "You're Not Welcome Here!"? Maybe one of those yellow faces with its teeth bared in a snarl?

To be fair, I was the one who had left their Darling Boy, so a certain amount of hostility from the “Other Team” is to be expected. But do they have to be such dicks about it? Which begs the questions: what is the point of making nice-nice with them anyway? Didn't I leave because I didn't like the way I was being treated? In "Star Trek" terms, I was using all my energy to maintain a force field against their photon-beam snarkiness. Shouldn't I be (last "Shatnerian" metaphor, swear) seeking out friendlier life forms?

Much like a hamster on a wheel, or a Cubs' fan, I was burning carbs but making no progress. I had no energy left for my "fans," the ones who "get" me, the ones who can see the rainbow unicorns, too.

Really, what is the point of trying to board a ship that's already sunk?

Have fun at the bottom of the ocean, suckers!

Mystery Solved

Did you ever pass a place in your neighborhood - a home or business - and wonder, “What exactly goes on in there?” Maybe it’s the crazy lady down the street whose yard is full of weeds and yipping Pomeranians; perhaps it’s the shady bar that’s a late night magnet for chopped Harleys. Whatever it is, I’ll bet it reawakens your curiosity every time you go by, and you’re tempted, even just a little bit, to get a look inside.

Chances are even stronger that you don‘t act on that impulse.

Well, I’m here to tell you that I took a peek behind the curtain of a childhood Mystery Spot, and what I saw changed my vision of The Forbidden forever.

For me, growing up in the 70s as a “Valley Girl“ (or “Val,“ that denizen of the San Fernando Valley immortalized by Frank Zappa), that place was a Japanese restaurant called The Mikado. This was before there were sushi shops in every strip mall - heck, this was before there were strip malls. Just the sound of it: Mikado . . . so exotic . . . was it a quiet retreat for discreet businessmen, or a rowdy speakeasy like the ones I’d seen in the movies? All I knew for sure was that it had a red rickshaw out front and smoked windows. This was a far cry from the incandescent family restaurants my parents took us to, with their cheerful lucite light fixtures and their Early Bird specials. No, the brazen display of the rickshaw and the opaque windows tantalized me with visions of opium dens and blushing geishas silently sliding bamboo panels closed to ensure the privacy of pleasure-seeking clientele.

We passed by the Mikado every week in my mom’s Oldsmobile on our way to my sister’s art lessons. It was located across the street from the now-defunct Quigley’s Five-and-Dime (kids, ask your grandparents) and the North Hollywood Medical Center. (Also defunct, along with many of its patients; the word was, if someone you knew was being treated at the NHMC, send flowers because they were probably already dead.) But my eyes always gravitated to the Mikado, which sat like a spider, waiting . . .

Years passed, I moved away from the Valley, and visits home never took me past the Den of Mystery, so I pretty much forgot about it. That is, until one day when some dear friends from high school suggested, without hesitation, that we meet there for dinner.

Gulp: The Mikado? Did I dare?

Wanting to slake my curiosity before my friends appeared, I approached the storied spot with trepidation. As I pulled into the driveway, my eyes widened in disbelief . . .

The Mikado was now attached to a Best Western hotel.

Thinking there must be a mistake, I entered the perfectly bland hotel lobby. OK, a framed kimono was not exactly the proof of iniquity I was searching for, but still . . . I walked into an inner courtyard, around which all of the rooms faced. Except for where a pool had been turned into a koi pond and an arching Japanese bridge, it was about as exotic as an ash tray: cleaning ladies pushed carts full of fresh sheets and a tired family found their way into their room.

But what about the restaurant itself? Surely there must be signs of clandestine gatherings from the past?

No such luck. Three sushi chefs hailed my entrance and a polite hostess showed me to our table, where my friends had gathered. They did not seem the least bit spooked by the location and were even a bit bewildered by my cautious questions. Den of vice? White slave trade? The only thing mysterious was an adjoining locked room that said “For Exclusive Use of Hotel Guests,” and that was where they served the complimentary breakfast.

Finally, I confessed my childish suspicions of the fabled place. Lo and behold, each of my friends had a story about the Mikado, though none as lurid as I expected: one had been stood up by a blind date there; it had been the scene of an after-dance dinner, where another friend had gotten sick in the bathroom; yet another had snuck in with a fake ID and tasted Midori for the first time.

We shared stories and laughs until it was late, then we had to be home to waiting spouses, sleeping kids and jobs the next day, things we didn’t have when we passed the Mikado all those years ago. Although the truth about my erstwhile Mystery Spot had not matched my wild expectations, at least my curiosity had been satisfied. My friends and I had had a good laugh about “what exactly goes on in there,” and best of all, I no longer feared The Forbidden. You can quiver before those ominous locked doors, but maybe all there is behind them is a complimentary breakfast.

And for that I say: Arigato, Mikado.

Pay Attention at Your Own Peril

Chances are, few people outside the medical profession or Wikipedia know what the pancreas looks like, what it does, or even where it's located in the body (my best guess: gut). The health food store offers a myriad of "cleansing products" for livers, gastrointestinal tracts and cholesterol-choked arteries, but not one herbal tea that promises a sparkling pancreas. Thanks to those obnoxious Viagra commercial (again, what is with those two bath tubs??), we know more than we need to about erectile dysfunction, but the pancreas is an organ (or gland?) that remains shrouded in mystery.

But just because the pancreas keeps a low profile doesn't mean it's not important. Far from it! It turns out that a healthy pancreas is real handy when it comes to the “staying-on-this-side-of-the-grass” business. You can sail through life without an inkling anything‘s wrong - that is, until your doctor uses “pancreatic” as an adjective. Then suddenly: You. Are. Finished. Nouns like “tumor,“ and “treatment” usually follow, and the prognosis is usually a matter of months, a period roughly the span of a reality TV star's "career."

If I were to design a personal banner, it would include a picture of a pancreas, because it sums up my philosophy: it's not the predicted events that get you, it’s the stuff that comes without warning that knocks you on your ass. I contemplated this recently when friends started worrying about the Mayan countdown to oblivion in 2012. It seems that, based on some pre-Colombian calendar, the world will come to an end in that year, and now people are abuzz with end-time scenarios. I pointed out the fact that these predictions came to light just in time to promote a movie, but that coincidence just seemed to prove that the signs are all there.

Sigh. Doesn't anyone remember that not one of the dire scenarios concocted by cuckoos - California falling into the ocean, Saddam Hussein being revealed as the Anti-Christ, alligators emerging from toilets to bite you where you live - has ever come true? Not once! These predictions merely played to our worst fears - well, it could happen! - and so we waited, quivering, shivering, for the ax to fall, to no avail. Just as that mute little gland, the pancreas, does nothing to call attention to itself until it’s too late, disaster has a sneaky way of blindsiding us.

Don’t believe me? Consider the Asian tsunami a few years back, or the earthquake in Chile. (I don’t count the collapse of the American economy in 2008, because any idiot could have predicted it; unfortunately, most of those idiots were too busy running things into the ground to be of much use.) When it comes to real catastrophes, you don't hear about the predictions until afterwards.

In the face of the failure of predictions, why not simply embrace the unforeseen? It's not all bad. Some events I never thought I'd witness have had their own charm: an American president speaking Hebrew (Bill Clinton saying “Shalom, chaver” to Israeli Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin); entire aisles in supermarkets dedicated to selling bottled water; Woody Allen’s appearance at the 2002 Oscars; the appearance of Janet Jackson‘s nipple at the SuperBowl; the uproar that followed.

Let's be really real: it’s inevitable that some bad things will take us by surprise; we might as well stop worrying about predictions of bad things that may never, ever happen.

Still, it doesn't hurt to keep searching the health store for a tonic that will make the pancreas sit up and sing. You never know.

"I’m Just Sayin’. . ."

I’m not sure how it works exactly, but the magnetic strips on the backs of my credit cards consistently pull me into cute boutiques. Regardless of the physics involved, once I‘m there, I seem to have no shortage of excuses for buying adorable outfits: “It’s not like I’m going to find clothes like this at Target!” “Hey, I’m supporting a woman-owned business,” and my personal favorite, “At least my money’s not going to some godless corporate headquarters.”

Pathetic, isn’t it? Why can’t I simply look into one of the boutique’s magical, well-lit mirrors and just admit to my suddenly-slimmer self that I spend way too much money on clothes? I’ll tell you why: only the Dalai Lama is able to be that honest with himself about his appearance, but then His Holiness doesn't have that wide a range of wardrobe.

The economic implications of self-delusion are harsh; however, there is a form of self-delusion that takes an even greater emotional toll on innocent people, and that is the unsolicited observations of those I call "Obliviots". You know the kind: self-appointed "Truth Crusaders" who have deluded themselves into thinking that it is their missionto be cruelly "helpful" under the heading of "I'm just sayin'." Listen, when I fool myself into running up a credit card bill, that's one thing, but these pinheads justify running over people's feelings like it's nothing. They really think they can dodge the “How rude!” bullet by simply tacking the phrase “I’m just sayin’” onto their hideous comments. As if a disclaimer could actually soften the blow of a lobbed bomb like, “You look you haven’t slept in a week.” What kind of moron would claim ownership to such an onerous comment? The last thing I'd admit to is that"I" was the one who was "just sayin'" Yet the perpetrators of this verbal assault seem to think their honesty is admirable. Like, if you can’t handle it, well, that’s your problem, not theirs. What the hell?? It's not like your conversation comes with fast forward button where you can just skip past the unpleasantness to the end. (Don't we all wish??)

I suspect this is a by-product of our dialed-in, depersonalized techno-culture, where people forget they‘re talking to real humans with real emotions. Then again, I’ve listened to so many of these pinheads describe weepy rashes into cell phones while I was trying to enjoy my dinner out, I should be used to it by now. But they don't understand that the difference between loudly offering advice to movie characters and “telling the truth” to a friend/acquaintance/ unsuspecting person standing in line ahead of you is that whoever’s on the business end of your truth stick is actually affected. Yes, it’s true, even if you gamely but lamely qualify it with “I’m just sayin’.” Suck on that.

You know what? A taste of your own medicine to all you obliviots: The next time someone, anyone, tries to offer me an unsolicited “helpful” bit of advice, I will put my hand in their face and say, "I'll listen, but it's gonna cost you. Be as truthful as you want, but you'll owe me that cute top I've had my eye on. It's only $100. Oh, and by the way, go piss up a rope.

I mean it. I’m not just sayin’.

Discovering Love at Hooters

At 17, my firstborn male child has weathered the slings and arrows of what I hope has been the worst part of his adolescence and emerged as a fine, upstanding young man. So it comes as no surprise that the beamish boy would want to celebrate his birthday by taking three of his best buddies to Hooters.

“H-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-TERS!” was their primal cry as we parked the car, but this turned to silent awe when we entered the Sanctuary of the Scantily Clad Females. (Or, as my BBFE refers to it, “E Pluribus Bosom.”) Contrary to my jaded expectations, I did not envy the ladies’ well-defined curvatures; what knocked me back was the wide-eyed reverence the guys afforded to the soft-spoken she-creature who took their orders. It was the kind of attention I had never seen my son give to, oh, I don't know, say, the woman who had given birth to him, maybe? All the time and love and energy I devoted to my darling boy, and I end up with a bad case of “waitress envy?” No wonder my ex-mother-in-law hated me!

Later, as I watched the female waitstaff serenade the birthday boy with the “Hooter-pokey” (I’ll spare you), I thought back on how he had greeted the world: I was ten days past my due date (all my boys were late - why should they have rushed things when they had deluxe room service in utero?); this meant I had to go to the hospital for a non-stress test and ultrasound every couple of days. By the way, if you ever have to have a medical test, get one with the words “non-stress” in it! You sit in a Lazy Boy chair, feet up, and press a button when you feel the baby kick. Too bad I was pregnant - a tall, cool drink involving rum and an umbrella would have gone down smooth just then.

The plan was to get the tests done, meet my then-husband for lunch and do a Costco run. No biggie.

That is, until the technician said those dreaded words, “I’ll be right back.”

There are a few phrase that people in white lab coats should never, ever be allowed to utter: “Try to relax.” “You may feel a little bit of pressure.” You get the idea. It turns out “I’ll be right back” is the scariest of them all, because it means “Whoa! This is way out of my league! Time to call the real doctor!”

My OB-GYN, Dr. Neal entered the room. (Isn’t “Neal” the perfect name for a ladies’ doctor? Please see my essay “Tales from No-Man’s Land“ for more details). He looked at the screen where the technician was pointing and said to me, “You’re having the baby. No, I mean, you’re having the baby today because you're almost out of amniotic fluid. We’re wheeling you up to Labor and Delivery right now.”

Ladies and gentlemen, but especially ladies, the shock of that statement rendered everything that happened to me afterwards as a hazy blur. Having a baby? Today? But we were supposed to have lunch and go to Costco . . . But, but, but . . .

But I do remember the overwhelming joy I felt upon seeing the baby's face for the very first time. There, in the delivery room, his eyes were wide with wonder as he looked around at all the bright lights - much as they were in the restaurant 17 years later, as he gazed at the beautiful ladies surrounding him. Images of our years together as mom and son flitted by in my mind. The joy of seeing him now was as sweet as that first glimpse . . .

Yet so many things had changed, and I couldn’t help thinking of what was no longer there: the hospital where he was born was torn down . . . the house we brought him home to has since been completely remodeled . . . the business my ex-husband owned was sold and the buildings plowed under . . . even the marriage itself was no more. One thing remained, though: the love I felt for that beamish boy, which was now even stronger than before. This was surprising and reassuring.

That, and the fact that Costco had remained the same, untouched by time.

Like all fantasies, this one in Hooterville had to end, and a bevy of breathtaking beauties of waved us goodbye, sirens in reverse. The boys gazed as long as they could at the dazzling specimens, as if to impress those images in their fertile imaginations. On the ride home, their male bantering swung from “Did you catch the Winnebagos on that blond?” to “She wasn’t that hot” to “Dude, I think she liked you!”

Somehow, though, the conversation turned serious and the young men began to talk about the qualities they wanted in a wife, and ultimately, what their children’s names would be. (Of all things! Who knew boys dreamed about this, too?)

My beamish boy had obviously given his choice a great deal thought. He said definitively, “I want to name my son ‘Chance.’”

Chance. How fitting, given the fortuitous circumstances that had shaped and sustained this remarkable person. I teared up, thinking of my firstborn male child beginning his own journey into parenthood, holding my grandson, knowing Chance would be a part of a world that I would never live to see.

At the very least, it was comforting to know that Costco would be there, waiting for him.

Surly Teens and Ostriches

I recently visited Safari West, a wildlife refuge in Santa Rosa where animals can roam free and observe human behavior. At one point, an ostrich named Lena wandered over to our truck and began pecking at the Astroturf on the side step. She was undaunted by the lack of actual grass sliding down her rather long gullet.

“Can’t she figure it out by now?” we wanted to know, but the guide merely sighed.

“She does this every day.”

“Demonstrating her superior brain power,“ said BBFE (Rich, the best boyfriend ever). Our laughter drowned out the sound of her pecking, but it got me to thinking: is this behavior really restricted to massive birds whose eyes are bigger than their brains? How often do we humans futilely peck peck peck at something that will never yield satisfying results? “If I can make the perfect holiday dinner, our family will get along,” “That group treats me like crap, but I know can get them to like me,” “If I could just explain my side of things, he would understand.”

Round and round it goes, with only the hope of resolution but no results.

Peck peck peck.

Case in point: a certain son of mine is in the hideous throes of an adolescent malaise that can best be described as, “My-mom-is-the-cause-of-everything-I-hate-about-my-life-itis,“ hereafter referred to as Surly Teen Syndrome, or STS. The irony of this disease is that doesn’t affect the teen so much as it makes the lives of those around him/her miserable. My initial reaction to STS as a mom is to try to “kiss-the-boo-boo-and-make-it-all-better“: find what’s really bothering him and work things out. Trouble is, he’s got no desire to do anything different; this “Mom-is-evil” mindset frees him from examining how his behavior affects others. And one thing Surly Teens will do anything to avoid (especially boys) is self-reflection. That, and thank-you notes.

After stifling my next impulse, which is to swing him by the hair and throw him out the window, I revert to trying to “win him back” by joking him out of it, showing him that I’m still the nice Mommy he used to love to cuddle with, and not at all the wicked Medusa he now sees me as, all to no avail. But this begs the question: aren’t I essentially the same person I’ve always been? As his mom, I will always, always love him, no matter what, even if I don’t like how he acts sometimes. So why should I have to prove it?

But until recently, that’s exactly what I was trying to do.

Peck peck peck.

No more. I am comfortable enough with myself to recognize that my “please-love-me” response to his behavior is a desperate ploy, not genuine self-expression. Now I can truly relax in the face of the shrugs and grunts, because I know who I am.

One more thing about ostriches: the guide told us that if you’re being attacked by one, curl into a ball on the ground and remain still. The ostrich will forget what it was mad at in about thirty seconds and wander off.

So: the same "superior brainpower" that makes the ostrich peck peck peck in vain also makes it forget what pissed it off. Frankly, a little bit of forgetfulness might not be a bad thing: here’s hoping my Surly Teen’s short-term memory will become more like the ostrich’s, where the reasons for his attacks will eventually slip his mind.

Till then, no more peck-peck-pecking for Mommy.

Secrets to GirlWorld

As of Friday the 13th, I am officially Mom of three teenaged boys (one of whom will become Bar Mitzvah, at which point, he’s technically a man - talk about scary!). There has been some confusion on their part as to how to interpret the bizarre, twisted way teenaged girls behave, so I’m offering this as a decoder ring to GirlWorld, where nothing is as it seems, even less is fair and the sooner you get used to it, the better. Allow me to pull the curtain back a bit and show you how girls, intentionally or not, mess with boys' heads.

The guy-girl thing is complicated - some men go their whole lives without getting it, so don't be discouraged if it takes some time. Just think of it as a game of Stratego, Battleship, chess or Capture the Flag: the more information you have about your “opponent,“ the better you can plan your strategy. I will be letting you in on several secrets, which will help you get over the “no-fairness” of it all and figure out your next move.

Secret #1: You may think girls have it easier, but girls think you have it easier.

That puts you on equal footing with them - they’re not more powerful than you. In fact, they have many, many obstacles to face when they like a guy:

1) What if I like a guy and he doesn't like me back? (Sound familiar?)
2) What if I like a guy and my friends don't like him and decide I can "do better?"
3) What if one of my friends likes him, too - who decides who "deserves" him more?
4) What if one of my friends, who is more popular and never noticed the guy before, suddenly decides to move in on him and grabs him for herself?
5) What if a really cute guy likes me, and I go ahead and become his girlfriend and my friends think I’m “stuck-up” about it and need to be "taught a lesson" and they start spreading rumors that I’m a slut?
6) Am I really a slut if I‘ve never done anything but everyone says I did? (Guys don't have this problem, since getting with lots of girls is considered being a "player.")
7) What if - worst case scenario - these girls who spread “whore”-ible rumors about me and sabotage my relationships don‘t want to be my friends anymore???

As you can see, girls have a freakin’ minefield they have to cross in order to stay OK with their pack, as opposed to boys: lone wolves figuring things out by trial and error. Neither way is easy.

Secret #2: As if that weren't enough pressure, girls also have to appear sweet all the time, lest they be accused of being “bitches.“

That’s why they say things to you like,

“I already have a boyfriend,”

In GirlWorld, this is a “nice” way of letting you down. They think they’re saying, “It’s not you personally, it’s just that I haven’t gotten feedback from my friends that you’re OK to date.”

Unfortunately, in BoyWorld, this is interpreted as,

"Get away from me, you freak!”

You can see where there might be a problem hooking up.

Plus, you know that teasing thing they do? Like where they ask you a question or borrow a pencil or mooch your lunch, then run back to their little group, all of these she-jackals cackling and pointing at you like you‘re the biggest idiot in the world?

Secret #3: Teasing is their only real power.

Since girls want to fit into their "pack," they can tease as a “joke” (hence, not “mean”), then can run back to their friends and they can all laugh together, which, in GirlWorld, makes it "OK." It’s so stupid, I know. It’s also incredibly confusing to boys, who are straight shooters and want answers: "Why did you do that?"; sadly, girls don't always have a good explanation for why they do the things they do. (Better get used to that part.) Believe it or not, though, they will be discussing your reactions and gestures for hours to analyze whether you just "like her” or really "like her like her” (otherwise known as “like like” - when a girl repeats a word, it means it's important to her).

The best way to deal with teasing is to shrug and turn away. Practice this in front of a mirror. Shrug. Scowl and shake your head a little. Roll your eyes. Maybe utter "Huh" in a bored sort of way. Put on the same expression as if you were brushing off a yellowjacket at a picnic. No matter what you're feeling, if you act like it doesn't bother you, it drives girls crazy! "Why doesn't he care?", they ask themselves, again and again. Which leads us to -

Secret #4: Girls have always gone ga-ga over distant, cool guys.

So why not get some mileage out of it? After all, they're teasing you: it's OK not to give them the reaction they want. (This part is actually fun.)

If you feel overwhelmed by all this, please remember the most important thing, which I’ve saved for last:

Secret #5: Girls really just want to be "like liked" for the sweet, funny, quirky people they are - just like you.

Really really.

Now about dating in college . . .